"What?" Violet looked from one to the other. "I don't understand."

"It's quite simple." George finally seemed to notice the steaming teapot and reached to pour. "Harry couldn't have killed Mistress Pollard on that night." She handed a cup to Violet and met her eyes. "He spent it with me."

HARRY WAS DREAMING.

In the dream there was an argument going on between an ugly ogre, a young king, and a beautiful princess. The ugly ogre and the young king looked more or less as they should, considering it was a dream. But the princess didn't have ruby lips or raven black hair. She had ginger hair and Lady Georgina's lips. Which was just as well. It was his dream after all, and he had a right to make his princess look like anyone he wanted. In his opinion, springy ginger hair was far more beautiful than smooth raven locks any day of the week.The young king was nattering on about the law and evidence and such in an upper-crust accent so refined it made your teeth ache. Harry could quite understand why the ogre was bellowing in reply, trying to drown out the young king's monologue. He'd bellow at the blighter if he could. The young king seemed to want the ogre's tin stag. Harry suppressed a laugh. He wished he could tell the young king that the tin stag wasn't worth anything.

The stag had long ago lost the better part of its rack and stood on only three legs. And besides, the animal wasn't magic. It couldn't talk and never had.

But the young king was stubborn. He wanted the stag, and he was going to have the stag, by G.o.d. To that end, he was badgering the ogre in that overbearing way the aristocracy had, as if everyone else was put on this earth merely for the joy of licking his lordship's boots clean. Thank you, m'lord. It's been a pleasure, it really has.

Harry would have sided with the ogre, just on principle, but something was wrong. Princess Georgina seemed to be weeping. Great drops of liquid rolled down her translucent cheeks and slowly turned to gold as they fell. They tinkled as they hit the stone floor and rolled away.

Harry was mesmerized; he couldn't take his eyes away from her sorrow. He wanted to yell at the young king, Here is your magic! Look to the lady beside you. But, of course, he couldn't speak. And it turned out he was wrong: It was actually the princess, not the young king, who wanted the tin stag. The young king was merely acting as the princess's agent. Well, here was an entirely different matter. If Princess Georgina desired the stag, she should have it, even if it was a ratty old thing.

But the ugly ogre loved the tin stag; it was his most precious possession. To prove it, he threw the stag down and stamped on it until the stag groaned and broke into pieces. The ogre stared at it, lying there at his feet, bleeding lead, and smiled. He looked into the princess's eyes and pointed. There, take it. I've killed it, anyway.

Then a wondrous thing happened.

Princess Georgina knelt beside the shattered stag and wept, and as she did, her golden tears fell upon the beast.

Where they lay, they formed a bond, soldering together the tin until the stag was whole again, made of both tin and gold. The princess smiled and held the strange animal to her breast, and there the stag nuzzled his head. She lifted him up, and she and the young king turned with their dubious prize.

But Harry could see over her shoulder that the ogre did not like this outcome. All the love he'd borne the tin stag had now turned to hatred of the princess who had stolen it away. He wanted to shout to the young king, Be careful! Watch the princess's back! The ogre means her harm and will not rest until he has his revenge! But however much he tried, he could not speak.

You never can in dreams.

GEORGE CRADLED HARRY'S HEAD in her lap and tried not to sob at the terrible marks on his face. His lips and eyes were swollen black. Fresh blood was smeared from a cut across an eyebrow and another beneath an ear. His hair was stringy and dirty, and she very much feared that part of the dirt was actually dried blood.

"The sooner we're out of here, the better," Oscar muttered. He slammed the carriage door behind him."Indeed." Tony rapped sharply on the ceiling, signaling the driver.

The carriage pulled away from Granville House. George didn't need to look back to know that its owner stared malevolently after them. She braced her body to cushion the b.u.mps from Harry as he lay on the seat beside her.

Oscar studied him. "I've never seen a man beaten so badly," he whispered. The words and live hung in the air unspoken.

"Animals." Tony looked away.

"He'll live," George said.

"Lord Granville didn't think so; otherwise he'd never have let us take him. As it was, I rather had to throw my t.i.tle around." Tony's lips pressed together. "You need to prepare yourself."

"How?" George almost smiled. "How do I prepare myself for his death? I can't, so I won't. I'll believe in his recovery instead."

"Oh, my dear," Tony said, and sighed, but he made no further remark.

It seemed like forever before they eventually drew up in front of Woldsly. Oscar tumbled out, and Tony followed more sedately. George could hear them organizing footmen and finding a door to lay Harry on. She looked down. Harry hadn't moved an inch since he'd been laid on her lap. His eyes were so swollen, she wasn't sure he'd be able to open them even if he was awake. She placed her palm against his neck and felt his pulse, slow but strong.

