Heart of Fire
***
Mary Lennox


He said he held Sera prisoner to keep her safe, but it was 
her heart that was in danger—from him… 
“If you ordered the guards who watch my every move to 
accompany me home, I would be safe in my Hills, and you 
would be rid of my inconvenient presence.” 
Nicholas Rostov’s back stiffened. “No.” 
“Just…no?” 
“I cannot spare the men.” Still, he did not turn to look at 
her. 
“You already spare the men to watch me. Dear Heaven, 
why won’t you let me go?” 
It always caught her off guard, his ability to wheel so 
quickly, so gracefully, like a large, sleek panther. He loomed 
over his desk, hands planted on each side of the papers, his 
eyes burning into her with an intensity that seared her to the 
very core. 
“Tell me who you are. Tell me who your people are. What 
were you up to when the Nantal found you? Tell me why you 
know eight languages, and why your horse is of the finest blood 
stock I have ever encountered, and why you treat a king as an 
equal, or perhaps a not quite equal. Tell me all that, and I shall 
think about letting you go.” 
“It is nothing to you,” she said, flinging a look over her 
shoulder toward the door. Her long braid fell across her breast, 
and the small thread of hair that held it broke. 
Nicholas Rostov’s face underwent a subtle change as his 
gaze fixed on her hair. He walked from behind the desk like a 
great cat stalking his victim. He loomed over her, large and 
inscrutable, radiating a force of will both dangerous and 
seductive. She couldn’t seem to move, to breathe. He reached 
out a hand, lifting her hair, seeming to weigh it in his hands. 
“Nothing, you say. I wish it were that simple. There is 
something about you, Sera with no last name, no history, no 
family madly searching for you.” He leaned close, holding her 
just by his light touch on her hair. Sera felt the warmth of his 
cheek, his breath a slow exhalation against the side of her neck. 
His lips moved, touching, and not quite touching, the hollow 
there, like the wings of a butterfly. 
“Sweet,” he whispered. “Soft mystery. Lady in peasant’s 
garb.” 

For Colin

Heart of Fire
***
Mary Lennox



One 
The Hill People are a shy, backward tribe located in the 
foothills of the impenetrable Arkadian range between the 
country of Laurentia and Beaureve. They rarely make an 
appearance in the towns near the foothills, preferring their 
simple lives of poverty and ignorance to the ordeal of entering 
even the smallest village on a market day. In all the time I 
have spent traveling in this area, I have only seen a few of 
them. Their hair hangs plaited down the backs of both male 
and female. Without exception, all wear gray cloaks that blend 
with the mountain from which they come. They have a 
disconcerting habit of seeming to appear from out of nowhere. 
Excerpt from A Road Well Travelled 
by Countess Irena Volkonsky 
October, 1812 
“There he is,” whispered the mistress of the harem in Iman 
Hadar’s palace. 
Sera stared through the intricate latticework of the balcony 
to the courtyard below. Crossing the brightly patterned mosaic 
floor was a tall man with dark hair, broad shoulders, and an 
impatient stride. He walked beside another, a blond whose 
tousled curls and easy grin contrasted with the dark one’s own 
cool expression and the neat precision of his person. But she 
could feel the anger seething just below the dark one’s surface. 
Why should she care whether that man felt anger or joy? 
All she wished was a chance to escape this prison she had 
occupied for two weeks, after the cursed Nantal raiders had 
caught her and brought her to this place. Ever since, she had 
been guarded like a precious jewel, taught absurd lessons that 
she would never use—which perfumes to use upon which parts 
of her body, how to ply cosmetics and how to appear both 
submissive and seductive to please some Outlander lord. 
The blond grabbed his companion, causing him to halt 
directly opposite her hiding place. As the courtyard fountain 
muffled their voices, the blond spoke earnestly to the dark one. 
He appeared to listen intently, but then, just as she thought he’d 

walk off again with that fierce, long stride of his, he raised his 
head and stared directly at the latticework hiding her from view. 
Sera froze. His gray eyes seemed to pierce the protective 
screen, as though they could look right into her face. With a 
shiver, Sera felt the full force of the man’s will, daring her to 
reveal herself. 
With the Nantal slavers, with the Outlanders in the bazaars, 
with the eunuchs and the mistress of the harem, she had felt 
only disdain, but this man was different. There was something 
about him—a sense of the power Grandfather and Jacob had. 
Taking a soundless breath, Sera stared down into the 
cold, gray depths of the Outlander’s eyes. Two thoughts pounded 
in her brain in time with the fearful tattoo of her heart. The first 
was that she would use this man, and through him, escape to 
find the Heart of Fire—the precious, stolen ruby that protected 
her kingdom from his brutal world. And the second was that 
this Outlander, whom, if life had been different, she would have 
met in dignity and honor, was as beautiful as Apollo himself. 
With a quick, impatient turn, the Outlander strode off, his 
companion quickly following. 
“There,” said the mistress of the harem with a wave of her 
jewel-laden hand. “You recognize him now, and you are a bright 
girl. You understand what you are to do.” 
Sera gave the mistress a sardonic smile. “I am to seduce 
this Outlander king, until he is mindless with pleasure.” 
The mistress frowned. “Don’t think you are above this, my 
girl. Your future, indeed, your very life depends upon your work 
tonight.” She clapped her hands and the eunuch who stood at 
the archway to the harem came forward immediately. 
“She’s ready. Take her to him,” she said and, in this manner, 
sent Sera to face the next trial in the Outlander world she could 
not wait to leave. 
*** 
Nicholas Rostov, the king of Laurentia, masked his rage as 
he strode through the corridor of Iman Hadar’s palace toward 
his suite of rooms. He had come hoping the ruler of neighboring 
Jehanna would join him in an alliance against Napoleon. But 
Hadar had refused, claiming neutrality. And now, it seemed, 
Hadar’s hidden spies watched his every move. 
His father’s ghostly voice mocked Nicholas with every step 

down the long corridor. “A real king succeeds in making 
alliances. But with a sickly fellow like you, Nicholas, Laurentia 
is doomed. A man who can’t control his own body can’t rule a 
nation.” 
Nicholas clenched his fists, pushing the taunts from his mind 
and into the past where they belonged. He had controlled his 
weakness for years. And for better or worse, he was all Laurentia 
had. 
“Tomorrow will be the first day I draw an easy breath,” 
Count Andre Lironsky said as he walked beside Nicholas, his 
usually cheerful countenance somber. “The sooner we’re gone 
from this place, the better.” 
Nicholas’s gaze raked the corridor as they passed large 
Corinthian pillars of pink marble. Assassins could easily hide 
behind each one. 
The two friends said nothing more as they walked toward 
their suite of rooms. As they reached it, the heavy wooden door 
suddenly swung open. Nicholas tensed and his hand went to 
the sword slung round his hips. To his surprise, a bald giant of 
a man, with the soft, undefined musculature and long limbs of 
a palace eunuch, bowed low in the doorway and backed into 
the chamber. Eyes still watchful, Nicholas followed him into 
the room. It was empty aside from the eunuch and a small 
creature hidden behind his back. 
“Most gracious majesty. My master, the great Hadar, begs 
that you accept this small gift for the evening.” 
With a great flourish, the man reached behind him and 
pushed forward a woman. She wore a half veil, but her clothing 
left little to the imagination. 
“Jesu,” breathed Andre beside him. “What interesting 
compensation for frustration—of any kind.” 
“Quiet, Andre.” Nicholas sent him a telling glance. Andre 
should know better than to speak his mind before anyone in 
this palace. 
Andre gave a theatrical sigh. “Oh, the privileges of royalty.” 
Nicholas caught himself staring gape-jawed as any country 
lout at the slave woman. Even with half her face covered, he 
could see she was incredibly beautiful. Her eyes, a deep blue, 
were slightly almond shaped and large beneath winged brows. 
As for the rest of her…He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away 

from the lush picture of smooth, golden skin and soft curves. 
His groin tightened just from looking at her. What the hell was 
wrong with him? With an act of will, he looked back at the 
eunuch. 
“She is a virgin, great king,” the eunuch went on in his 
fruity voice. “The Nantal traders recently found her near the 
Hill country. As you can see from her bright hair and her soft 
skin, she is a prize for any man. She knows little of our language, 
but I was given to understand that you are a fluent linguist and 
know the Hill tongue. My master, the great Hadar, wished you 
to be the first to possess this treasure. His greatest wish is that 
she will please you.” 
After this astonishing speech, the eunuch bowed low. He 
shuffled toward the door while still making his obeisance and 
left the room. 
Nicholas’ control slipped a notch further on the rack of his 
outrage. “Hadar knows of my stance on slavery,” he muttered 
to Andre. “Yet, the idiot expects me bed this poor woman. I 
should have known our cause was doomed from the start.” 
It had been a miserable week, and Nicholas could wish 
nothing more than to bury himself in a woman and forget the 
failures for a night. But control was the creed of his life, and he 
was not about to take advantage of a woman who had no choice 
in the matter. He glanced again at her eyes, the dark blue of the 
sky at sunset, with a look half-fierce, half-terrified in them. And 
that tumble of bright gold hair falling to somewhere near her 
hips—was it as warm as it looked? 
“What are you going to do, Nikki?” Andre’s voice cut into 
his thoughts. “About her,” he added a little louder. 
What, indeed. It was hard not to look at her breasts, lifted 
like an offering in that white halter. Her slim waist tapered to 
rounded hips encased in a swirling, filmy skirt that swayed as 
she took a step back from him. His blood seemed to beat to a 
pounding rhythm. 
“I take it you and your…ah…gift will be safe alone?” 
Andre’s voice was pitched even louder, and there was a hint of 
laughter beneath it. 
Nicholas grabbed his cloak, still hanging over the back of a 
divan, and threw it to the woman. “Cover yourself,” he told her 
in the Hill tongue and turned away from her again. For some 

reason, he didn’t want Andre looking at her. And he didn’t like 
this sense that he was losing control. 
Nicholas heard the rustle of his cloak, heard it settle. He 
turned to the slave and stared only at her face for a long moment, 
giving her the full benefit of what Andre called the “Rostov 
frown”. Her eyes widened above the veil, and she seemed to 
shrink into herself for a fraction of a second. Nicholas knew 
from experience that her next move would be to look for 
somewhere to run. She surprised him. Slowly, the woman drew 
herself up to her full height and held her stance, staring back at 
him. 
Intrigued in spite of himself, Nicholas relaxed against an 
intricately inlaid column, folding his arms across his chest. “You 
may be calm,” he said, again in the language of the Hills, that 
strange, musical language with something of Greek in it. “I will 
not hurt you.” 
She nodded to indicate that she understood. 
“I have no plan to bed you, woman,” he added firmly. “You 
may retire to the harem now.” 
She surprised him again by crossing her own arms across 
her chest. “If I return, the king of this place will know that I 
have not pleased you. I will be punished most grievously. It 
would be in keeping with your reputation for kindness to allow 
me a corner in your quarters until morning.” 
He liked the sound of her voice. It was sweet and tart at the 
same time. He had never heard the Hill tongue spoken by a 
native of the place, but only learned it from his tutor as an 
exercise in mastering an almost dead language. When she spoke 
it, the words took on a lyrical quality he had never heard in any 
language. 
“Why did I never bother to study as hard as you did? If I 
had, I wouldn’t need to ask what in the world you’re saying to 
each other.” said Andre, curious. 
Nicholas told him quickly while the woman stared at the 
floor in seeming incomprehension. 
“Well, you can’t just send her back to that,” said Andre. 
Nicholas gave him a caustic grin. “Of course not. My 
reputation for kindness would suffer.” 
He turned to the woman again. “You may sleep there,” he 
said, pointing to the divan at the foot of the bed. He grabbed a 

satin quilt and two of the pillows off the bed, shoving them at 
her. He was relieved that he and Andre were leaving this 
perfumed den at first light tomorrow morning. 
She nodded, holding the bedding to her chest and waiting, 
her eyes downcast. 
“A gentleman would give the lady the bed and take the 
divan,” said Andre as he turned for the door to his adjoining 
quarters. 
“But this is no lady,” said Nicholas. He locked the door to 
the corridor and unbuckled the sword and the knife sheath he 
carried everywhere, laying both upon the large, canopied bed. 
“Take your rest, woman,” he said without looking at her. 
He climbed into bed and placed both sword and knife within 
easy reach. Blowing out the candle on the small table beside 
the bed, he heard the rustle of silk as she settled onto the divan. 
Nicholas lay awake, staring at the shadowed ceiling for a 
long time. His body would not let him sleep. The ache in his 
groin made him restless, made him wonder why he didn’t soothe 
the restlessness. He saw himself as an honorable man, albeit 
cold. At age twenty-seven, he had experienced the act of love 
many times without expecting trust or even affection from his 
mistresses. He never promised what he couldn’t give. 
Professions of emotion were for fools and liars. What would be 
so wrong if he lifted her from the divan, touched that golden 
skin and— 
“You were wise to reject me.” Her whisper came to him out 
of the darkness. “I could easily be no virgin, but a woman of 
the bazaars. Everyone knows that the Nantal lie to push the 
price higher.” The soft voice sounded cool and remote. If it 
weren’t for the slight tremor beneath her words, Nicholas would 
have sworn that she had no fear of him or the situation. 
“I could be . . . diseased. With the . . . pox. Do you understand 
what I am saying?” 
“What pox? The French?” he asked. 
“Yes,” she said. 
“Perhaps the Italian,” he went on. 
“Maybe that too,” she said, her voice breaking. 
Nicholas dealt with enough diplomats to know a liar when 
he heard one, particularly one who was so unskilled in the art. 
“I understand perfectly. I would be a fool to attempt you, 

