The Comte was rubbing a finger over his upper lip; she didn't know if he was expressing doubt or trying not to laugh, but either way, it made her angry.

"So one of them told me to tell ye that, and I did!" she said, lapsing into Scots. "I dinna ken what it is ye're no supposed to do, but I'd advise ye not to do it!"

It occurred to her belatedly that perhaps killing her was the thing he wasn't supposed to do, and she was about to put this notion to him, but by the time she had disentangled enough grammar to have a go at it, the coach was slowing, b.u.mping from side to side as it turned off the main road. A sickly smell seeped into the air, and she sat up straight, her heart in her throat.

"Mary, Joseph, and Bride," she said, her voice no more than a squeak. "Where are we?"

Michael leapt from the coach almost before it had stopped moving. He daren't let them get too far ahead of him; his driver had nearly missed the turning, as it was, and the Comte's coach had come to a halt minutes before his own reached it.

"Talk to the other driver," he shouted at his own, half-visible on the box. "Find out why the Comte has come here! Find out what he's doing!"

Nothing good. He was sure of that. Though he couldn't imagine why anyone would kidnap a nun and drag her out of Paris in the dark, only to stop at the edge of a public cemetery. Unless . . . half-heard rumors of depraved men who murdered and dismembered their victims, even those who ate . . . his wame rose and he nearly vomited, but it wasn't possible to vomit and run at the same time, and he could see a pale splotch on the darkness that he thought- he hoped, he feared- must be Joan.

Suddenly, the night burst into flower. A huge puff of green fire bloomed in the darkness, and by its eerie glow, he saw her clearly, her hair flying in the wind.

He opened his mouth to shout, to call out to her, but he had no breath, and before he could recover it, she vanished into the ground, the Comte following her, torch in hand.

He reached the shaft moments later, and below, he saw the faintest green glow, just vanishing down a tunnel. Without an instant's hesitation, he flung himself down the ladder.

"Do you hear anything?" the Comte kept asking her, as they stumbled along the white-walled tunnels, he grasping her so hard by the arm that he'd surely leave bruises on her skin. "No," she gasped. "What . . . am I listening for?" He merely shook his head in a displeased way, but more as though he were listening for something himself, than because he was angry with her for not hearing it.

She had some hopes that he'd meant what he said, and would take her back. He did mean to go back himself; he'd lit several torches and left them burning along their way. So he wasn't about to disappear into the hill altogether, taking her with him to the lighted ballroom where people danced all night with the Fine Folk, unaware that their own world slipped past beyond the stones of the hill.

The Comte stopped abruptly, hand squeezing harder round her arm.

"Be still," he said, very quietly, though she wasn't making any noise. "Listen."

She listened as hard as possible- and thought she did hear something. What she thought she heard, though, was footsteps, far in the distance. Behind them. Her heart seized up for a moment.

"What-what do you hear?" she thought of asking. He glanced down at her, but not as though he really saw her.

"Them," he said. "The stones. They make a buzzing sound, most of the time. If it's close to a fire-feast or a sun-feast, though, they begin to sing."

"Do they?" she said faintly. He was hearing something, and evidently it wasn't the footsteps she'd heard. They'd stopped now, as though whoever followed was waiting, maybe stealing along, one step at a time, careful now to make no sound.

"Yes," he said, and his face was intent. He looked at her sharply again, and this time, he saw her.

"You don't hear them," he said, with certainty, and she shook her head. He pressed his lips tight together, but after a moment, lifted his chin, gesturing toward another tunnel, where there seemed to be something painted on the chalk.

He paused there to light another torch- this one burned a brilliant yellow, and stank of sulfur- and she saw by its light the wavering shape of the Virgin and Child. Her heart lifted at the sight, for surely faeries would have no such thing in their lair.

"Come," he said, and now took her by the hand. His own was cold.

Michael caught a glimpse of them as they moved into a side tunnel. The Comte had lit another torch, a red one this time- how did he do that?- and it was easy to follow its glow.

How far down in the bowels of the earth were they? He had long since lost track of the turnings, though he might be able to get back by following the torches- a.s.suming they hadn't all burned out.