The men came back and took over. They wrestled Harry out of the carriage and onto the door they'd found. Four men carried him up the steps and into Woldsly. Then they had to take him up more steps, sweating and cursing despite George's presence. Finally, they placed Harry on a bed in a little room in between Tony's and her own, a compromise. The room was hardly big enough to hold a bed, chest of drawers, bedside table, and chair. It was really meant to be a dressing room. But it was near her own, and that was all that mattered. All the men, even her brothers, trooped out, leaving the room suddenly quiet. Harry hadn't so much as twitched during the entire process.

George sat down wearily next to him on the bed. She laid her hand at his neck again, feeling for that heartbeat and closed her eyes.

Behind her, the door opened.

"Dear Lord, what they've done to that bonny man." Tiggle stood beside her with a basin of hot water. The lady's maid met George's eyes, then squared her shoulders. "Let's make him comfortable, anyway, shall we, my lady?"

SIX DAYS LATER, HARRY OPENED his eyes.

George was sitting by his bed in the dim little room as she had every day and almost every night since he'd been laid there. She didn't let her hopes get away from her when she saw his eyelids flicker. He'd opened his eyes briefly before and hadn't seemed to recognize her or even to be fully awake.But this time his emerald eyes settled on her and stayed. "My lady." His voice was a whispered croak.

Oh, sweet Lord, thank you. She could have sung hallelujahs. She could have danced a reel around the room all by herself. She could have fallen upon her knees and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving.

But she merely lifted a cup to his lips. "Are you thirsty?"

He nodded without ever taking his eyes from hers. When he had swallowed, he whispered, "Don't cry."

"I'm sorry." George replaced the cup on the bedside table. "They're tears of joy."

He watched her a few minutes longer; then his eyes closed again, and he fell asleep.

She put her hand to his neck as she had innumerable times over the last terrible week. She'd done it so often that it had become habit. The blood beneath his skin beat strong and steady. Harry murmured at her touch and shifted.

George sighed and rose. She spent an hour in a luxurious, slow bath and took a nap that somehow lasted until nightfall. When she woke, she dressed in a yellow dimity gown with lace at the elbows and requested that her supper be brought to Harry's room.

He was awake when she entered his room, and she felt her heart skip. Such a small thing, seeing his eyes alert, but it made all the difference in her world.

Someone had helped him to sit up. "How's Will?"

"He's fine. Will is staying with Bennet Granville." George went to open the curtains.

The sun was dying, but even that little light made the room seem less gloomy. She made a mental note to have the maids open the one window in the morning to get rid of the stuffy sickroom odor.

She came back beside the bed. "Apparently, Will hid when they took you and then ran all the way back to West Dikey to tell the c.o.c.k and Worm's landlord what had happened. Not that the landlord could do much."

"Ah."

George frowned at the thought of Harry in that cell being beaten every day with no one to help him. She shook her head. "Will was most anxious about you."

"He's a good lad."

"He told us what happened that night." George sat down. "You saved his life, you know."

Harry shrugged. Obviously he didn't want to talk about it.

"Would you like some beef tea?" She removed the cover to the tray of food the maids had already brought.

On her side was a plate of roast beef, steaming in juice and gravy. There were potatoes and carrots and a savory pudding. On his side of the tray stood a single cup of beef tea.

Harry eyed the food and sighed. "Beef tea would be very nice, my lady."

George brought the cup to his face, intending to hold it as she had before while he drank from it, but he took the cup from her fingers. "Thank you."

She busied herself arranging her tray and pouring a gla.s.s of wine, but she watched him from the corner of her eye. He drank from the cup and rested it on his lap without spilling. His hands seemed steady. She relaxed a bit inside. She hadn't wanted to embarra.s.s him by hovering, but only a day ago he'd been quite insensible.

"Will you tell me your fairy tale, my lady?" His voice had strengthened since this afternoon.

George smiled. "You've probably been on tenterhooks, wondering about the ending."

Harry's bruised lips twitched, but he replied gravely, "Yes, my lady."

"Well, let's see." She popped a piece of beef into her mouth and thought as she chewed. The last time she had told him the story . . . Suddenly she remembered that she'd been quite naked and Harry had . . . George swallowed too suddenly and had to grab for her wine. She just knew she was blushing. She snuck a look at Harry, but he was looking resignedly down at his beef tea.

She cleared her throat. "The Leopard Prince turned into a man. He grasped his crown pendant and wished for a cloak of invisibility. Which would have been quite handy since, as we discussed before, he was most probably nude when he turned into a man."