wouldn’t I?” The darkness masked his grin. Not for a moment 
did he believe this woman was a diseased harlot. From the little 
hitch in her voice and the bravado that seemed so much bluff, 
he had an impression of innocence caught in a trap. 
She lay very still, hiding in the darkness. He breathed deeply, 
scenting her in the warm room. She smelled of lemon and 
jasmine, and beneath that lay a hint of her own feminine scent. 
He wished she weren’t a slave and could choose a lover of her 
own volition. He wished he could rub his face against that warm, 
perfumed skin. 
He squeezed his eyes shut and rolled over on his side. “Don’t 
be afraid,” he said, more as a reminder to himself than a 
reassurance for her. “I meant what I said. You’re safe with me.” 
*** 
Sera lay awake in the dark, listening to the Outlander king’s 
breathing. The depth and the evenness of each breath had told 
her that he had fallen asleep half an hour ago, but she had to be 
certain before she took advantage of her sudden good luck. 
It was all her fault—from the very beginning. If she had 
not begged her grandfather to save the ferendi devil who lay 
dying outside the cliff walls, he would never have ordered the 
Outlander brought into Arkadia. 
After he’d recovered, the Outlander stole away in the night, 
bearing with him the Heart of Fire. 
Without the Heart of Fire, the kingdom was vulnerable to 
any tyrant seeking Arkadia’s destruction. Grandfather would 
have no recourse but to seal the kingdom shut forever on 
midwinter’s day. And Sera had no recourse now but to chase 
after the thief and return the ruby before Grandfather did so. 
Sera bit her lip. Only two months left! If she didn’t find the 
ruby by then, she’d be banished from the Hills forever. If only 
Hadar’s eunuchs hadn’t thought her Hill cloak a dirty rag and 
burned it, she could fly on the wind from this prison, and she 
would be searching even now for the ruby. 
The Outlander king still slept. His breathing had deepened 
and slowed into that state of dreamless relaxation when even 
the most aware cannot hear hushed footsteps in the darkness. 
She couldn’t spare time to think about this king, whose beautiful 
face outshone that of the Apollo standing in the Temple Square. 
It had been difficult not to respond to his beauty when she stood 

hidden by the wooden balcony screen. But up close, the man’s 
dark fringed, gray eyes had shimmered with something both 
frightening and compelling when he looked at her. It had to be 
fear that made her respond to his gaze with languid warmth in 
her belly and a strange weakness in her knees. 
Sera rolled into a crouch and rose to her feet. No more 
nonsensical thoughts, she scolded herself. It was past time to 
go. 
Glancing through the lacquered windows, she saw the moon 
dip behind a cloud and made her way, step by step, across the 
marble floor of the bedchamber. There would be a few sleepy 
guards outside, but she would simply say the king had dismissed 
her. The walk to the stables wouldn’t be a problem. Grandfather 
had taught her to blend as though she were a part of things. 
Muffled sounds came from the corridor—terrible sounds 
she had heard once before. Heart slamming erratically against 
her chest, Sera retreated into the room and shrank against the 
wall to the left of the door. She stood between the sleeping 
Outlander and the door, listening in horror to the low, choking 
sobs of the guards as they were killed. And then came a rustle 
of a key in the lock and the slow creak of the doorknob as it 
turned. 
The dim light in the corridor outlined the doorway well 
enough for Sera to see four figures dressed in black. A silent 
scream gathered in her throat, but she could not utter a sound as 
her worst nightmare crept into the room. She shrank against the 
wall, thinking only stillness, as Grandfather had taught. 
At that moment, the moon sailed out from behind the cloud, 
limning everything in silver. The men in black were slinking 
closer to the bed, intent, not even aware of her presence in the 
room. 
Run, run, she thought. The stable was less than three minutes 
away. 
The leader of the assassins was almost past her. She could 
hear his muffled breathing, smell the sweat of anticipation on 
him. He slowly made his way toward the bed, his knife raised 
and ready. She could leave in a moment more and be free. She 
could— 
“No!” The scream ripped its way from her throat. 
While the Outlander struggled up from sleep, Sera took a 

deep breath and hurled herself at the black clad leader who was 
closest to the Outlander’s bed. The vermin was solid and hard. 
A black hood shrouded his head. She struggled, biting the wrist 
that held the knife, but the man gripped her hair and pulled 
back hard, exposing her neck to the knife’s blade. Her eyes 
watered in agony at the cruel pressure on her scalp. 
Through the ringing in her ears came shouts and cries of 
pain. The Outlander king was a blur of motion and unleashed 
power. The door from his companion’s chamber crashed open. 
In the light pouring in, she saw the king slice through the men 
coming at them as though they weren’t even armed. She caught 
a gleam of concentration in his gray eyes, a glint of bright sword 
against her captor’s dark-clad side. The knife dropped from her 
throat, but as the man holding her went down, she felt the icy 
glide of steel through the flesh of her arm. 
The companion, sword raised, joined the fighting. Sera 
stood swaying in the darkness, while the king whirled, 
quicksilver swift, and cut down another assailant. Suddenly, 
there was no sound in the shadowed room but the scratch of 
tinder as the companion lit a lamp. 
“Hell, you’re not even breathing hard,” said the companion, 
rushing over to the king. 
“They didn’t touch me,” said the king, shrugging. “The girl 
sounded the warning and threw herself at the leader.” 
They both turned to Sera and stared at her. She stared back, 
her heart galloping unsteadily as the candle flame made swaying 
shadows on the wall behind them. The Outlander king really 
was strong, she realized muzzily, and his look could intimidate 
anyone. His gray eyes had gone the color of dark slate, and his 
mouth turned down in a fierce frown. 
Why was the man angry with her, she asked herself in a 
hazy sort of defensiveness. It was not fair. All she got from her 
good deed was the scorching heat of this giant’s glare. 
The king’s eyes were focused on her arm, she realized, not 
her. Looking down to see what had prompted his fury, Sera saw 
the blood coursing down from the slice across her arm right 
above her elbow. The thin silk of her skirt was already drenched 
with it. 
“It is nothing. A mere scratch,” she murmured. “Help me 
get to the stables, and you’ve paid your debt.” 

“It’s rather more than a scratch.” The king moved to her 
side, pulled off his linen shirt and ripped it into strips. The blond 
one held her arm steady while the king wrapped the strips around 
the wound. Both men paid strict attention to their task, but 
ignored her weak protests completely. 
“The black uniforms, the masks—who else could they be 
but the bastards plaguing the border towns of Russia, as well?” 
asked the one called Andre. 
“That they would dare! And to do this to a woman . . ..” 
The king’s hands were gentle, but the bandage was 
uncomfortably tight. 
The Brotherhood. That was what they called themselves, 
the crazed religious zealots who preyed on the kingdoms of 
Beaureve and this king’s Laurentia—as though a word could 
make jackals seem like men of honor. They spewed hatred upon 
any of the people who worshipped in traditional prayer houses 
with those litanies the Brotherhood found offensive. Outlanders! 
Never in a million years would she understand their antipathies, 
their brutality. 
“Hadar betrayed us,” the blond one was saying. “He must 
have given them access to your room.” 
“Hadar’s a fool and a coward. He could have had an ally, 
but instead all he’s gained is an enemy.” The king went to the 
door, dragging her along with him, holding her close to his side 
as though he did not wish to let her go. His naked chest was 
dense with muscle, damp and heated from the battle, and very, 
very solid. She had a sudden absurd desire to rest her head 
against the springy scattering of black hair growing there. The 
blood loss had obviously affected her brain. She looked into 
the hallway as he pulled her forward within the circle of his 
muscled arm. Several guards in Iman Hadar’s gold and red tunics 
lay dead outside the door. 
The king returned to the room, still holding her steady with 
one large hand on her shoulder. 
“Nikki.” The companion threw the king a shirt. He shrugged 
into it and then pulled her back against him. Sera swayed, 
grateful for the support. 
“He’s in league with them all right, but we’ll never prove 
it,” the king said. “These guards died fighting to protect us, so 
he’s got his claim of innocence. But it’s the courtesan we must 

thank. She alone saved us.” 
Courtesan! Of all the stupid, illogical, Outlander 
assumptions! Sera felt the room spin out of control. She sank 
sideways against the Outlander, and the whirlpool sucked her 
into the dizzying darkness. 
*** 
Nicholas felt the woman slump against him and swept her 
up into his arms. At the same time, he heard the heavy footsteps 
of several soldiers in a dead run toward his door. 
“Damn, this just gets better and better.” Andre lunged 
forward to shut the door. 
“Wait. It’s Hadar, come to view the bodies. I want to see his 
face when he sees which ones lie in this room.” 
Iman Hadar rushed forward at the center of a troop of his 
guards. He wrung his plump hands as he passed the guards lying 
dead in the corridor, his silken shoes making slippery shuffles 
on the marble floor. As Hadar got closer, Nicholas held the 
woman tighter against his chest. 
He looked down at the slave. She was very small in his 
arms. The veil fluttered loose, revealing her face. She was, quite 
simply, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Long lashes, 
blond at the root and darker, like bronze at the tips, curled against 
her cheeks. Her nose was small and straight and her lips were 
full, soft, and naturally inclined to curve just a little into a half 
smile. For some strange reason, she looked oddly familiar, but 
his first concern was her pallor. He knew how much blood she 
had lost, and she might even now be dying from it. 
He bit his lip, awash in guilt. While he had been dreaming 
of her, she had faced death alone. 
“We leave now,” said Nicholas, purposefully fixing Hadar 
with a look that made stronger men than Hadar quail before 
him. 
Hadar’s fat face took on an expression of distress and fear, 
Nicholas noted. He bloody well should look fearful, for Nicholas 
was seriously thinking of starting a border war with the turncoat. 
“Truly, I don’t know how this terrible thing could have 
happened, my friend,” said Hadar in a soothing voice. “Surely 
you will allow me to make some reparation for this outrage, 
both to you and to my honor as master of this palace. Name 
what you wish, and it will be yours.” 

Nicholas’s lips curled in distaste. “Your slave,” he said. 
“Were it not for her, I’d be dead, and my council would vote for 
war against Jehanna. I wish her papers, immediately.” 
Hadar clapped his hands twice, and a servant scurried out 
of the room, bowing as he left. A short time later, the servant 
returned, bearing the bill of sale for the woman. Andre accepted 
it and gathered their belongings, for Nicholas would not let go 
of the woman. 
“Surely there must be something else you wish from me,” 
wheedled a still frightened Iman Hadar. “Jewels? Spices? The 
brightest, most delicate silk and fine porcelain from the China 
trade? Name it, and help me to erase this shame upon my 
reputation.” 
Nicholas felt a weak tug on his shirt. The woman’s eyes 
were open, blue and limpid as a spring sky. He bent his head to 
her bloodless lips. 
“In the stables, there is a blood red chestnut with flaxen 
mane and tail. Take him, for there is no finer horse in your 
kingdom, or any other in your world.” 
Nicholas froze in place for one moment, intently studying 
the woman in his arms. He nodded sharply and gave his demand 
to Hadar, who reddened, but nevertheless gave a command to 
fetch the stallion. Nicholas stalked down the corridor, now 
surrounded by his men, who had gathered at the door of his 
chamber while he spoke with Hadar. 
The little concubine lay trustingly against his chest. At the 
base of his neck, his skin rippled with a small shiver. Here was 
a mystery within a mystery, a Hill slave who spoke with the 
cool, pleasing accent of a noblewoman—in Nicholas’s language. 
When Nicholas reached the stable yard he stopped dead in 
his tracks. The Hill woman had spoken truthfully. Torches 
rimmed the area, and in the flickering light stood a magnificent 
stallion. The chestnut reared, striking out at the grooms who 
were straining at the ropes they held. He let out a scream of 
rage, pawed the air again, dropped with lightning swiftness and 
lunged to the left, snaking his head as he attempted to bite a 
shouting groom. 
“It’s obviously my lucky day,” Nicholas said to Andre. “My 
plans for unity are destroyed, but I’m now the fortunate owner 
of a rogue horse and a slave who orders me about like the kitchen 

boy.” 
The woman stirred in his arms. In a voice filled with urgency 
and insistence, she said, “He is no rogue to a man who deals 
with him properly.” 
Nicholas’s lips quirked upward. “My apologies, 
Mademoiselle.” He grinned at Andre. “One out of two, anyway.” 
“Kindly quit dithering and take me to him.” The slave’s 
voice was sharp. “Quickly, for I have little strength.” 
Nicholas startled himself by obeying the woman’s arrogant 
order. Slowly, carefully, he carried her toward the horse. As 
Nicholas approached with the woman in his arms, the tall stallion 
sniffed the air, tossed his golden mane and turned to stare straight 
at them. By the time he’d reached the horse, it had settled quietly 
enough for the woman to hold her hand right beneath its nose. 
The stallion sniffed, bowed its head and turned as docile as an 
elderly maiden aunt. 
“Tzirah,” whispered the slave, smoothing her palm over its 
muzzle and up its cheek. “Beautiful boy.” 
“Tzirah?” said Nicholas. 
“His name. It means Wind Rider. You must help me mount, 
and then swing up behind me. I take it you are not quite a novice 
rider?” 
“Didn’t they teach you to soothe a man’s pride in Hadar’s 
concubine academy?” muttered Nicholas, lifting the woman 
onto the horse’s back, where she swayed and sucked in her 
breath. 
“They may have taught, but I chose to ignore that lesson.” 
The stallion wore no saddle and only a halter. Taking a deep 
breath, Nicholas swung himself up behind her and gathered her 
close to his body as the horse began to prance. She slumped 
against him and sighed, then patted the bay, whispering soothing 
words in the Hill tongue. The horse stood at rest, its ears pricked 
forward. 
Andre mounted and moved his stallion up beside Nicholas. 
His men urged their horses forward until they flanked their king 
and waited, eager, Nicholas knew, to be gone from this place 
and across the border before dawn. Nicholas took another deep 
breath and gathered the ropes of the halter in his left hand. His 
right arm encircled the woman, pulling her closer against him. 
He nodded once and squeezed the stallion into a slow canter. 