He still had no plan in mind, other than to follow them until they stopped. Then he'd make himself known, and . . . well, take Joan away, by what ever means proved necessary.

Swallowing hard, rosary still wrapped around his left hand and penknife in his right, he stepped into the shadows.

The chamber was round, and quite large. Big enough that the torchlight didn't reach all the edges, but it lit the pentagram inscribed into the floor in the center.

The noise was making Rakoczy's bones ache, and often as he had heard it, it never failed to make his heart race and his hands sweat. He let go of the nun's hand for a moment, to wipe his palm on the skirts of his coat, not wanting to disgust her. She looked scared, but not terrified, and if she heard it, surely she-. Her eyes widened suddenly.

"Who's that?" she said.

He whirled, to see Raymond, standing tranquilly in the center of the pentagram.

"Bon soir, mademoiselle," the frog said, bowing politely.

"Ah . . . bon soir," the girl replied faintly.

"What the devil are you doing here?" Rakoczy interposed his body between Raymond and the nun.

"Very likely the same thing you are," the frog replied. "Might you introduce your pet.i.te amie, sir?"

Shock, anger, and sheer confusion robbed Rakoczy of speech for a moment. What was the infernal creature doing here? Wait- the girl! The lost daughter he'd mentioned; the nun was the daughter! He'd discovered her whereabouts, and somehow had followed them to this place. He took hold of the girl's arm again, firmly.

"She is a Scotch," he said. "And as you see, a nun. No concern of yours."

The frog looked amused, cool, and unruffled. Rakoczy was sweating, the noise beating against his skin in waves. He could feel the little bag of stones in his pocket, a hard lump against his heart. They seemed to be warm, warmer even than his skin.

"I doubt that she is, really," said Raymond. "Why is she a concern of yours, though?"

"That's also none of your business." He was trying to think. He couldn't lay out the stones, not with the d.a.m.ned frog standing there. Could he just leave with the girl? But if the frog meant him harm . . . and if the girl truly wasn't . . .

Raymond ignored the incivility, and bowed again to the girl.

"I am Master Raymond, my dear," he said. "And you?"

"Joan Mac-," she said. "Er . . . Sister Gregory, I mean." She tried to pull away from Rakoczy's grip. "Um. If I'm not the concern of either of you gentlemen . . ."

"She's my concern, gentlemen." The voice was high with nerves, but firm. Rakoczy looked round, shocked to see the young wine merchant walk into the chamber, disheveled and dirty, but eyes fixed on the girl. At his side, the nun gasped.

"Sister." The merchant bowed. He was white-faced, but not sweating. He looked as though the chill of the cavern had seeped into his bones, but put out a hand from which the beads of a wooden rosary swung. "You dropped your rosary."

Joan thought she might faint from sheer relief. Her knees wobbled from terror and exhaustion, but she summoned enough strength to wrench free of the Comte and run, stumbling, into Michael's arms. He grabbed her and hauled her away from the Comte, half-dragging her.

The Comte made an angry sound and took a step in her direction, but Michael said, "Stop right there, ye wicked b.u.g.g.e.r!" just as the little froggy-faced man said sharply, "Stop!"

The Comte swung first toward one and then the other. He looked . . . crazed. Joan swallowed and nudged Michael, urging him toward the chamber's door, only then noticing the pen-knife in his hand.

"What were ye going to do wi' that?" she whispered. "Shave him?"

"Let the air out of him," Michael muttered. He lowered his hand, but didn't put the knife away, and kept his eyes on the two men.

"Your daughter," the Comte said hoa.r.s.ely to the man who called himself Master Raymond. "You were looking for your lost daughter. I've found her for you."

Raymond's brows shot up, and he glanced at Joan.

"Mine?" he said, astonished. "She isn't one of mine. Can't you tell?"

The Comte drew a breath so deep it cracked in his throat.

"Tell? But-"

The frog looked impatient.

"Can you not see auras? The electrical fluid that surrounds people," he elucidated, waving a hand around his own head. The Comte rubbed a hand hard over his face.

