"They would be looking at you there." The voice was honed like cold iron. "Looking at you, and you not know it. That's the challenge you can't take up. It's not their swords that vex you, it's their eyes. Isn't it?

Not that they might kill you-you'd probably welcome that. But they might see you first, and know."

"Does it give you pleasure, my lord, to think that?"

"It is, believe me, one of my more comfortable theories. What else is there? That it bores you, our city where we were together? That you don't mind if I drop in from time to time, but really I bore you, too?"

"That is not so."

"Oh, then it's yes, you love me, yes, you want me, but not all that much? Not enough to risk being seen first, unknowing? Yes, you still love me, but in the end I'm not worth it to you. You'd kill for me, but you wouldn't give up an ounce of your pride. I'm not worth that to you, in the end, am I?"

"Hush, Alec, hush."

"Leave me alone. I want brandy."

"That's not what you want. Come here."

"I'm not your lackey. I don't come and go at your command."

"Please, then. Please come to me."

"I hate this." The low voice shook the room with misery. "I can't stand it."

"Come to me. That's better. Yes. You smell of smoke-ash-you've been in a tavern. Your hair-ah!-you washed it at home. Chypre. Something else-citron-barber-fish on your hands, your fingertips-walnuts-bitter-"

And I was dreaming of all those things and more, dreaming them thrown onto a fire that consumed but did not consume them, that fed but was never satisfied. The old sun was devoured by the new, and gave its strength to light a new year, in the course of a long night whose dawn seemed never to come.

My uncle shook me awake. "Get your things. We're going."

He stood a long way above me. I saw him filmed with grey, as though the whole air of the cottage were thick with the ash of last night's bonfire.

I tried to find my feet, but they were tangled in the blankets. I raised myself on my arms. They shook under me.

"She's ill." "She's just hung over." He pulled my arm. "Come on."

I was standing up. The master put a cup of water in my hands, and lifted them to my mouth. I drank. My throat hurt.

"Alec," he said. "You drugged her."

"I didn't poison her. I just didn't want her bothering us. If she's sick, I'll take her to a doctor back in town. Come on."

I could see where my feet went if I thought about it.

"What about your guests?"

"They'll find their own way home. They can walk into Highcombe village."

The master laughed. "You're leaving them, are you? I wonder if they've made a bonfire of your furniture."

"There's plenty of furniture." The duke gripped my arm. "Come on."

"You're leaving? Now?"

"We're leaving. Come on."

The carriage was cold. The drowsy footmen piled us with rugs. My uncle chewed on his thumb and said nothing. We bumped across the frozen rutted drive. The further we went, the more I shivered. He took out a flask of brandy, placed it against my teeth. I was crying, I think. I drank. I slept.

I woke up coughing. The carriage was swimming with sweet, heavy fumes. But I was warm. My uncle held me in his cloak. I watched the pipe rise to his lips, and felt his breath expand and collapse against me. Again, and again, like a cradle rocking.

His breaths were forming curls around me. "Richard," he said. "Richard."

Part III Riverside

chapterI.

ILAY IN A CAVE OF DEEPEST BLUE, STAR-SPANGLEDwith silver crowns. I was explaining to Betty that I must not sleep in Tremontaine's bed; I could sleep on the floor next to the master. But every time I tried to explain something especially important, she'd make me drink a bitter potion. It wasannoying, because it made it impossible for me to get up and practice, and at one point I was quite sure that the villainous Mangrove was coming to Highcombe, and if I didn't defeat him he would set it on fire.

I was very hot and very cold and my eyes ached. I was very tired, too. Eventually I slept without trying to explain anything.

When I woke up I was thirsty, but my starry cave had become only curtains: silk velvet with silver embroidery, hung around a heavy, old-fashioned bed of dark wood. I pulled back a velvet corner.

Sunlight sifted in through the narrow windows of the room. The walls were paneled with dark wood, hung with old tapestries. I heard a chair scrape; a boy appeared in the gap in the bedcurtains, one finger in a book.