With a clatter of hooves, they passed through the high gate of 
the palace, leaving Iman Hadar and his treachery behind them. 
*** 
When they crossed the border into Laurentia, Nicholas 
breathed easier. Home. Even the air smelled cleaner, sweeter. 
He raised his arm high in the dawn’s light, signaling his men to 
halt. He then shifted the limp burden in his arms and ran a hand 
across his face. His eyelids felt gritty from lack of sleep and the 
dust from the road, but his body was curiously relaxed, as though 
he had ridden for an hour rather than most of the night. Aside 
from the warm sweetness of the woman between his thighs, it 
was the stallion, of course, that made the difference. Nicholas 
had never felt such an easy, ground-covering stride. 
In his arms, the slave woman moaned and stirred. Nicholas 
looked down. Her eyes were open but glassy with pain. She 
moaned again, pushing away from him. The horse stiffened and 
lunged to the side. Nicholas gave the halter a tug and prayed it 
would be enough to control the skittish power carrying them. 
“We need to find her a doctor,” Andre said in a worried 
voice. “She’ll do herself some damage.” 
“We’re miles from a doctor,” said Nicholas, fighting his 
worry and the stallion. “But the lake lodge is close, and it’s our 
best bet if I can get the horse to take the mountain trail without 
dashing us both to our deaths. We’ll take her there and send a 
few men ahead to Verso for the doctor.” 
Andre nodded and called to the captain of the guard. Three 
men set off down the road toward Verso. Nicholas led the rest 
on the long climb up a narrow trail to the north. The stallion 
moved under him in an uneasy truce. 
The sun rose higher, hot already, with unusual intensity for 
autumn. The woman was beginning to struggle in his arms. The 
chestnut snorted and jigged. His muscles turned to iron. Nicholas 
cursed beneath his breath and used his leg to push the horse 
forward on the narrow trail. 
The stallion’s head suddenly pulled against the halter, 
causing the slave’s bandaged arm to bang against her side. She 
twisted in his arms, shaking her head again and moaning low, 
and the horse sidestepped the trail, perilously close to the edge. 
Tension crept up Nicholas’s spine. The hell with the Hill 
tongue, he thought, wrestling with the horse to keep them from 

plummeting into thin air. The woman was perfectly capable of 
understanding anything he said in his own language. “Be still, 
no matter how much it hurts,” he said, allowing the intensity he 
felt to make his voice hard and cold. “I cannot ride your horse 
if he thinks I’m hurting you. A minute more of this and I’ll 
leave him behind.” 
She clamped her mouth together at that threat, shut her eyes 
and turned her head away from him, effectively dismissing him. 
“Good,” said Nicholas, as though she were still listening, 
as though she didn’t make him feel like the lowest snake on the 
face of the earth for threatening to abandon her impossible horse. 
They crested the mountain a short time later. The horses 
behind Nicholas were breathing hard, but the chestnut, now 
relaxed, never faltered, and his coat gleamed with a thin sheen 
compared to the runnels of sweat darkening the coats of the 
other horses. 
Andre must have been thinking the same, for he whistled 
and said to Nicholas, “Jest all you please, my friend. The lady 
has brought you two gifts already. Your life and this horse. `Tis 
not too bad a night’s work, eh?” 
“She is full of surprises,” said Nicholas. 
“An interesting lady, I’ll agree.” 
Nicholas nodded glancing down at the woman, who must 
be conscious, for she kept her face resolutely turned away from 
him. He remembered her body’s nestling acceptance as she slept 
against him through the long night ride and missed it. 
Who was she really? In the bright morning light, he could 
see the delicate blue veins of her closed lids. Even wounded 
and exhausted, she seemed to glow like an incandescent flame. 
Nicholas caught sight of the lake, its waves sighing as they 
lapped at the shore. He sighed in relief. It was cooler already in 
the shade of the mountain, where the grasses before the large 
wooden dacha swayed in the lake breeze. 
“Dismount, then remove Tzirah’s halter.” 
He shook his head struggling between amusement and 
exasperation. “How can a woman’s voice be as sweet as the 
scent of jasmine and, at the same time, as cutting as a sharply 
honed scythe?” he asked her. “Nevertheless, I live to obey.” 
When he dismounted, she slumped forward against the 

horses’ neck, breathing heavily. The animal stood still as stone 
while she slipped from its back. Nicholas caught her. Panting 
heavily, she leaned her forehead against the horse’s barrel while 
he unhooked the halter ropes. 
Nicholas turned to the slave again and circled her slender 
waist with his arm. He was irrationally pleased when she leaned 
back against him. She might make a show of defiance, but 
whenever they touched, her body clung to his. The horse nuzzled 
her hair and sniffed delicately at her bandaged arm. Raising her 
good hand, she rubbed his mane and breathed into his nostrils. 
Then she spoke a few words in the Hill tongue too softly for 
Nicholas to hear, and the stallion made for the lake in a floating 
trot. Nicholas turned, hesitated, and looked back at the stallion. 
“He’ll stay close to the lodge until I am ready to mount 
him again,” said the woman softly. “Tell your men to refrain 
from restraining him, and he’ll be as peaceful as your oldest 
nag.” 
Nicholas lifted her in his arms and felt that curious 
satisfaction again as she laid her head against his chest. He 
fought it down. The woman was stubborn, prideful, and too 
damned beautiful for a king who needed all his wits about him. 
“By all means, My Lady of Humble Mien,” said Nicholas, 
but as he looked down, he realized that his cutting remark had 
been wasted on her. She had fainted again. 
*** 
Nicholas washed the dust from his face and rubbed it 
vigorously with a towel the servant handed him. A rap at the 
door announced Baron Summers, the doctor Nicholas had 
summoned. He was a small, round man of middle age with a 
shock of white hair, a small white pointed beard, and twinkling 
blue eyes. 
He shook the doctor’s hand. “How is she?” 
“Our patient will mend quite well with proper rest and time, 
never fear. Such a lovely young woman, Nicholas.” The doctor 
produced a long tube and came closer. “Sit down for a moment. 
I want to see how you do.” 
Nicholas let out a whoosh of air in exasperation but obeyed 
as Summers pushed aside his open shirt and held the tube to his 
chest. “Hold still. You are as much of a fuss-fidget as you were 
at ten. Hmm. Sounds clear.” 

Nicholas didn’t know why he put up with Baron Summers’ 
ministrations. With the exception of Andre, the doctor was the 
only person in his kingdom who had no fear of him. 
“I’m perfectly fine, Baron. I haven’t had a problem in years.” 
“Still being careful at the first sign of a cold?” the doctor 
asked, tapping his chest. 
“Of course.” 
“Good, good. All is well. I must say, the exercise regimen 
you imposed upon yourself has worked beautifully. Astounding. 
It’s almost as though you willed the weakness from your lungs. 
If you weren’t so intent upon secrecy, you’d make a fine case 
study.” 
“Absolutely not.” Nicholas felt his whole body turn to stone. 
“No one besides you and Minister Lironsky knows of this, and 
no one will.” 
In truth, Nicholas frightened himself sometimes. When he 
was a boy stricken the second time with pneumonia, his father 
coldly derided him for his physical imperfection. Nicholas 
carefully learned the subtle signs of the disease’s approach. 
Through rest and sheer force of will he kept it at bay, and his 
flaw was a secret from his court and his country. To this day, he 
had not had another humiliating episode. 
“Tush, boy.” The doctor patted his arm as though he were 
ten again. “No need for alarm. It’ll be as you say. Now, back to 
our patient. Get one of the women to stay with her tonight. I 
gave her laudanum, and she became quite agitated when she 
learned of it. She fears visions and nightmares. I’m a little 
concerned, myself, as she mustn’t become so upset that she 
rips her stitches.” 
“Hmm.” Nicholas rubbed his chin. “She’ll need someone 
rather strong. Very well, Baron. I’ll see to it. Will you dine here 
tonight? Perhaps you’ll finally reveal the secret of Vladimir’s 
whereabouts. Andre and I are still eager to see him.” 
“My magnificent grandfather trout? I would no sooner give 
away his favorite hiding place than slide naked down a snow 
bank. However, if you’ll come fishing with me while you’re 
here, I’ll show you a wonderful bend in the stream where the 
fish are so plentiful they leap at the hook before it hits the water.” 
“Done.” Nicholas walked the doctor to the door and shook 
his hand warmly. Not two minutes later, Andre Lironsky strolled 

into his chamber looking fresh and neat, for once, after a cool 
dip in the lake. Andre took in Nicholas’s dusty boots and 
breeches and his travel-stained shirt. 
He raised his brows. “Been waiting for the doctor all this 
time?” 
Nicholas shrugged out of his shirt and cleaned his neck 
and chest. “She’ll need me tonight. There’s nobody else who 
can look after her.” 
“There are many who can do so, Nikki. Come have a real 
bath and a decent supper. We’ve been on the road a night and a 
day.” 
“Perhaps tomorrow, when she’s completely out of danger. 
Have them bring a tray to the woman’s room,” said Nicholas, 
toweling off and reaching for the clean shirt his aide held out 
for him. 
Andre wore the puzzled look of a man who had suddenly 
come up against a wall where none had existed for years. “Nikki, 
I just spoke to the doctor in the hall. The woman will heal. It’s 
beyond your responsibility, nay, it’s …improper for you as king 
to act as a common nurse.” 
Nicholas concentrated mightily on the buttons of his shirt. 
“She put herself between me and death. I owe her this.” 
“And that’s all there is to this…labor of yours?” 
“What else could there possibly be?” Nicholas felt himself 
redden. He had not meant to speak so sharply. Ever since the 
damned disaster in Jehanna, he had been some other person, 
disgustingly emotional. Like some Eastern fakir, he searched 
for “signs.” 
All because he felt that little shiver down his neck. 
Andre shrugged and headed for the door. “I’m sure that if 
you cannot imagine another motivation for your good works, I 
cannot.” 
*** 
The woman’s cries roused Nicholas from sleep. He came 
awake with a start. By the light of the candelabrum, he saw the 
slave writhing in her bed, her eyes open and unseeing. He rose 
from the sleeping couch and dipped a cloth into a bowl of clean 
water. She was muttering now, odd syllables indistinguishable 
to Nicholas in his state of weariness, her eyes full of fear and 
anguish. 

“Shh…” he whispered, kneeling by the bed and wiping her 
forehead with the cool, damp cloth. She turned toward him and 
grabbed his hand. 
He rolled his eyes heavenward and knelt there awkwardly. 
Patting, he thought with a flash of insight. Women like that. He 
patted her back a few times. “It’s just a dream—just visions 
from the laudanum. It’s not real.” 
But whatever the woman saw was certainly real to her. She 
cried out sharply in what Nicholas now recognized as a third 
language—Beaurevian. 
“No, no, Mama!” she cried. “Not the closet. Small. Dark. 
Terrible things—the bad men. There’s blood. No, Papa! Don’t 
let her! Oh, gods! I must run, run!” 
She was struggling very hard against him. He breathed a 
sigh of resignation and lifted her up, holding her tightly to keep 
her from straining against the wound and opening it. He felt her 
heart pound out its tattoo of terror against his chest. She rubbed 
her face against his shoulder, then struggled for a moment, 
batting away his hands, muttering in indecipherable phrases, 
deep in the nightmare. 
How the hell did one soothe a woman? They were all 
irrational, and this one, of course, was literally so. Perhaps, if 
he could get that golden mane off her face . . .. 
“Shh,” he said holding her against him, awkward at the 
unaccustomed feel of a woman seeking not pleasure, but 
comfort, in his arms. “No one will hurt you, as long as you’re 
with me. I promise.” He smoothed back her hair, surprised at 
the texture. It felt like rumpled silk. Softer, smoother even than 
he’d thought it would be. “Have no fear. You’re safe.” 
She sighed and turned her face into the hollow of his neck. 
And then, quietly at first, the tears began to fall, warm and wet 
against his skin. She cried, harder and harder, and an odd, tight 
lump rose in his own throat. 
Nicholas was not the kind of man to think in terms of 
emotion. But here was this woman, fragile in his arms like a 
bird that had been beating against the bars of her cage for who 
knew how long. The room was silent and dark in the moonlight, 
a place somehow out of time. He didn’t think or weigh the 
consequences as he usually did. He just held her. 
She let out a little hiccup and a sigh as he dried her tears. 

Still deep in sleep, she snuggled closer to his body. She took 
comfort. 
From him. 
From someplace barren and dry inside him flowed a little 
spring. He felt his rigid muscles soften like parched earth beneath 
drops of cool water. His body lifted with his breathing, strange 
and light. 
He laid her back against the pillows, hoping they were soft 
enough, and stroked her cheek. “Who are you? Why am I 
compelled to keep you?” he whispered. “And why are you 
here?” 

Two 
The Outlander has the desires of a greedy child. He learns 
only because of his need to possess. Thus, his historic interest 
in the false science of Alchemy, which he utilizes to acquire 
gold, or in witchcraft, to seize power. Ever restless, he cannot 
force himself into the stillness required to understand the 
essence of a thing—to see how it exists and why. That is why 
he cannot blend and become a forest, a stone, or even the 
familiar walls of his own city. 
From the Writings of Jacob Augustus of Arkadia 
Sunlight crept across Sera’s face, warming it. Very 
cautiously, she opened her eyes and looked around her. She 
was lying in a soft bed of clean linen, not silk, and there were 
no bars of wood inlaid with tiny jeweled flowers on the window. 
She was not in the harem. The room she lay in smelled of pine 
trees and fresh, clean air. With its oak-paneled walls the color 
of honey in sunlight, its slightly sloping floor, and its heavy, 
dark ceiling beams, this room must be centuries old. 
Sera jerked upright into a sitting position. The movement 
set her arm aflame, and she slowly lowered herself back to the 
bed and took stock of her situation. She was gowned in a long, 
white linen shift. Beneath the wide embroidered sleeve, her 
bandaged arm throbbed. Vaguely, she remembered the long 
journey through the night, how patient and good Tzirah had 
been carrying the Outlander king mounted behind her. 
The brass knob turned, and the door to the chamber swung 
open. 
“Good morning, Mademoiselle.” The Outlander king 
positively filled the doorway. Well, all right, she thought. 
Perhaps he wasn’t quite the giant dear Jacob Augustus was, but 
he was indeed very tall and broad of shoulder and chest. The 
king was dressed simply in a pristine linen shirt draped over his 
wide shoulders, lawn breeches that hugged his slim hips, and 
tall boots. He wore no stock tie, and his shirt collar was open, 
showing the strong cords of his neck. Even in this state of 
informality, his hair was brushed to a glossy sheen and perfectly 
parted. 

