Chapter Thirty-nine.

"This was my father's." Aimee showed Elixabete the small figure of a horse, intricately carved and polished. "One of our Moricadian workers made it from an oak stump, and Father bought it from him. The family had been turned off their land by . . . well, you know."

"By the de Guignards."

"Yes. Look at the workmanship on this." Aimee held the statue in the sunlight coming through the window. "Moricadians don't get to ride anymore, most of them. They don't have the money to feed and stable their horses. "

"I love them," Elixabete said fervently.

"Yes, Moricadians have a feel for horses, and the horses know it. In this piece, you can see respect and adoration for the beast." Aimee stroked it affectionately, taking pleasure in the smooth ripple of bone and muscle.

Her bedchamber, the whole house, was draped in sheets. The servants had been dismissed. The cart was coming for Aimee's last load before she closed the house and left.

She hadn't told anyone, most certainly not her dear friend Eleonore, but Rickie's death had freed her. She wasn't ever coming back.

Impulsively, she handed Elixabete the horse. "You keep it."

"No. No, it's yours. Your father gave it to you!" Elixabete tried to hand it back.

"I'm going to Italy, and a Moricadian horse belongs in Moricadia with a Moricadian child." Aimee ruffled the girl's hair. "Keep it in memory of me."

A thump toward the front of the house rattled the windows, and the lady and the girl looked at each other in alarm.

"There's no one here," Elixabete whispered. "The house is empty."

"Fanchere's men were supposed to bring the cart for my last load. Do you suppose they drove it into the foyer?" Aimee crinkled her nose in disgust. "That would make a mess, and I don't want to stay to take care of it." She looked at the last trunk. "I'm almost done here. Dear, go and look for me."

"No. Please, Lady de Guignard." Elixabete huddled close, clutching the horse to her skinny chest. "I don't like this place."

Aimee looked around at her washed-out bedroom. "But why, child?"

"There are ghosts here."

Aimee laughed, then realized she was being heartless. Elixabete was truly frightened. So in a comforting tone, she told her, "No, I swear, there are no ghosts here. No one has died in any of the rooms. The house is new, and even when we lived here, no one lived here."

Again they heard a thump from the front of the chteau.

"It's the house itself then," Elixabete whispered. "The house is bad."

"Darling, that's not the house that's making all that noise. That's not ghosts. Either they drove the cart into the foyer, or"-Aimee brightened as another option occurred to her-"or someone's out there trying to get our attention. Go see why and let me know."

Elixabete stared in wide-eyed fright.

"Go on now." Aimee patted her bottom. "I promise no one will jump out and say, 'Boo!' "

Elixabete curtsied and sidled out the door.

Aimee finished packing and looked around the room, and chuckled. Elixabete was frightened by the spirits in this house. Aimee had been frightened by the man who dwelled here with her, and now that Rickie was gone, Aimee knew the place was safe.

When she thought about Italy, about the sun and the grapes and the art and the music, she wanted to cry for joy. She wanted to kiss Emma for thinking of it, and embrace Fanchere for making it possible. Mostly she wanted to hug Eleonore and pray she could keep her illusions about Sandre and Moricadia, because if Eleonore ever found out what her dear cousin was truly like . . . Well, Eleonore was too kindhearted and didn't deserve that kind of upset.

Aimee glanced toward the door. She had thought Elixabete would be back by now.

Had the child fallen and hurt herself?

Aimee frowned.

And what was that thumping they'd heard? It wasn't . . . She hadn't sent Elixabete out into the hands of thieves?

"Oh, Aimee." She walked out into the corridor, scolding herself all the way. "You are such a silly fool. Why didn't you think of that first?" She hurried toward the stairs that curved down toward the main floor. As with the Fancheres', this house had a long, high gallery overlooking the marble-floored foyer.

Unlike the Fancheres', everything here was white, unmarked, colorless.

Ah, when Aimee got to Italy, she would have color everywhere. Lavender blossoms in her vases, walls painted terra cotta and gold, curtains of rich crushed velvet in royal blue. She would be warm and she would be happy. . . .

A child's body lay facedown on the gallery floor.

Elixabete's body.

"My God!" Aimee ran to her. "What happened? Did you fall? Can you speak?"

Elixabete groaned. Her eyes fluttered open.

Blood oozed from a crescent-shaped wound on her forehead.

Aimee traced it with her finger. It looked almost as if the child had been hit.

Elixabete gazed at the horse still clutched in her hand and frowned, her eyes unfocused and confused.