"You stir," he said. "I was told to give you this if you stirred." He handed me a cool goblet. I drank; it was not bitter.

"I'm Marcus," he said. "I work for the duke."

I remembered him from my first days in the city; a boy about my age, with brown hair and brown eyes.

His voice was deeper than I remembered.

"You took ill on the road," Marcus said. "But your fever's broken. Now, I expect you'll be bored."

"I'm tired," I said. "How did you get here?"

"Where?"

"Isn't this Highcombe?"

"No. You're back in the city. The oldest part of the city, actually; you're in the Riverside house."

"Oh." I realized that the ride in the smoky carriage had been real, and the feast at Year's End, too, all those dreams were real-which meant that my master was gone, and Highcombe was gone, and even if I could find my way back there, nothing would be as it had been.

I didn't even have the strength to care if I cried or not. Marcus kindly dropped the bedcurtains closed so I could do it in private.

BEING SURROUNDED BY FLOWERS INARTEMISIA'S ROOMshould have been enough for the two girls, but it was only the prelude to the important task of passing judgment on their senders. The man who was under discussion now would have been horrified to hear that his considerable bouquet was being subjected to a very knowing scrutiny. But then, the girls had been reading aloud to each other while they sewed-so that their mamas would not say they did nothing but waste time together-and it had affected their outlook, not to mention their speech patterns.

"Armand Lindley," Lydia Godwin sighed. "I like him very much, but in all honesty, he isn't a bit like Fabian."

"That's all right," said her friend; "you aren't a bit like Stella." Lydia looked crossly at Artemisia Fitz-Levi. No one likes being told that they do not resemble the heroine of their favorite novel, and while it was true that Lydia was unlikely to become pregnant by a swordsman of dubious reputation, like any young girl she liked to think that she could attract one to commit folly for her sake.

But Artemisia was smiling cheerfully, and offering her more of her favorite biscuits, which both of them knew were bad for their complexions, so Lydia decided not to take offense.

"He does have melting eyes." Lydia returned to her current obsession. "Like Fabian's trusted Tyrian, now I think on it."

"I wonder if he is as steady."

"I begin to doubt it." Lydia tossed her head. Artemisia greatly admired her pearl drops. The earrings were Godwin heirlooms, and perhaps should not have been worn on an afternoon visit, but Lydia was so proud of them that she wore them whenever she could. "Oh, Mi, what shall I do? I was sure, when he sent those flowers the next morning, that he had enjoyed the dance as much as I did! He pressed my hand, as well."

"Many men send flowers; but when they press your hand, what else are you to think? No, he loves you, it's sure."

"But then why did he not call yesterday? I made certain he knew I would be at home! No, no man who sends flowers and then fails to call can be said to be in love."

"What kind of flowers were they?"

"Roses, I told you."

"Roses...all roses, or mixed?"

"Roses with carnations. White and red."

"Mixed, that's bad. Though white and red is good. It could mean your complexion, or even heart and soul. Was there a note?"

"Of course." Lydia slipped it from her reticule. "Here, see what you think."

"'To the most adorable of all the Godwins,'" her friend read. "'With the fond admiration of her devoted Armand Lindley.'"

Lydia shrieked and fell back on the sofa cushions. "Fond! Devoted!Oh, Artemisia, I shall perish! How dare he so trifle with my heart?"

"What I wonder about isadorable ," the other girl considered. "Fondanddevoted are well enough, true, but isadorable what a lover says? It sounds-forgive me, Lydia-ratherpapa -ish for a lover."

Lydia fished a handkerchief from the reticule as she began to sniffle. "Oh, no. I cannot bear for him to mean it so."

"Of course, it might mean something else entirely, my sweet." "I do think it must. After all, he is not old enough for a papa. And," she twinkled, "I do not feel at all daughterly when Armand leads me onto the dance floor. In fact, it makes me feel quite like Stella. After the ball."

"'I was a girl before tonight,'" Artemisia quoted with half-closed eyes; "'I am a woman now.'"