“Good morning, Your Majesty. Is my horse settled well?” 
The words had risen to her lips before she could call them back. 
What an idiot she was to question this man as though he were a 
servant. 
Evidently, the king caught the insolence in her remark. His 
beautiful lips were tight and his eyes were stern. “If you’re 
wondering whether I did as you ordered me yesterday, the 
answer is yes.” 
“I did not mean to insult you, and I apologize for my words. 
Only worry about Tzirah caused them.” The king did not seem 
mollified by her apology. No, he had a heat about him, a 
shimmering of puzzlement, exasperation, and something else 
she could almost see in the air surrounding him, which he held 
perfectly under control. The combination did something strange 
to her. It made her wish to act badly in his presence. 
“And you must also realize that if you had not heeded my 
advice, Tzirah would have caused you trouble.” 
He did not deign to answer her. Sera pushed herself back 
against the carved headboard of the bed and pulled the covers 
up to her chin, tense and wary. The Outlander’s gray gaze lit 
upon her and took her in—all of her, not just her physical being. 
He took his time standing silently in the door, as a predator 
would watch his prey, waiting for the right moment to spring. 
Sera suppressed a shiver. Part of her felt reckless and excited 
by his presence. Part of her felt only fear. The man was not 
what she expected, and in this terrible world, nothing unexpected 
was good. 
“The doctor who treated your wound is waiting to see you. 
I expect that he will find you somewhat recovered from your 
ordeal.” The king stepped away from the door and leaned back 
against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest and looming 
in spite of the distance between them. 
“Perhaps you will tell him to come in on your way out.” 
“I think not.” 
“Your behavior, sir, is highly irregular, even for a king.” 
The man merely raised a brow. “But that is the nicest thing 
about being king in my country. One’s behavior is never 
questioned.” Sera felt the Outlander’s gaze fix on the heat of 
her blush as it surged upward from her chest to her neck to her 
forehead. How dare he remain in her chamber during a medical 

examination, as though he had a right to be there, as though he 
owned her! Too weak to fight him, she turned her face away 
and pretended interest in the vase of flowers on her bedside 
table. 
A small, round man with a cheerful countenance and hair 
the most wonderful shade of white entered the room and smiled 
at her. He carried a black bag, and by this, Sera knew he must 
be the healer the king had mentioned. 
The little man bustled over to the bed, took her hand, and 
bent over it in a kind of bow that looked terribly formal and 
confused her even more. 
“Mademoiselle?” The healer gave her a soothing smile. “I 
am Dr. Summers, and I am very pleased to see that you are 
awake and in less pain this morning.” 
While she tried again to ignore the proprietary concentration 
emanating from the king, this Dr. Summers held her wrist 
between his thumb and forefinger and consulted his pocket 
watch. “Hmm . . . very nice, but still weaker than we would 
wish.” He carefully unwrapped the bandage and checked the 
wound. Sera glanced down at her arm and noticed that the slash 
had been neatly stitched. 
“You did that?” she asked. 
“I did, last night when I arrived,” said the doctor. 
In spite of the fact that this man, like every Outlander, had 
little power to heal a wound, she was impressed with the work 
he had done. The slash had been long and deep, she knew, and 
there was no real swelling or heat at the wound’s site. 
“Thank you,” she said. “You are a fine healer.” 
“Very kind of you, my dear. However, you must help me 
get you well. That means rest and quiet. By tonight, you must 
eat meat. As much as you can be persuaded to eat. For the blood, 
you see. To make more of it.” 
“I understand, Dr. Summers.” 
“Good. Until then, rest is the ticket. I am quite satisfied 
with your progress, but I’ll remain just to make certain that you 
are recovering according to schedule. That, and to take 
advantage of the fine fishing His Majesty has offered me.” The 
little man grinned over his shoulder at the king, whose fleeting 
smile in response lightened the darkness in his expression. Then 
it was gone, and this king was the same overwhelming force 

against which she must pit her wits. 
“If you need me for any reason, please tell the maidservant. 
Do try to rest, Mademoiselle.” The plump little doctor gave her 
an encouraging smile and left the room. 
But the king remained. Although he stood immobile, he 
again gave the impression of a large, dark cat, and she was the 
cornered mouse. 
She cleared her throat. “I am sure you have much to do this 
morning. You must not let me take up so much of your valuable 
time.” 
He gave her a smile tinged with irony, and he did not move 
from his place by the wall. “Not at all. Because of you, 
Mademoiselle, I am on holiday. I have as much time to waste 
as I wish.” 
A manservant carrying a tea tray entered the room behind 
him. The king gave a low order and the servant set down the 
tray on a table beside her bed and bowed, departing. 
The king poured out some steaming tea. After he handed 
her the cup, he pulled up a large wing back chair and sat down. 
He lounged back in the chair, crossing his booted legs at 
the ankles and resting his chin on his steepled hands as he studied 
her. His intense scrutiny made her feel like a troublesome puzzle. 
His long, dark eyelashes fringed his eyes, hiding his thoughts 
effectively. The flowered porcelain teacup shook slightly in her 
hand. She put it down on the table, never taking her eyes from 
the Outlander. 
“All night I have been asking myself, who are you? A 
woman who speaks three languages elegantly. A woman who 
owns a horse more valuable than a king’s treasure. A Hill woman 
with golden hair and skin so soft and fine you can see the veins 
through it.” 
He rose abruptly to his feet and walked to the window. The 
sunlight played upon his neat black hair, turning it almost auburn 
at the tips. “Maybe you’re a spy, but then, who sent you? 
Certainly not Iman Hadar, for to pay you would have been a 
waste of his money. I suspect he was in league with the 
Brotherhood, and my death, not knowledge of my plans for the 
future, was his purpose.” He began to pace, restless, it seemed 
to Sera, as though needing to think aloud with his body as well 
as his mind. 

“And if you were a spy—French, or British—why sacrifice 
yourself for me? My country would be weaker without me.” 
She realized with a shock of recognition that he was now 
speaking in French. “Je ne suis pas une agente de Napoleon.” 
He made no outward movement of surprise and slipped into 
English. “Nor of the Prince Regent?” 
“That libertine?” she scoffed, answering him in kind. 
“Of course, were you indeed a spy, what better way to catch 
me off guard than to save my life and admit to speaking—just 
how many languages are at your disposal?” 
“Eight. I have a small talent for mimicry.” 
“Mimicry.” He raised his brows and slanted her a hint of a 
smile. “Laurentia is a rich prize, as well as a southern entryway 
to Russia. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter ultimately whether I or 
some other ruled Laurentia. Napoleon’s forces, flush with victory 
in Russia, would be formidable for anyone.” 
The king swung around to face her so quickly, she almost 
gasped. “Why did you throw yourself at the assassin? Why did 
you take the knife meant for me?” 
She shook her head. “How can you ask such a question? 
All life is precious. I could do no other thing, even though I 
wished to.” 
He was looking at her now with the most comical 
expression—disbelief at war with shock. He gave a bark of 
laughter. “You’re either too good to be true, or the cleverest liar 
I have yet met. You give me an example of behavior only a 
saint would follow and then you tell me you didn’t wish to follow 
it, yourself. Why not?” 
She could only answer him honestly—there was no other 
way she knew. “I wanted to escape that prison, and I could have 
while they…But I couldn’t leave you unprotected. Even when 
I told myself to go, I couldn’t.” Sera looked down at her hands, 
unable to explain her actions even to her own satisfaction. 
He studied her with that unflagging concentration that made 
her want to run and hide in a corner. 
“No, you couldn’t. Spy or unfortunate, I would like to thank 
you properly, but I don’t even know your name.” 
“Sera,” she said, giving him that much. “I don’t know your 
name, either.” 
“My name is Nicholas Rostov,” he said. “I don’t know 

whether they informed you at the summer palace. I am king of 
Laurentia.” 
She folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him. “They 
told me,” she said bitterly. “When they—they . . ..” The king 
stared at her. His nostrils flared slightly, his eyes focused on her 
with an intensity that seemed to burn. Then he gave her a brief, 
curt nod. 
“You need rest. I’ll return later. Perhaps by then you’ll be 
ready to tell me just who you are, and what you were doing in 
Jehanna that got you captured in the first place.” 
As soon as Nicholas Rostov quit the room, Sera slumped 
against the pillows, weak with relief. She was in a terrible state. 
She had almost lied to this king in Iman Hadar’s palace when 
she felt his body’s need for her. She could not lie, but she could 
not tell the truth, either. To do so would be to endanger all of 
the Hills. How could she hold strong against that man with his 
piercing gray stare and his imperial frown? His rare smiles were 
worse, tugging at her defenses. She must give him a little, but 
not too much. She must reveal only what she had to. Sera shut 
her eyes, but her thoughts were whirling too quickly to find 
rest. What was she to do? How was she to find the thief? How 
was she to get back home without a Hill cloak to mask her? 
Why did she ever leave the safety of the Hills in the first place? 
*** 
Nicholas leaned against the pasture fence and watched the 
chestnut horse gallop in the near field. As Sera had promised 
several days ago, the stallion was calm. He exhibited a rather 
distant arrogance with the other mounts grazing near him, and 
none of the Laurentian horses approached him. They seemed to 
know he was far too fine for them. 
With a bribe of apples in his jacket pocket, Nicholas leaped 
the fence and approached the stallion. Wind Rider wheeled and 
galloped away before he could get within twenty yards of the 
horse. 
“Wary fellow, aren’t you?” Nicholas left the treats on the 
ground within the fence. Only when he left the field did Wind 
Rider approach the little offering and eat. 
Andre walked to his side, watching the stallion nibble at 
the apples. 
“Like horse, like rider,” said Nicholas. 

“What do you mean?” 
“Both are fearful and intensely private. Is she a spy or a 
casualty of war, Andre? Where does she come from? Why was 
she captured and sold? Who were her parents? I’ve been trying 
to figure it out.” Indeed, these questions kept him awake the 
first night at the dacha, watching her as she finally fell into a 
peaceful sleep. Had it not been for the laudanum and its vivid, 
drug-induced dreams, he would never have learned about the 
demons haunting her. 
He was a fool to take her home, to keep her in the palace 
where she might endanger Laurentia. 
He shook his head in bewilderment. “Why am I risking the 
country’s welfare, eh?” 
“Because if she’s a spy, you want to know her contacts and 
sources,” Andre said. “And if she’s not, you want to protect 
her.” 
“Yes, I’ve thought of all that,” he said. “Whatever she is, I 
owe her my life. I keep asking myself, why didn’t she run when 
she had the chance? Certainly it wasn’t because of my amiable 
temperament.” 
“Come, now, Nikki. Surely you are not going to puzzle over 
this little courtesan any longer. Although she is incredibly 
beautiful.” Andre looked at him closely. “With all your other 
ruminations, you have noticed that, have you not?” 
“Naturally. I’m not totally oblivious to feminine charm.” 
“Particularly when it’s displayed so generously.” Andre’s 
lips curved in what could only be considered a smirk. 
“Leave off,” muttered Nicholas. 
“Rather protective, aren’t you? And short-tempered, to 
boot,” Andre said as Nicholas turned away from him and began 
to walk back to the dacha. “There’s only one solution for what 
rides you, my friend, and I suggest you take it as soon as the 
lady is recovered from her wound.” 
“I don’t know that I can solve this puzzle in so short a time,” 
Nicholas said. “The men I’m sending to gather information 
won’t report back to me for a while.” 
“I was speaking of a solution to the more obvious problem, 
Nikki.” Andre’s face wore an uncustomary look of complete 
seriousness. “Take your foundling to your bed as soon as 
possible. Ease your need for her. Then let her go home, wherever 

that is.” 
“She deserves better,” said Nicholas. “And she’s more than 
you think.” 
“You really do have a bad case of it, my friend,” said Andre. 
“No. Do you remember when we were eight, and we decided 
to climb the old oak in the park?” 
“Yes, of course. And you said we couldn’t, that there was 
something wrong. When I asked you why, you said you just 
felt it. And then that great limb fell from the oak that very 
afternoon. It was rotted clear through.” Andre rubbed his fingers 
through his hair. “I thought then that to know such a thing before 
it happened, you must have the Sight.” 
“Indeed. I didn’t see it, Andre. I simply felt a strange prickle 
at the back of my neck when I looked at that tree. The same one 
I felt just before the messengers arrived at Oxford to tell me my 
father was dead.” Nicholas kicked at the ground with the toe of 
his boot. “I felt it the other night, when I held her on the long 
trip from Jehanna. This time, it’s telling me to keep her. And I 
must pay attention to it, until I know who she is, and why she’s 
somehow mixed up with Laurentia’s welfare. Until I do, she 
stays with me.” 
Andre let out a low whistle. “This is very strange, Nikki. 
And you’re certain this ‘prickle’ is in your neck and not another 
part of your anatomy?” 
“Go to hell,” Nicholas said, but he couldn’t keep his lips 
from quirking upward. 
Later that day in his rustic study, Nicholas nodded to a young 
lieutenant who folded a sheet of paper and placed it carefully 
inside his dark blue jacket. “I’ll start out at once, Your Majesty.” 
“Very good, Carlsohnn. As soon as you receive any 
information about Miss Sera, send word to Montanyard by 
courier. Interview the families near the Hills, either in Jehanna 
or in Beaureve. Young Oblomov has already left for the foothills 
of Arkadia. And don’t neglect the nobility.” 
Sera’s nature was too ladylike to indicate low station. There 
might be a family frantically searching for her. But to own a 
horse like that chestnut, to speak eight languages fluently, and 
to instruct a king with cool confidence were the trademarks of 
something more than just a chit from a noble family. Who the 
hell was she? 