He raised his eyebrows at her over the rim of his cup.

She nodded primly. "He put the cloak on and set out to defeat the nasty witch and win the Golden Swan. And while there was a small setback when she turned him into a toad-"

Harry smiled at her. How she gloried in his smiles!

"Eventually he was able to resume his natural form and steal the Golden Swan and bring it to the young king. Who, of course, immediately carted it off to the beautiful princess's father."

She cut a piece of beef and held it out to Harry. He eyed the fork, but instead of taking it, he merely opened his lips. His eyes met hers and held them as George placed the food in his mouth. For some reason this transaction made her breath quicken.

George looked down at her plate. "But the young king was out of luck again, for the Golden Swan could talk just as well as the Golden Horse. The father king took the Golden Swan aside and quizzed it and soon discovered the young king wasn't the one who'd stolen the Golden Swan from the nasty witch. Potato?"

"Thank you." Harry closed his eyes as his lips took a piece from her fork.

George's mouth watered in sympathy. She cleared her throat. "So the father king went storming out to confront the young king. And the father king said, 'Right. The Golden Swan is very nice, but not exactly useful. You must bring me the Golden Eel guarded by the seven-headed dragon that lives on the Mountains of the Moon.'"

"An eel?"

She held out a spoonful of pudding, but Harry was looking at her dubiously.

She waved it under his nose. "Yes, an eel."

He captured her hand and guided the spoon to his lips.

"It does seem rather odd, doesn't it?" George continued breathlessly. "I did question Cook's aunt about it, but she was quite certain." She speared another piece of beef and held it out. "I myself would have thought, oh, a wolf or a unicorn."

Harry swallowed. "Not a unicorn. Too close to the horse."

"I suppose. But, anyway, something more exotic." She wrinkled her nose at the pudding. "Eels-even golden eels-don't sound exotic to you, do they?"

"No."

"Nor I." She poked at the pudding. "Of course, Cook's aunt is getting on in years. She must be at least eighty." George looked up to find him staring at the pudding she'd just destroyed. "Oh, I'm sorry. Would you like some more?"

"Please."

She fed him some pudding, watching as his lips enveloped the spoon. Goodness, he had lovely lips, even when they were bruised. "Anyway, the young king trotted off back home, and I'm sure he was quite nasty when he told the Leopard Prince that he had to retrieve the Golden Eel. But the Leopard Prince had no choice, did he? He turned into a man and took his emerald crown pendant in his hand, and guess what he asked for this time?"

"I don't know, my lady."

"One-hundred-league boots." George sat back in satisfaction. "Can you imagine? You put them on and the wearer can cross one hundred leagues in a single step."

Harry's mouth quirked. "I shouldn't ask, my lady, but how would that help the Leopard Prince get to the Mountains of the Moon?"

George stared. She'd never thought of that. "I haven't any idea. They would be wonderful on land, but would they work in the air?"

Harry nodded solemnly. "It is a problem, I fear."

George absently fed him the rest of her beef while pondering this question. She was offering the last bite when she realized that he'd been watching her the entire time.

"Harry . . ." She hesitated. He was weak, barely recovered enough to sit upright. She shouldn't take advantage of him, but she needed to know.

"Yes?"

She asked before she could rethink the idea. "Why did your father attack Lord Granville?"

He stiffened.

She immediately regretted asking. It was more than clear he didn't want to talk about that time. How mean of her.

"My mother was Granville's wh.o.r.e." His words were flat.

George stopped breathing. She'd never heard Harry mention his mother before.

"She was a beautiful woman, my mother." He looked down at his right hand and flexed it. "Too beautiful for a gamekeeper's wife. She was all black hair and blazing green eyes. When we went to town, men used to watch her pa.s.s. Even as a lad it made me uneasy."

"Was she a good mother?"

Harry shrugged. "She was the only mother I had. I've none other to compare her with. She kept me fed and clothed. My da did most everything else."

George looked down at her own hands, fighting back tears, but she still heard his words, rasping and slow.

"When I was small, she used to sing to me sometimes, late at night if I couldn't sleep. Sad love songs. Her voice was high, and not very strong, and she wouldn't sing if I looked at her face. But it was lovely when she sang." He sighed. "At least I thought so at the time."

She nodded, barely moving, too afraid to interrupt the flow of his words.

"They moved here, my da and my mother, when they were first married. I don't know exactly-I've had to piece the story together from conversations I've overheard-but I think she took up with Granville soon after they came here."

"Before you were born?" George asked carefully.

He looked at her with steady emerald eyes and nodded once.

George let out a slow breath. "Did your father know?"

Harry grimaced. "He must've. Granville took away Bennet."