"Yes," Lydia breathed. "I fear I must have him or die. But how can I let him know, when he does not come to see me?"

"I expect he is delayed on business, or ill. Only think, there may be a letter waiting for you at home right now."

Lydia jumped up. "Oh, do you think?"

Artemisia patted her hand and pulled her friend to her on the window seat. "Very likely. You must tell me the moment you hear from him!"

"Oh, yes! But-what if Papa does not let me answer him?"

"Why should he not? If you may receive Lindley's flowers and visits..."

"Well, a letter is more serious, you know. Of course I show all mine to Papa and Mama-"

"Allof them, Lydie?" her friend teased.

"Well..." she admitted, "yes."

"Even the ones that might be, say, hidden in a bunch of flowers?" Artemisia wriggled with pleasure.

"Those are the very best."

"My maid is instructed to shake them out before she gives them to me. It is because of Papa's position.

Now that he is to assume the post of Raven Chancellor and be back in the Inner Council, we must be very careful again."

"What a good girl you are, to be sure. We should all strive to imitate you. But what possible objection to your suitor can Lord Godwin have? Armand Lindley will most likely inherit the estate and become Lord Horn after his uncle's death. I think it a very good match indeed."

"Of course it is. But I have heard Papa say that all the Horns have evil tempers and goatish dispositions...."

"He cannot mean Lord Armand! He is thinking of someone else. Have you told him how you feel?"

Lydia blushed. "I dare not tell Papa. He has a very poor opinion of all young men. Why, just the other day he said at breakfast to Mama, quite loudly, so I could hear, 'The thought of any of them coming near our Lydia chills my blood. I know what they're made of. Perhaps we'd better'-oh, Mi, it was so awful-'Perhaps we'd better lock her in a tower until she is old and ugly!'"

Artemisia shrieked and hugged her. "He cannot mean it! What did your mama say?" "She just gave him a look and sighed, 'Oh, Michael,' the way she does. Perhaps they had one of their little talks together; they left the table shortly thereafter, and I did not see them again until past noon, when he was much better-tempered."

"I am sure she will set him right. Your mama is such an angel."

"As are you, dear Artemisia."

DAYS PASSED.IATE AND DRANK AND SLEPT. ICRIED A lot, and my head ached and I missed my mother; kind and careful as she was, Betty did not have the cool hands and sweet voice I loved when I was ill. I tried not to think about it, and I tried not to cry when Betty was there. It wasn't her fault, any of it.

As soon as I could stand up by myself, I went to the window to look out. The window was made up of little squares. The glass was thick and greenish; the little square panes had circles in them. The murky view was of snow and the corner of a roof. I didn't think much of Riverside so far.

When Betty saw that I was well enough to get up by myself, she made me try on all my clothes so she could have them altered. I had gotten taller, thinner in some places and thicker in others. There were new clothes for me in the wardrobe, town suits for winter: one bottle-green fustian with gold piping, one a deep blue wool with threads woven into it that made it almost crimson in the light. I supposed the new clothes meant the duke was pleased with me. But I didn't believe they meant I would be going back to Highcombe any time soon. So I didn't much care.

At first I was only well enough to sit up and walk about for a few hours each day. The rest of the time I was amazingly tired, and, as there was nothing to keep me from sleeping, I slept. Betty sat with me and told me servants' gossip about the household: Cook was a dear, but the steward down here, Master Osborne, thought altogether too highly of himself! If she had been drinking before she came in, she never drank while she was with me. As I thought I was doing her good, I tried to keep her by me. I heard all about Riverside, too, and so I found out at last who my master at Highcombe really was.

Of course I should have known. Even I had heard of St Vier, the greatest swordsman of our time, some said of any.

Everyone knew that he had dueled in the streets of Riverside and killed men in taverns and alleys to protect and amuse a mysterious runaway student, who later became the Duke Tremontaine.

"You wanted to watch out," Betty reminisced, "when those two were around. Riverside then wasn't like Riverside now: you had to be clever to live here, or stupid, or brave. We lived by our wits in those days, and took our luck where we could find it."