The lieutenant saluted smartly and quit the room. Nicholas 
walked to the oak wall lined with bookshelves. He picked up a 
small figurine, a little Minoan earth goddess his father had 
brought back to Laurentia after a state visit to Crete. He had 
loved it as a boy, had felt the secret thrill of seeing a woman’s 
uncovered breasts, her small, supple waist, her rounded hips, 
even if they were made of marble, not flesh. The stone felt warm 
to his hand. 
His thumb played softly over the statue. Round, high breasts, 
hips flaring from that slender waist. The little goddess bore a 
striking resemblance to—he almost dropped the precious 
antique in his hurry to put it down. 
It was a damned good thing that Sera was well on the way 
to recovery. He grew more demented by the day. With a bit of 
snooping by his agents, he might be closer to what he needed to 
know about her. He turned and walked into the dacha and down 
the long corridor to her room. His steps were swift as he traveled 
the hall, and his knock on her door sounded impatient to his 
own ears. In a low, musical voice she bade him enter. 
Sera tilted her head to look at him as she sat at the bay 
window, wearing a soft gown of yellow linen. Her long hair 
rippled in curls down her back. The sun limned her body, 
outlining her breasts and her hips, turning all of her to gold. 
Her face had a soft, pink glow like the blush of a rose. Nicholas 
felt the now familiar tug at his chest as he crossed the room and 
stood close to her, his back resting against a heavy carved pillar 
of the bed. 
“The doctor was just here with good news,” she said to 
him. “I may travel in a day. I wish to thank you for your kindness, 
both in saving me from the slave harem in Jehanna and in 
bringing me here to regain my strength. I owe you a great debt. 
When I return to my homeland, I shall try very hard to repay 
you.” 
“You may repay me by being happy and safe in 
Montanyard,” said Nicholas. He waited, watching the small 
crease of puzzlement appear between her arched brows 
“But Montanyard is in Laurentia,” she said. 
“Exactly,” said Nicholas. He would give orders. While he 
had her watched for any surreptitious activity, Sera would learn 
court etiquette, proper court dress, all the necessary foolishness 

that a lady-in-waiting to a princess was expected to know. She 
was intelligent. That much he knew from his conversations with 
her. Until he found out just what Sera was, his sister Katherine 
would benefit from this arrangement. 
“But I am not going to Laurentia. I must return to the Hills.” 
She was holding her hands tightly in her lap, looking up at him 
with wide eyes. He could see just the beginning of a stubborn 
set to her rounded jaw. 
“Sera,” he said, trying to keep his voice reasonable. “A 
woman, especially one who looks like you, cannot travel these 
lands alone. Look what happened to you recently. That, or worse, 
will happen again if you ride off alone.” 
She rose to her feet and folded her arms in front of her 
chest. “I made a bad mistake last time, that is all. I promise not 
to do so again.” 
Nicholas sighed in exasperation. “I made a promise to you, 
as well, just a se’nnight ago, as I watched you fight the spell of 
the laudanum. I promised to keep you safe, and I’ll not break 
that vow any time soon. So you will not ride off alone on that 
costly stallion.” 
Her face flushed, and she tapped her foot. “I do not recall 
you making any promise like that.” 
“Of course not! You were half out of your mind and raving 
at the time. Still, I made it.” 
She stared up at him with wide eyes. Her face grew pale in 
an instant. “What did I say?” she asked so low that he had to 
bend over her to hear. 
“Something about a terrible punishment—your parents 
locked you in a closet, apparently. I must say, they sounded like 
the sort of people I’d put in prison for life.” 
“Was that all I said?” 
Nicholas saw that she was actually shaking. “Yes. But I 
told you I’d keep you safe, and I shall. Why in God’s name do 
you wish to traipse about the countryside, prey to any villain 
who sees you?” 
“There is something I must do.” 
He waited for more, but Sera just stood before him, her 
head down, her hands clasped in front of her. 
Nicholas threw his hands up. “You must do something? 
And that is explanation enough for me to send you off, not 

knowing where you’ll wind up, or if you’re alive or dead by the 
side of the road?” God! Which was she—spy or innocent? 
Sera shrank back against the wall at this last, and Nicholas 
came to the realization that he must have been shouting rather 
loudly. When she raised her head to look at him, her eyes were 
clouded, but she shook her head and that luscious, stubborn 
lower lip jutted out. 
“First of all, I am not your responsibility, nor your subject. 
I need not explain anything to you. There are others involved, 
and my duty lies with them, King, not with you. I can tell you I 
wish you and your people no harm. My greatest desire is to 
return to my home and never leave it again. And that is all I can 
say.” 
“You will not ride this country alone.” Nicholas felt the 
anger rising in him, hot and potent. He watched her as she 
blanched and stood straighter. 
“You have no right to keep me, Outlander.” 
“I have every right,” he said, working against the heat to 
keep his voice low and steady. “I own you. Would you like to 
see the papers?” 
She gasped in outrage. “I saved your life!” 
“And I plan to return the compliment. Be ready to ride by 
dawn tomorrow. And don’t try to escape tonight. There will be 
guards at your door and beneath your window, should you be 
foolish enough to attempt a climb down to the ground.” 
She had gone from shock to fury to calculation in only 
seconds. No, Sera couldn’t be a spy, Nicholas thought. She was 
too transparent to last a day. 
“Don’t even try to think how you might outwit the guards,” 
he told her firmly. “Even if you could get past them, I’d simply 
ride after you and bring you back. I’m the finest tracker in the 
three lands, Sera. That’s not an idle boast.” 
She had that helpless look of resentment he had seen before 
on the faces of his adversaries—the understanding that she had 
just lost everything and hated the man who was taking it from 
her. 
He turned his back on her and heard his own inarticulate 
growl. Heaven protect him from emotional women! She’d see 
the rightness of his decision in time. When he was convinced 
of her innocence, he would tear up the hateful papers of 

ownership and free her. 
He could almost feel her eyes burning a hole in his back. 
“Soon you’ll understand, Sera, and you’ll be glad,” he said 
to the window. 
Then he turned and walked to the door. Perhaps time alone 
would make her see sense. 
He had his hand on the knob and was halfway out the room 
when she spoke. 
“Barbarian,” Sera said, and all the scorn in the world was 
in that word. 
*** 
Anatole Galerien, king of Beaureve, sat in his opulent study, 
staring into the fire. He stifled the terrible urge to chew his nails, 
smoothing the pure white gloves he wore over his ravaged 
fingers. A servant carrying a coal bucket scuttled across the room 
to the fireplace and knelt before it. The hod slipped a bit and hit 
the floor with a loud thump as the man began to set it down. 
“Fool!” barked Galerien. “Have a care or you’ll be down 
in the mines bringing the damned stuff up rather than warm and 
well fed in my palace.” 
The man rose swiftly, keeping his eyes on the Persian carpet 
at his feet, mumbling his apology and bowing his way out of 
the room. 
Galerien pulled off his gloves and stared at his hands for a 
moment. They were cracked and reddened with the rash that 
had tormented him for the last eighteen years. He scratched at 
the flaking skin, reached into the hidden cabinet in his parquetry 
desk and pulled out a brown glass bottle. His hands trembled as 
he unstopped the cork and poured the lotion from the latest 
quack on the backs and palms of his hands. The itching subsided 
a bit, and he sat back in the gold inlaid chair, gnawing at his 
fingernails. 
Someone rapped hesitantly at the door. “Wait,” Galerien 
called. When his gloves were safely on his hands again, he said, 
“Enter.” 
A soldier, smartly turned out in parade dress, opened the 
door. “Count Laslow requests an audience,” he said, standing 
tall but pale with uncertainty and just a hint of fear in his face. 
Good, thought Galerien. He wanted their fear, their 
immediate obedience. 

In a swirl of black, Laslow entered and gave him a bow 
somehow ironic, although correct. 
“Well? What news? Of the thief—of the girl?” 
Laslow pulled off his black gloves and cloak. He crossed 
the room to the fire and stood, his back to Galerien, holding his 
hands toward the warm coals. Even from behind, his tall, slim 
body looked slightly sinister. 
“We have searched the hills and questioned the peasants 
who live in their shadow. There is no sign of the thief. Anyone 
who had knowledge of him would gladly have given it up to us 
when we were done with them.” 
He turned, crossing the room with his long, catlike strides 
until he stood before Galerien. He seemed to loom over the 
desk, his face still half-hidden, despite the light of the chandelier. 
“But the girl is still alive. We tracked her to Hadar’s palace, 
where servants told us of a slave woman with golden hair, newly 
arrived. The Nantal had sold her to Hadar only a few days before. 
She was being groomed for Nicholas Rostov.” 
Galerien slammed his fist down on the inlaid writing desk. 
“Why did you not take them in one blow?” 
“I couldn’t. Hadar had agreed only to a small force, should 
anything go wrong. If she had been sleeping in his bed, we 
would have dispensed with them both, but either Rostov has 
scruples or he is a eunuch. She was reputed to be quite beautiful.” 
“The witch was beautiful, too,” murmured Galerien. 
“At any rate, Hadar’s man waited and watched outside the 
door. The girl sounded a warning and threw herself on Juseph. 
Of all the men lost in that attempt, I shall miss Juseph the most. 
He was a genius with a knife.” He shook his head, a puzzled 
expression crossing his normally frozen features. “The girl has 
actually made me feel . . . something, if only annoyance.” 
“However,” continued Laslow, settling into the brocade 
library chair Galerien silently pointed to, “I believe she has gone 
to Laurentia with Rostov. Whether he has taken her under his 
wing permanently or has merely given her safe passage is yet 
to be seen. I shall send men into Laurentia to ascertain if she 
lives beneath the king’s protection.” 
Galerien clutched the edges of the inlaid desk. He thought 
he might actually crack off the piece of molding with the 
intensity of his grip. “You know my need, Laslow. The thief I 

hired escaped with Arkadia’s secrets and its treasure. Find him 
and the Heart of Fire. Torture the location of the cliffs and the 
waterfall from him. At least a week before the twenty-first of 
December, the girl and the ruby must be mine.” 
“Why the twenty-first?” Laslow fixed him with a curious 
look. 
“The witch once told me that the waterfall froze by that 
date, and that the cliffs were then visible to the world. Without 
the Heart of Fire to act as a key to the cliffs, Aestron or his 
council will seal them shut forever. I need the information and 
the key before the gates close. See to it, and smartly!” 
Only with the power and wealth of Arkadia could he hope 
to take what ought to be his. Galerien closed his eyes and laid 
his head against the back of the chair. The skin covering the 
backs of his hands itched as though fire ants were feeding upon 
it. 
“I must have it all before Napoleon leads his troops hence,” 
he muttered. “I’ll be a force to fear in this world.” There was 
utter silence in the room, so profound as to make him believe 
that Laslow, spectre-like, had slipped away. He could hear the 
ticking of the French clock on the mantel, the hiss of coals on 
the grate. 
“What is this madness?” Laslow’s voice, cold, 
contemptuous, sliced through Galerien’s thoughts. 
“No madness. An order. From your king.” 
“I can guarantee you victory over Laurentia by spring, for 
your young men flock to our training camps, selling their souls 
for a chance to put food into their family’s bellies. But there 
isn’t enough time to train them for an all-out assault on Arkadia 
or any other country before the solstice. Aestron has powers 
that can render us helpless, even if we breach the cliffs protecting 
Arkadia.” 
Anatole waved his hand impatiently. “I never truly believed 
what the witch told me about Aestron’s abilities, and besides, it 
was so many years ago. The man’s old. He may be dead by now 
for all I know, and with him, whatever power he had. Get me 
the ruby. And bring the girl here. I wish to witness her death.” 
“I shall prepare my best men to invade Laurentia. By week’s 
end they’ll find the thief and bring me news of the girl,” said 
the count. 