"Do you remember what happened?" Aimee asked.

Elixabete looked up. "Lady de Guignard . . . where did you come from? How did I get here?" Her eyes shifted, focused on something over Aimee's shoulder. Giving a scream, she struggled to sit up.

Aimee half turned. She caught a glimpse of someone-a man, strong and tall.

He grabbed her from behind by her collar and her waist.

She yelped. He had her hair. "What are you doing?" she shouted, twisting, trying to get a good look at him.

Elixabete gave a grunt like a dog about to sink its teeth into a bone, and grabbed his boot.

He kicked the little girl in the head, knocking her backward across the floor.

Aimee shrieked. She fought.

He lifted her up and over the balustrade.

For one terrifying moment, she stared down at the marble floor so far below.

He let her go.

And she screamed all the way down.

Jean-Pierre heard her land, heard a single groan, and looked over the edge.

Aimee had landed facedown, her hands outstretched in a futile attempt to catch herself. Blood sprayed across the floor and stained the white marble. She didn't move. She was dead, and could no longer fuel the fire of scandal surrounding the Reaper.

That was a job well-done.

He'd found that once he'd shot a few women and children, murder wasn't so hard anymore.

Chapter Forty.

Lady Fanchere drove up to the front of Aimee's chteau, stopped the pony cart, and lifted the picnic basket out of the back. Aimee would be so glad to see her, and this was the least Eleonore could do-help Aimee with the final closing of the chteau she had shared with Rickie, and wish her Godspeed as she left to start the rest of her life.

The place was quiet. Too quiet. No birds sang in the trees. Nothing moved in the landscape.

No one came out to welcome her, and no servant came to assist her, because Aimee had dismissed them all. She'd given them money, good wishes, and recommendations, and sent them on their way.

So there was no reason to feel unease.

Eleonore lugged the basket to the front door, opened it, and walked in. "Aimee!" she called. "Elixabete!" Her voice echoed up and down the stairways and throughout the empty house.

She was so preoccupied with that stupid basket that at first she didn't see what was there in the middle of the floor.

Then she did.

A body, shattered by the fall, lying there in Aimee's gown, with Aimee's bright ribbons threaded through the bloody hair and the broken skull.

Eleonore screamed and ran, picked up Aimee, and cradled her in her arms.

The body was still warm.

She screamed again.

"Eleonore, why have you come here?" Fanchere hurried to catch up with her as she strode through the palace toward Sandre's office.

She didn't glance at him. He was her husband, and for the first time in her life, she was embarrassed to have him know her.

She was, after all, a de Guignard.

But he must have caught sight of her expression or her bloody hands or . . . or other things, for he forcefully stopped her, looked her over, and asked, "What's wrong? What happened?"

"Aimee was killed. Aimee was killed." Eleonore repeated it as if that would somehow make her realize that it was true.

"Are you sure?" Fanchere shook his head as if embarrassed by the question.

Eleonore's gown, after all, still bore the stain where Aimee's shattered skull had rested against her bosom. "Aimee was killed, and I'm going to report it to Sandre. He's going to want to catch the killer. I know it." And she started for Sandre's office again.

Fanchere didn't try to dissuade her. But he kept pace with her.

The double doors to Sandre's office were closed, with guards on either side.

Eleonore didn't care. She looked at them and, in a tone she'd never used in her life, she said, "I am the prince's cousin Eleonore. I'm going in."

They moved to stop her.

"Do you really want to be responsible for forcibly restraining me from entering Sandre's presence?"

The guards moved aside.

Fanchere opened the doors for her.

She entered without hesitation.

Sandre was sitting with one hip on his desk, talking to Jean-Pierre, laughing.

They were both laughing.

When they saw her, they stopped.

"What happened to you?" Sandre asked, but he didn't sound surprised.

So she told him, told them both what she'd found in Aimee's house.

Aimee's body, smashed on the marble floor.

Elixabete, her skull creased by a nearby silver candlestick and her nose broken by a boot.

Sandre gave a good imitation of grief. "Poor Aimee," he said. "I was afraid of this. She couldn't live without Rickie, so she tried to kill this Elixabete, then flung herself off the gallery."

"Aimee would never hurt a child!" Eleonore said.

"She really believed the Reaper was a ghost. She was haunted by fear. She went mad!" Sandre acted as if he believed it.

Did he? Eleonore was hard-pressed to believe him, and she fought against the fountain of invectives that threatened to pour forth. That would never convince Sandre of the justness of her suit.