"I can't."

"For goodness' sake, come in here!" Raymond stepped to the edge of the star, reached across and seized the Comte's hand.

Rakoczy stiffened at the touch. Blue light exploded from their linked hands, and he gasped, feeling a surge of energy such as he had never before experienced. Raymond pulled hard, and he stepped across the line into the pentagram.

Silence. The buzzing had stopped. He nearly wept with the relief of it.

"I-you-" he stammered, looking at the linked hands.

"You didn't know?" Raymond looked surprised.

"That you were a-." He waved at the pentagram. "I thought you might be."

"Not that," Raymond said, almost gently. "That you were one of mine."

"Yours?" Rakoczy looked down again: the blue light was pulsing gently now, surrounding their fingers.

"Everyone has an aura of some kind," Raymond said. "But only my . . . people . . . have this."

In the blessed silence, it was possible to think again. And the first thing that came to mind was the Star Chamber, the king looking on as they had faced each other over a poisoned cup. And now he knew why the frog hadn't killed him.

His mind bubbled with questions. La Dame Blanche, blue light, Melisande and Madeleine . . . The thought of Madeleine and what grew in her womb nearly stopped him, but the urge to find out, to know at last, was too strong.

"Can you- can we- go forward?"

Raymond hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"Yes. But it's not safe. Not safe at all."

"Will you show me?"

"I mean it." The frog's grip tightened on his. "It's not a safe thing to know, let alone to do. "

Rakoczy laughed, feeling all at once exhilarated, full of joy. Why should he fear knowledge? Perhaps the pa.s.sage would kill him- but he had a pocket full of gems, and besides, what was the point of waiting to die slowly?

"Tell me!" he said, squeezing the other's hand. "For the sake of our shared blood!"

Joan stood stock-still, amazed. Michael's arm was still around her, but she scarcely noticed. "He is!" she whispered. "He truly is! They both are!" "Are what?" Michael gaped at her. "Auld Folk! Faeries!" He looked wildly back at the scene before them. The two men stood face-to-face, hands locked together, their mouths moving in animated conversation- in total silence. It was like watching mimes, but even less interesting.

"I dinna care what they are. Loons, criminals, demons, angels . . . come on!" He dropped his arm and seized her hand, but she was planted solid as an oak sapling, her eyes growing wide and wider.

She gripped his hand hard enough to grind the bones and shrieked at the top of her lungs, "Don't do it!"

He whirled round just in time to see them vanish.

They stumbled together down the long pale pa.s.sages, bathed in the flickering light of dying torches, red, yellow, blue, green, a ghastly purple that made Joan's face look drowned.

"Des feux d'artifice," Michael said. His voice sounded queer, echoing in the empty tunnels. "A conjuror's trick."

"What?" Joan looked drugged, her eyes black with shock.

"The fires. The . . . colors. Have ye never heard of fireworks?"

"No."

"Oh." It seemed too much a struggle to explain, and they went on in silence, hurrying as much as they could, to reach the shaft before the light died entirely.

At the bottom, he paused to let her go first, thinking too late that he should have gone first, she'd think he meant to look up her dress . . . he turned hastily away, face burning.

"D'ye think he was? That they were?" She was hanging on to the ladder, a few feet above him. Beyond her, he could see the stars, serene in a velvet sky.

"Were what?" He looked at her face, so as not to risk her modesty. She was looking better now, but very serious.

"Were they Auld Folk? Faeries?"

"I suppose they must ha' been." His mind was moving very slowly; he didn't want to have to try to think. He motioned to her to climb, and followed her up, his eyes tightly shut. If they were Auld Ones, then likely so was Auntie Claire. He truly didn't want to think about that.

He drew the fresh air gratefully into his lungs. The wind was toward the city now, coming off the fields, full of the resinous cool scent of pine trees and the breath of summer gra.s.s and cattle. He felt Joan breathe it in, sigh deeply, and then she turned to him, put her arms around him, and rested her forehead on his chest. He put his arms round her and they stood for some time, in peace.