“Good.” Galerien waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. 
The count gave him a look of utter contempt and a bow so 
perfunctory that from any other man, Galerien would have 
punished it with death. But he needed Laslow and his desperate 
martyrs until he satisfied the hunger that roiled in his belly— 
for Arkadia, for Laurentia, for respect. 
*** 
In the Mage’s palace, Jacob Augustus stared at the fading 
figures in the scrying glass, his breath coming so fast he had to 
concentrate on slowing his diaphragm’s movements to their 
normal, unhurried state. He must not give way to emotion. Doing 
so was deadly, both for him and the Outlander enemy. When he 
felt more in control, he looked across the desk into his 
grandfather’s eyes. He saw an ocean of calm, more than he ever 
thought he could manage, himself. And pain showed, too, 
beneath the serenity. 
“I shall go into Laurentia and bring her home,” he said 
quietly. 
“No,” said Emmanuel Aestron. He placed a velvet cloth 
over the glass and sat back in his chair. “Give her time to find 
the thief and return on her own. Perhaps she will find more 
than the ruby in the Outlander world.” 
Was his grandfather finally aging and slowly losing his 
excellent judgment? Jacob hastily put that fear away to 
concentrate on the problem facing them now. 
“She has no Hill cloak. Even if she finds the thief and the 
Heart of Fire, she will never get past the animals that hunt her, 
or past filth like the Nantal and Hadar who will see her as a 
prize for some man’s lust.” 
“Perhaps there are some who will protect her, even to their 
last breath.” 
“Outlanders?” Jacob gave a dry laugh. “They will happily 
rape her and bind her into slavery, but they won’t lift a finger to 
help her.” 
His grandfather held him on a long, steady look. “Jacob, I 
do not make this decision lightly. You were too young to 
understand what happened all those years ago. Perhaps it is 
time you knew.” 
Jacob stared at Emmanuel in rapt attention. At last, he was 
going to learn about those terrible events that had ripped Sera’s 

world apart. 
“I shall never forgive myself,” Emmanuel said with quiet 
agony. “I trusted that all was well with Marissa and Stephan. 
Their people loved them. The Brotherhood was a small group 
of fanatics no one took seriously. I thought it was safe for me to 
retreat to the summit of Mount Joy for the summer solstice, to 
rededicate and purify myself as I am required to do each year. 
In accordance with tradition, I took no Hill cloak to ease my 
journey, so, like any Outlander, I toiled up the mountain. After 
my fast and rituals, I journeyed homeward, becoming more and 
more uneasy with every step.” 
The look on his grandfather’s face tore at Jacob’s heart, but 
the old man continued in the same quiet tones. 
“When I reached my study, I cast the scrying spell 
immediately. I was too late. My beloved daughter and her 
husband lay slain in their own blood. The men who had done 
this had already left the chamber. Then I heard a soft sound, a 
child’s terrified whimper. I donned my Hill cloak and raised the 
hood. The journey to Beaureve only took a moment, but it was 
the longest, most tormented journey I have ever experienced. I 
had visions of the assassins returning to find Sera before I could 
reach her.” 
Emmanuel took a deep breath and shut his eyes for a long 
moment. “Luck was with me. I found Sera in the wardrobe. 
Your aunt Marissa must have hidden her seconds before the 
murderers broke into their chamber. I did not plan revenge—it 
is against our beliefs to take it, anyway. I wonder if I thought, at 
all. I simply grabbed Sera up, sheltered her within the folds of 
my cloak and brought her home to the Hills. She did not feel 
the journey nor anything else for days. She simply sat and stared 
out the window. When she finally spoke again, I wanted to go 
to the temple of Athena and swear to keep her safe in Arkadia 
forever.” 
Emmanuel’s eyes fixed on Jacob in solemn intensity. “I 
could not do so. The Outlander world may be her fate. And I 
believe we must not act to keep her from it.” 
Moderation in all things, Jacob cautioned himself. He 
wanted to shout and smash his fist down on the desk, but forced 
himself to speak quietly, so the anger in his heart would not 
enter his voice. “Grandfather, Sera and I are closer than first 

cousins because you raised us as brother and sister. Even if love 
didn’t prompt me to save my sister, she is my blood, and my 
responsibility. Do not make me leave her helpless in a world of 
such violence and danger.” 
Jacob had difficulty swallowing. Like Sera, he had been 
very young when he lost his parents to a plague that swept India. 
Like Sera’s mother, they had gone into the Outlander world to 
do good. “Grandfather, both Sera’s and my parents died because 
they left Arkadia, and for what?” 
Sometimes, in the silence of the night, he still felt the hole 
in his heart from the loss of his parents, and on those nights, he 
had no philosophy. He also knew his grandfather’s pain was 
overwhelming. After all, Emmanuel had lost his only children 
and their mates. First Jacob’s father and mother, and then Aunt 
Marissa and Stephan, the Outlander king who married her. He 
had seen the lines of pain in his grandfather’s face, the tears on 
his cheeks as he sacrificed at their memorial tombs. He knew 
how deeply Emmanuel mourned them. 
Jacob disagreed mightily with Emmanuel’s decision to give 
Sera time in the Outlander world, but his grandfather deserved 
the utmost deference. He walked to window and looked down 
at the Temple Square, the high spear of Athene catching the 
rays of the afternoon sun and reflecting them back to him in a 
spark of glory. 
“Will you allow me to watch her in the scrying glass from 
time to time? That way, if she is in terrible danger, I can go to 
her.” 
Emmanuel nodded, his lined face kind. “We shall both watch 
together. And wish her only good.” 
Not enough, Jacob thought, but it would have to do. He 
dipped his head in acceptance and rose. “I shall go to the exercise 
ground,” he said. Perhaps he could exercise away the tension 
due to his worries about his sister and find, in physical release, 
the serenity that eluded him now. 
*** 
In an attempt to learn the city, Sera looked about her as 
they entered the tall wooden gates of Montanyard. The more 
she understood its layout, the more quickly she could escape it. 
Word of Nicholas Rostov’s return had obviously gone 
ahead, for the narrow streets of the capital’s outer ring were 

thronging with people. Little houses—some of wood, some half-
timbered—lined the narrow, cobblestone streets. Brimming 
flower boxes and wooden shutters painted with hearts and 
animal silhouettes decorated their leaded glass windows. 
There was a great deal of noise, most of it joyous cheering. 
Women dressed in bright gowns and sparkling white aprons 
leaned perilously far from second story windows, throwing 
garlands or waving handkerchiefs. Little girls, their braids 
trimmed with white, flowerlike bows, skipped unafraid, leading 
the horsemen into the city. Nicholas Rostov seemed to spark a 
warm response from his commoners. But as she looked at the 
king’s face, Sera saw a smile that strained a little, as though he 
was faced with a rambunctious, affectionate puppy and didn’t 
quite know how to deal with it. 
The streets broadened as they wound toward the city center, 
crossing squares of elegant townhouses built of golden stone 
and decorated with colonnades. When she made her escape, 
she must go quickly through these streets, for there were no 
narrow alleys to hide in. 
Ladies of quality dressed in colorful silks and muslin stood 
on the wrought iron balconies with men in superfine jackets. 
They waved as the Outlander king rode by, and Nicholas Rostov 
responded, but again with that air of reserve and slight unease. 
At least he was no snob. He seemed uncomfortable with rich 
and poor alike. 
Several of the women stared at Sera with a speculative look 
in their eyes. She held her chin high and stared back, but beneath 
her outward appearance of disdain, she was shaking and 
uncertain. She did not want these Outlanders to judge her in the 
plain Hill gown she had insisted upon wearing for travel, 
particularly when she was already aware of their opinions when 
it came to her people. 
The road widened into a large square before the palace, an 
overwhelming building of the same golden stone gleaming in 
the sunshine. Sera’s heart sank. About the palace was a high 
fence of black painted iron, with spikes at the top and guards at 
their posts along the perimeter. She scanned the palace, itself, 
to check possible entryways and exits. 
Between the giant pillars holding a roof topped with statues, 
a rather plain young woman with brown hair and eyes to match 

waited. She wore a white muslin dress with a blue satin sash. At 
her side stood a stern, somber older woman in a black gown. As 
they came into view, the girl’s eyes lit up, and suddenly, she 
became beautiful. She was looking at Andre Lironsky, who rode 
to Sera’s right. Lironsky made a soft sound. Sera’s gaze flew to 
his face. He was staring at the young woman with a rapt look of 
wonderment. 
Nicholas Rostov was also looking from his friend to the 
girl waiting so eagerly beneath the colonnades. But he was 
frowning. 
“Andre,” he clipped. “Please find a groom to see to Sera’s 
horse while I greet my sister.” 
Andre bit his lip and nodded. He dismounted quickly and 
stood beside Wind Rider. “If you please, Miss Sera,” he said, 
offering his hand. His handsome face was marked with strain. 
She was moved to pity. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “But if 
there is anyone here you wish to greet, kindly show me the way 
to the stable area, and I shall find my own way.” 
Andre swallowed hard. “It is a question of honor, Miss Sera, 
not one of wishing.” 
As she allowed Andre to help her down from Wind Rider, 
Sera looked over Andre’s shoulder and saw the girl run forward 
to embrace Nicholas Rostov, and she heard the gentleness in 
his voice. Beyond them in the courtyard, she spied a large maple 
tree. Its leaves had already turned a bright, autumn red. Her 
heart sank as she looked at it, a living reminder that her time 
was inexorably slipping away. 

Three 
“Katherine.” Nicholas smiled down at his sister and took 
her by the elbow, leading her up the grand stairway. 
Mademoiselle Toinette, the princess’s governess, followed 
behind. 
“Tell me what you’ve been up to. And what you have 
learned while I was gone.” 
As Katherine’s face mottled with color, Nicholas mentally 
kicked himself. What she has learned. Good God! Surely, he 
could do better as a brother than give Katherine that old tired 
inquisition. 
“Not as much as you would wish me to, dear Nikki,” said 
Katherine, refusing to meet his eyes. 
Nicholas tried to think how he could undo the damage he 
had already caused. That unbecoming blush always spoiled 
Katherine’s looks when she felt self-conscious or ashamed. “I 
am certain you have been applying yourself,” he said gently. 
“I have tried, but I cannot master the pianoforte any better 
than when you left,” said his sister. “I fear I fumble so with the 
keys, and that Bach piece is so very complicated. Mademoiselle 
has told me that I must give a little recital, but Nikki, I do so 
dread it! Must I?” 
Nicholas felt the usual tug of emotions. He wanted Katherine 
to get over her terrible shyness, but at the same time, he wanted 
to protect her. What was the need, really, for her to give these 
performances she so dreaded? At the last one, the women of the 
court had applauded politely and then laughed at Katherine 
behind their fans. Even though he knew that soon he must decide 
whom she would marry, and that her future husband would 
expect her to show some aptitude for music and a great deal of 
dignity in front of his courtiers, he could not bear to expose 
Katherine to ridicule again. 
“And how are your riding lessons coming along?” Nicholas 
asked, attempting to change the subject as they passed through 
the tall doors and into the grand entryway. Beneath the high 
dome, he paused and smiled at Mademoiselle Toinette, waving 
his hand to indicate dismissal. The woman bowed and turned 
into the left hallway, her black gown swishing along the marble 

floor. 
Katherine hung her head. “Oh, Nikki, they are even worse. 
The new mare seems to throw her head up whenever I mount 
her, and I am so frightened that she’ll bolt at any moment.” 
Even though Katherine’s head was bent, Nicholas could 
see her lips tremble. “I am very sorry to be a disappointment,” 
she whispered. 
“Little bird, you are never a disappointment to me.” 
Nicholas hugged his sister tightly. “You are kindness itself to 
everyone in the palace. They all love you, and . . ..” 
But that was it, of course! Sera would love Katherine, as 
well. 
The woman certainly was a champion at holding a grudge. 
She had barely spoken to him on the long ride to Montanyard. 
But Katherine, if she were not overwhelmed by shyness, could 
soothe even the most obdurate soul into acceptance. She would 
make Sera happy here and, in the process, gain confidence 
herself. 
“I need your help, Katherine,” he said, telling her about 
how he had met the Hill woman, and why he had brought her to 
Montanyard. 
“I’ll be honest with you. There is the remote possibility 
that she is a spy. I cannot relax my suspicions until I’m certain 
of her innocence. But if she is innocent, she’s a brave and 
honorable woman and deserves your friendship. You two are of 
an age, I believe, and Sera might become a friend to you. But 
she’ll be very resentful for a while and will probably see our 
courtiers as arrogant snobs.” 
Katherine’s tiny, ironic smile told him that she, too, had 
often thought the same. 
“I know you’ll see past the anger, and in a short time, you’ll 
show Sera that she can be happy here. Will you do this for me?” 
“Of course, Nikki! I’ll have her sleep in the chamber next 
to mine. That way, we could talk late into the night. And she 
must have new gowns. I’ll notify the dressmaker. Perhaps she 
could share my dancing lessons, as well. There is much to do!” 
Katherine’s face glowed. When she forgot herself, she was 
beautiful, thought Nicholas. 
“Could you tell her now, Nikki? I would so love to begin.” 
Nicholas had no desire to brave that little lioness’s 

displeasure again. Besides, a king did not traipse after a Hill 
slave, no matter how unusual the circumstances. 
“I need to see my ministers, but I shall send someone to tell 
her,” said Nicholas. 
“Nicholas.” Katherine’s soft voice held a faint reproof. 
“You’re the only person Sera knows here. She will be unhappy 
and frightened by all the changes. Surely, you can spare a few 
minutes to tell her what her future will be.” 
Nicholas felt his shoulders slump. He had already been an 
ogre to his little sister. In all conscience, he ought to do 
something to please her. Thus, he couldn’t rid himself yet of his 
obstreperous little burden. 
*** 
Immediately after finding a groom for Wind Rider, Andre 
left Sera to attend his duties as king’s minister. Sera refused the 
groom’s offers of help. She wanted to be alone to compose her 
mind. The sight of that maple tree in the courtyard had jolted 
her. A week had already passed since Nicholas Rostov had 
brought her out of Hadar’s palace! She tried to remember how 
it felt to be calm, and she concentrated on the small tasks at 
hand, bringing water and hay to the stallion, settling him 
comfortably in his stall. Then she wandered through the 
magnificent stables and across the yard that opened into a large 
landscaped park, looking for a way out. She noted in despair 
that, for as far as she could see, a very tall, thorny hedge bordered 
the park. She needed to explore the park, looking for a break in 
the hedge, a way to freedom. 
She returned to the stable, walking past stalls paneled in 
smooth oak with shining brass hinges and door latches. 
Everything was spotlessly clean. Further along the corridor was 
a huge set of doors that opened into a colonnaded indoor arena. 
Before she stepped into the arena, Sera sensed that 
something was wrong. Jangled impressions—pain, anger, and 
stubborn resistance—flowed to her through the dust motes 
dancing in the air above a gigantic training ring. The feelings 
came from the pretty mare that a very young groom lunged in 
circles on a lunge line. The mare’s pure white coat was streaked 
with sweat and dirt. The groom shouted at her to make her break 
into a canter, but the mare set her hooves. 
The boy shouted louder and cracked the whip behind her, 

at which point she took off at a desperate hard gallop, dragging 
the groom across the arena after her. 
“Stop the mare.” Sera had seen enough of both the lad’s 
and the mare’s increasing misery to know that the situation was 
becoming dangerous for both. 
The boy scowled at her. “And who be you to tell me what 
to do here?” he panted. He gave a yank on the line, and the 
mare stopped dead, sides heaving and runnels of nervous sweat 
running down her flanks. 
Where was the pain? Sera thought, easing close and running 
her hand along the mare’s neck. The near fore hoof flashed into 
her mind, with a large stone lodging between the shoe and the 
frog. 
“I own the chestnut stallion,” said Sera. “If you let me lunge 
the mare, I shall give you a leg up on him within the week.” 
“The chestnut in the fourth stall on the far wing?” asked 
the boy with round eyes. 
Sera nodded, holding out her hand. 
The boy hesitated. “You swear you know what you’re doin’? 
I need this job.” 
“I swear. Give me your hoof pick.” The boy gave it over 
and Sera bent over the hoof, working the stone loose. 
“Smart little girl, aren’t you?” she whispered to the mare. 
“I would not have obeyed, either. But now, it will be easy for 
you, so no excuses.” 
Sera took the whip and the line from the boy. The mare 
stood where she was on the circle and, pawing the ground, eyed 
Sera. 
“One bad habit at a time,” said Sera, picking up the whip 
and rolling the line smaller as she closed the distance between 
herself and the mare. 
“All right, my beauty,” she said softly. She touched the back 
legs lightly with the whip. “Walk on,” said Sera in a soothing 
tone. Expecting only more pain, the mare stood stubbornly, and 
Sera tapped her again, this time hard. The mare jumped forward, 
but met the light pressure of the line and slowed. 
“Good girl,” said Sera. “Walk.” The little white horse moved 
forward in the circle, her ear pricked toward Sera. 
“See how she listens?” Sera said to the boy, never taking 
her eyes from the horse. “Keep the tone quiet for the walk.” It 

was this that she needed to combat the desperation beginning 
to choke her—this still, intent concentration in a simple task, 
and the comfort of using her one small gift. She had forgotten 
how she loved the work. The smell of horse sweat and sawdust 
on a warm autumn day brought it all back to her in a rush of 
feeling that stung inside her chest. 
The mare walked herself cool. Her coat was beginning to 
dry, and her breathing had evened out. The boy stood close to 
her in the circle watching, really listening to the lesson. 
“Now she has rounded up well.” Sera called a halt to the 
lesson, praising the horse and scratching her behind the ears. 
“If you would like, I shall come tomorrow and we can work 
again,” she said as she gave the line to the boy. “Bring an apple 
for a reward.” The lad nodded and tugged at his cap. “Thank 
’ee miss. Just ask for Ned, and they’ll direct you to me.” 
She turned as young Ned led the mare to the wash stall and 
saw Nicholas Rostov leaning against the arena wall, his arms 
crossed over his chest. The king looked elegant and commanding 
even in his dusty boots and open jacket. She wished he’d stop 
regarding her with such intense concentration, for he made her 
feel like a creature beneath a magnifying glass. 
She attempted to brush the dirt and horse dander off the 
front of her frock, then gave up when it became apparent that 
most of the grime had settled into the light linen. He had 
obviously noticed her dishevelment, she thought crossly as she 
made her way across the sawdust. She could tell by the way his 
brows were raised in that slight air of disapproval. 
Someone coughed, a furtive sound in the upper seats of the 
arena between colonnades. Sera looked up and noticed several 
men dressed in boots, rough linen shirts, and worn breeches. 
They made a quiet audience, lounging in the seats, watching 
her and Nicholas Rostov with bright, curious eyes. 
As she drew closer, Nicholas gave her a grave look. “The 
mare you exercised so competently belongs to my sister 
Katherine,” he said. “She would like to get to know you. She’s 
even now making plans to put your chamber next to hers inside 
the palace. Would you like that?” 
The resentment returned, leaving her feeling heated and 
bitter. “I am a slave,” Sera said with a shrug. “I have no choice 
in the matter.” 

Nicholas Rostov sighed and looked down at her. “That’s 
not true,” he said. “You may do anything you wish within the 
confines of the palace. The position of a lady-in-waiting to the 
princess is a high honor, however. You need to learn the rules 
of court etiquette and the arts of fine needlework and dancing. 
You could even learn to play an instrument if you wished.” 
Sera felt herself bristling. “You needn’t patronize me. I know 
what a lady-in-waiting does,” she snapped. 
His lips tightened. “What would you prefer, then? To 
apprentice to one of the cooks? I assure you, it would be hot 
and heavy work for one of your delicacy, but if you wish it, you 
may work all day in the kitchens and sleep by the fireplace at 
night. Unless you favor the laundry more.” By now, Sera 
recognized that tone of silky sarcasm. 
If he was angry, he might be honest about it, she thought 
while the irritation washed over her. “I wish to work here,” she 
said, just to goad him further. 
He frowned at her with thunder in his eyes. “As a stable 
hand?” 
Suddenly, in a flash of understanding, she realized that the 
gambit she was using to fight him was something very necessary 
to her future. Wind Rider was here in the stable. If these men 
who now sat in the upper seats of the covered arena were at all 
like the stable hands in Arkadia, they would know all the news 
in Laurentia before anyone else in the palace, for the coach 
drivers and the soldiers came to the stables first. She could 
ascertain more about the thief and she could escape from 
Montanyard more easily if she worked here. 
“Truly, Nicholas Rostov. If you watched me lunge the horse, 
you saw that I did it well. You say I am free to choose my 
occupation. Let me work here.” 
He frowned, staring down at her. He was no longer furious, 
she saw, for the look he gave her was troubled, almost concerned. 
“This is a rough place. The men might take liberties.” 
“If you only give me a chance, I shall prove myself to them 
all. In truth, I am uncomfortable at the very thought of entering 
your fine palace and of meeting the nobles of your court. They 
will scorn me, Nicholas Rostov, and you know they will. Think 
how you yourself regard a person from the Hills, and a slave, at 
that! I shall be happy here, and I’ll work very hard.” 

Nicholas Rostov was looking at her with the same 
expression he used often—as though she were an irritating 
puzzle he had to solve. 
“No one could ever scorn you, Sera. From the first moment 
I met you, you acted like a princess. If this is what you want, so 
be it. I’ll command the grooms to treat you with respect.” 
Sera executed what she hoped was an acceptable curtsey 
despite the fact that her legs were trembling from relief. “Thank 
you, Nicholas Rostov,” she said, keeping her eyes lowered while 
her heart leaped in triumph. In two days she would know enough 
about the stables and the countryside to execute her escape. 
*** 
In the evening, Nicholas dictated the last dispatches to his 
secretary Holmes. He had spent two days mapping out 
Napoleon’s progress through Russia and arguing with his 
ministers. One or two insisted that Britain had obviously proven 
an unreliable ally—that Nicholas should consider the alternative. 
The very outrageousness of the suggestion made Nicholas 
realize how bad the situation was. For a king of Laurentia to 
approach the French despot with hat in hand and plead for an 
alliance was tantamount to abandoning his country to the enemy. 
The hour was late, but he still had several dispatches to dictate 
to his secretary. 
What to do? The answer was obvious. He must cement the 
alliance with Beaureve. Nicholas sent an emissary to Anatole 
Galerien requesting a meeting, and he began to consider what 
concessions he would have to make with trade and import taxes 
in order to sweeten the agreement. 
He wished that Galerien’s niece, Catherine Elizabeth 
Galerien, was well enough to leave her convent and finally marry 
him. Although Nicholas was far from being an eager 
bridegroom, the marriage, agreed upon by his father and her 
father, Beaureve’s late king, would cement the alliance, making 
Laurentia stronger. 
A knock on his study door interrupted his thoughts, and he 
felt his irritation rise. He had left word that he was not to be 
disturbed. 
“Enter,” he called in none too pleasant a voice. 
A guard who had the conscience to turn red-faced with 
embarrassment entered, dragging what looked like a very wet, 

very dirty ragamuffin across the study to stand defiantly before 
him. 
He shook his head, scowling down at a bedraggled blonde 
braid and a pair of flashing blue eyes. Holmes made a choked 
noise in his throat. He dismissed the man with an impatient 
wave of his hand. 
“We followed her out the gates of the city,” said the guard. 
“Had it not been for your instructions, Sire, we would never 
have caught up with her, but the men waiting on the eastern 
road waylaid her. There was a bit of a scuffle, I’m afraid, and 
the lady unfortunately fell into a puddle. I beg pardon for the 
inconvenience, but you had commanded that we inform you 
immediately.” 
“No need to apologize, Lieutenant. You have all done well. 
Please leave us.” He waited until the man had bowed his way 
out and shut the door before exposing Sera to the Rostov frown. 
She was in no mood to concede, he realized, when she squared 
her shoulders and glowered right back at him. 
“You posted guards on me!” 
“And you obviously justified my mistrust. You should have 
listened when I told you it would do no good to sneak away. 
Pray do not attempt such nonsense again.” 
Sera had the temerity to cross her arms over her bosom and 
turn her back on him. Her wet linen gown was provocatively 
plastered against her body, giving him a fine view of gently 
flaring hips and a nicely rounded backside. In immediate 
reaction, his loins tightened. His hands itched to lift that sodden 
skirt inch by inch and mold themselves to her slender thighs, 
warming the goose bumps he knew must have risen from the 
chill of the water. Then he remembered that every soldier he 
had posted to this task had caught a glimpse of those singular 
charms, and his anger surged again. Before he could stop 
himself, his arm snaked out and grabbed her shoulder, whirling 
her about. 
“You have embarrassed yourself and the crown. Your 
behavior is more fitting for a two-year-old in a tantrum than a 
young lady. I expect better of you in the future, or your activities 
in the stable will end, and you’ll become what every other ward 
of the king is in this country—a cosseted, protected young lady 
of irreproachable reputation.” 

Sera stared at him for a long moment, her brows furrowed 
above eyes narrowed to blue slits. She looked like a furious 
kitten getting ready to spit. For the first time in his life, Nicholas 
regretted his philosophical stance against beating women. 
Sera drew herself up to her full height and gave him a frosty 
look. “You are in danger of becoming the greatest prig that ever 
lived,” she said. 
He let go of her arm and watched her lift her other hand to 
rub the soreness out of it. Shame and resentment warred within 
him. 
“Perhaps,” he said coldly. “But I am the prig controlling 
your life. Make your peace with that and we shall get on better.” 
She opened her mouth, seemed to think a moment, and 
closed it again. Foolish little brat not to realize he could see her 
thoughts flash right across her face. He reached out one hand, 
turned her toward the door, and gave her a little push. 
“Tell my secretary to return immediately. Then go to your 
rooms and bathe that muck off. Oh, and take a cloak from the 
first guard you see in the hallway. You look like a dox—a woman 
of loose reputation—in that wet gown.” 
She had begun her procession toward the door with upheld 
head and an apparent air of nonchalance, but at this last, she 
stiffened, picked up her skirts, and ran the last few feet, slamming 
the door behind her. All Nicholas was left with was an empty 
ache, misspent anger and regret, and a trail of small, muddy 
footprints across the light blue Aubusson carpet. 
*** 
The next day, Sera was saddling the white mare, when the 
young girl she had seen upon her arrival at the palace made her 
way slowly toward her. Immediately, because of her timid 
approach and her plain, worried face, she recognized the 
princess, Nicholas Rostov’s sister. 
“I hope…” The princess’s strangled whisper faded away to 
nothing. She cleared her throat and tried again. 
“My brother told me you would be here. I was hoping— 
that is I am afraid to ride out alone—a-and the riding master is 
so strict with me. I was hoping…Would you please…” The rest 
of it came in a rush. “Would you mind terribly if we rode 
together?” 
Sera felt a sharp twinge of sympathy. The princess was 

painfully embarrassed. How could anyone say nay to her? 
“I should like nothing better,” she said. 
“Thank you,” said the princess, still flushed with 
embarrassment. “I forgot to introduce myself. Katherine 
Rostov,” she said. “I-I mean that is my name.” She curtsied to 
Sera. 
A princess, bowing to a groom! Sera quickly covered her 
startled giggle by clearing her throat. 
“That is my name, too,” she said in an attempt to help 
Katherine relax. 
The princess glanced up quickly. “I thought your name was 
Sera.” 
“Oh, that is a short name, a—what is it in your language? A 
pet name from a larger one.” 
“A nickname,” said Katherine looking interested. “How 
many names do you have? I have four—Katherine Mary 
Annalyse Rostov.” 
“So do I.” Sera clamped her mouth shut. How could she 
have been so unguarded with an Outlander? The situation called 
for a quick change of subject. “Let me introduce you to my 
horse. He’s become quite gentle now that he knows the grooms, 
and he loves treats. If we stop by the apple barrel, you can feed 
him.” 
Katherine was happy with the suggestion and seemed to 
forget all about their conversation. Sera sent Katherine off to 
get her mare and pressed her forehead against Wind Rider’s 
nose. 
“I was an arrogant fool to think I was worthy of this task,” 
she whispered. The horse snuffled affectionately at her hair. “I 
know,” she said looking into his large, kind eyes. “Worthy or 
not, I must get on with it. But I have been trying, Tzirah. I cannot 
get out by the gates. Someone will always stop us. I must find a 
place where we can jump our way out. Each day I have gone as 
far as I can in the park and checked the walls of this place, but 
they are too high for us.” 
Wind Rider just looked at her, a calm, accepting presence 
in the dark stable. She sighed. “Very well, I’ll keep looking. 
Every day, I promise.” 
Katherine was already mounted when Sera led Wind Rider 
into the stable yard. The princess’s face was ashen as the mare 

tried to skitter out from under her. Holding the reins with a death 
grip, Katherine gave Sera a look of desperation. Sera shook her 
head and quickly mounted. She trotted her stallion to the 
obstreperous mare’s side. 
“Give me the reins, Katherine,” she said quietly and pried 
them from the princess’s hands. “That’s right. Hold on tight to 
the mane.” With a sharp jerk that brought the mare’s head up 
hard, Sera pulled the little white into Wind Rider’s side. 
“Walk,” she said in a stern voice and tugged once. The mare 
fell into a walk, her head and neck relaxing into obedience. 
“You just have to be firm with her,” Sera said, turning to 
Katherine as she led the mare into the park’s grassy expanse. 
The princess’s head was bent, and what Sera could see of her 
face was a mottled, blotchy red. 
“I wish you hadn’t seen that,” she whispered. “I wish I could 
at least lead my own horse out of the stable without showing 
you how badly I…” 
Sera’s laid her hand on top Katherine’s. “I don’t care how 
well you ride. Why should I?” 
“Because it is expected that I do well, and instead, I am a 
laughable failure at it.” 
Sera shook her head. “I don’t know how it is possible for 
any of your ladies to ride well in those ridiculous sidesaddles. 
Where can you hold on with your legs? How can you learn 
your balance? You’ll notice that men do not ride with both legs 
on one side of the horse.” 
Katherine stared at Sera open-mouthed. Then she looked 
again, this time with a gleam of skepticism in her large, dark 
eyes. “You are riding sidesaddle as well as I,” she said 
accusingly. 
Sera grinned. “Only to that copse of trees. Come along. I’ll 
show you.” 
Sera halted Wind Rider within the little wood and 
dismounted. “I hate these hard saddles,” she said, working the 
girth free and setting the saddle on a fallen log. “I cannot feel 
the horse at all through it.” 
Katherine climbed down from her mare’s back. “I don’t 
want mine, either,” she said, and began to pull the girth loose.” 
“You might hurt yourself.” 
“It won’t be the first time,” said Katherine grimly. The little 

mare began to sidle away from the princess. 
“Oh, bother!” said Katherine. 
Sera grabbed at the reins and tugged once, hard. The mare 
stood while Katherine fumbled with the girth buckles, disposed 
of the saddle, and climbed a fallen tree trunk she could use as a 
mounting block. 
By the time Katherine, after several tries, had swung herself 
up on the mare’s back, she was flushed with effort and sitting 
very tall. “Lead on, MacDuff,” she told Sera, grinning. 
Sera looked at her in puzzlement. “That is from the play by 
the Englishman—Shakespeare? But what does mounting a horse 
have to do with those Scots?” 
“‘Tis a jest,” said Katherine. 
“A jest?” 
“Yes, a humorous, silly play on words to make one smile. 
A joke, and on myself, actually. After all, those Scots were strong 
and brave and certainly knew a horse’s head from his 
hindquarters, and here I am finally doing something perhaps a 
little brave for the first time in my—don’t you know what a jest 
is?” 
Sera shook her head. 
“You have no humor in the hills?” Katherine’s eyes were 
wide with surprise. 
“There is much happiness,” said Sera, “but I have never 
heard of this hu-mor.” 
“I shall find you examples much better than my poor 
attempt, I promise. Now, show me how I am to ride this horse.” 
*** 
Later that night, Sera tugged at the hold the young 
guardsman had on her arm, but he refused to let her go. She had 
to run to keep up with him as he dragged her through the palace. 
“I apologize for the inconvenience, Miss, but orders is 
orders, and I’m not to let you go until I deliver you to the king. 
Again.” 
In this, her third attempt to escape and her third capture, 
she was beginning to recognize the statues on the way to 
Nicholas Rostov’s study. The guard marched her past the Apollo 
Belvedere on the right pedestal and the small, blind Laocooin 
covered in writhing serpents on the left Chippendale table. 
Tentatively, he rapped at the door of the study. A deep voice 

called “Enter”, and Sera found herself standing once again in 
the daunting glare of Nicholas Rostov’s disapproval. 
“Where did you find her this time?” He moved around his 
desk, put down his papers, and sniffed once. With a frown, he 
pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and held it to his nose. 
“Don’t tell me, Edwards. Let me guess. She used the 
sewers.” 
“I’m afraid so, Sire. She was on her way to the woods behind 
Musgrove’s stables, where, as I reported last night, she’d put 
the horse. We tried to rinse her off at Musgrove’s, but the night 
was cool, and we thought it best to return her lest she take a 
chill.” 
“Well done, Edwards. Notify the kitchens that she will need 
a warm bath immediately.” 
The guard bowed. “If that is all, Your Majesty, I’ll wait for 
her and return her to the stables. My tour isn’t through for another 
hour.” 
“Whose is the midnight watch?” Nicholas Rostov asked. 
“Bellows has it, Sire.” 
“When she smells presentable, return her to my study,” said 
Nicholas Rostov with a slight curl of disdain to his mouth. 
“Bellows will accompany her back to the stables afterwards. 
You may take a well-deserved drink and tidy yourself as well.” 
The guard looked positively overwhelmed with gratitude. 
Sera rolled her eyes. 
The clock chimed half past eleven o’clock when the young 
guard brought Sera back into Nicholas Rostov’s study. She was 
wearing one of the head cook’s long white nightgowns, belted 
with a worn stock tie to keep her from tripping over the 
voluminous hem, and a worn but clean blue cloak. Her hair 
was braided loosely and hung down her back. 
“What took you so long?” Nicholas asked in a clipped voice. 
He’d begun by thinking of reasonable openings for this latest 
standoff between Sera and himself and ended, as the clock 
chimed the next hour, in getting angry all over again. 
“Sire, I apologize. Cook, you see, is young Ned’s mother, 
you know, the stable lad, and Miss Sera here, she helped Ned 
learn all sorts of things Master Raymond doesn’t have time to 
tell him. When Cook learns she’s in the kitchen, nothing would 
do but she must come down to see to the bathing. And then 

Cook wants to feed her, because Miss Sera missed her dinner, 
what with running away and all. Then Cook says Miss Sera’s 
got to dry her hair before the fire or she’ll catch her death. And 
that’s why,” the guard finished, breathless. 
“Thank you, Edwards. You may go.” 
So. The stable boy and the cook fussed over Sera. And 
Katherine ran about the palace with a smile on her face. The 
guards, of course, treated her as though she were a princess, 
when all the while, she gave them extra duty following and 
capturing her. It seemed that Nicholas was the only one in the 
palace who found Sera a constant source of frustration. 
Perhaps Andre was right. If he could take her to his bed, he 
might look at her as just another woman and not a siren so soft 
and warm that all he could think of was his overpowering need 
to get closer to her. 
Sera braced herself, wondering when Nicholas would finally 
pronounce her fate. As the small ormolu clock on the mantle 
ticked the minutes away and he still refused to look at her, Sera’s 
anxiety and resentment grew. She knew he must do this on 
purpose, just to set her on edge. He was perusing something of 
seeming major interest out the window, his hands clasped behind 
his back. Soon, he would turn, and she would suffer one of his 
lectures yet again. She was sick of them. 
“If you ordered the guards who watch my every move to 
accompany me home, I would be safe in my Hills, and you 
would be rid of my inconvenient presence.” 
His back stiffened. “No.” 
“Just …no?” Suddenly, she felt she couldn’t go on without 
crying, and she hated him for making her feel that way. She 
never cried. Did he think she enjoyed this contest—that she 
liked going down into the rank-smelling sewers populated by 
rats and snakes, and Zeus knew what other horrors? How could 
he do this—imprison her for no reason at all except her supposed 
safety? What game was he playing with her? 
“I cannot spare the men.” Still, he did not turn to look at 
her. 
“You already spare the men to watch me. Dear Heaven, 
why won’t you let me go?” 
It always caught her off guard, his ability to wheel so 
quickly, so gracefully, like a large, sleek panther. He loomed 

over his desk, hands planted on each side of the papers, his 
eyes burning into her with an intensity that seared her to the 
very core. 
“Tell me who you are. Tell me who your people are. What 
were you up to when the Nantal found you? Tell me why you 
know eight languages, and why your horse is of the finest blood 
stock I have ever encountered, and why you treat a king as an 
equal, or perhaps a not quite equal. Tell me all that, and I shall 
think about letting you go.” 
“It is nothing to you,” she said, backing up and flinging a 
look over her shoulder toward the door, her means of escape 
from his infernal questions. Her movement made the long braid 
fly. It fell across her breast, and the small thread of hair that 
held it broke. Dry now, it began to separate into strands, catching 
the lamp light. Nicholas Rostov’s face underwent a subtle 
change. The intensity was still there, but his gaze was fixed on 
that slow fanning out of her hair. His cheeks seemed to hollow, 
the planes and angles of his face seemed sharper. A slow flush 
deepened on his face. 
Her breast rose and fell unevenly with her breath as he 
walked from behind the desk like a great cat stalking his victim. 
He loomed over her, large and inscrutable, radiating a force of 
will so dangerous and so seductive she feared he could bend 
her to his every wish if he gave it half a try. She couldn’t seem 
to move, to breathe. He reached out a hand, lifting the length of 
her hair, seeming to weigh it in his hands. 
“Nothing, you say. I wish it were that simple. There is 
something about you, Sera with no last name, no history, no 
family madly searching for you.” 
“Your hair,” he said softly, his fingers slowly stroking the 
strands into a fall of gold that gave back the light of the lamp. 
“It almost pulses with life. Warm.” He lifted the fall of hair to 
his face and breathed it in like perfume. 
“Fresh and sweet, with no remaining trace of the sewers.” 
He leaned close, holding her just by his light touch on her hair. 
Sera felt the warmth of his cheek, his breath a slow exhalation 
against the side of her neck, and she shivered. His lips moved, 
touching, and not quite touching, the hollow there, like the wings 
of a butterfly. 
“Sweet,” he whispered against her sensitive skin. She stood 

helpless, in thrall to that deep timbre of pleasure, the warmth 
enveloping her. “Soft mystery. Lady in peasant’s garb.” 
She made a sound, helpless and wanting at the same time. 
He drew back a little. Slowly, the boundless depths of his eyes 
regained their usual focused intensity, and an expression, sudden 
and startled, crossed his face. He backed away, reddening. 
“I…my apologies.” He turned his back to her, shuffling 
papers on his desk. “Bellows,” he called out in a rough voice. 
The door opened. Nicholas Rostov turned. He was scowling 
again. “Take her back to the stables. If there is further trouble, 
notify Minister Lironsky.” 
Sergeant Bellows bowed smartly. “Very good, Sire,” he said 
and led Sera from the study. 
*** 
Nicholas sank into the chair behind the desk and put his 
head in his hands, groaning. She was killing him, very slowly 
and very painfully. The sensual dreams were bad enough, but 
midnight meetings with Sera close enough to catch that elusive, 
flowery scent were madness. 
She’d had enough time to contact another agent. She hadn’t. 
He was beginning to believe she was what she appeared to be— 
a victim of circumstance. He had enough proof of her incessant 
longing to return to those blasted savages in the Hills. Why the 
hell didn’t he just send her back? She’d be happy. He’d be free 
of her. 
But there was something about her. He had felt it from the 
start, when that damned prickle at the back of his neck warned 
him to take her and to watch her carefully. Something Laurentia 
needed from her, and needed at this particular time. He couldn’t 
dump her back into the mountains whence she came. And he 
couldn’t sit here, night after night, lusting after a Hill slave who 
acted like a queen, at least not until he knew the how and what 
and why of her. 
Nicholas reached for the brandy decanter sitting on his desk 
and poured himself a bountiful glass. Downing the contents in 
three gulps, he called for a footman. “My carriage,” he said 
shortly. Twenty minutes later, he alighted before the door of a 
large, well-appointed townhouse in the King’s Crescent. The 
door opened and a maid curtseyed very low, the ribbons of her 
cap bobbing. 

“My lady is above stairs,” the maid said, taking his cloak, 
gloves and hat. 
Nicholas bounded up the elegantly curved stairway to a 
sumptuously decorated boudoir. A tall, statuesque woman, a 
dramatic auburn beauty, rose from her dressing table and 
gracefully glided toward him, extending her hand. 
“You honor me, Sire. Let me make you comfortable,” she 
said in the dulcet tones that Nicholas occasionally found 
soothing. Tonight, so far, they were doing nothing to calm him. 
“Good to see you, Elise,” Nicholas said, turning away from 
her as she lifted his coat from his shoulders. He allowed her to 
loosen his cravat in that playful manner she assumed with him. 
But it suddenly felt so practiced, so artificial. 
“Some refreshment, Majesty?” Elise swept to the table 
beside the bed and bent over a wine bottle. The candles on the 
table outlined her soft, luxuriant body beneath the lace peignoir. 
She crossed the room to him, offering the glass. The scent of 
musk and roses filled his nostrils. He took the glass, seated 
himself and crossed his legs, looking at her over the rim as she 
returned to the bed and lay upon it, languid and inviting. 
She looked perfect, he thought. She looked too tall, too 
dark, too knowledgeable, too damned aware of every affect she 
made. He was sick of this loveless lovemaking. He wanted— 
damnation! 
Nicholas put his wineglass on the table beside his chair and 
stood, straightening his waistcoat. 
“Shall I call for food? Those cakes that you love, filled with 
poppy seed—I had some delivered today.” 
“No. Thank you. I just dropped by for a moment to…” What 
the hell could he say he’d come for? He took up his coat and his 
cravat, shrugging into the former and wrapping the latter 
haphazardly about his throat. 
“Inquire about your welfare, Elise,” he said. “It has been a 
long time since I paid you a visit. Unfortunate that I don’t have 
time to stay tonight.” He was out the door five minutes later, 
leaving not the first woman in a string of mistresses who 
probably found him more trouble than he was worth. 
Back in his study, Nicholas stood at the bookcase, thoughts 
churning. What a fool he was, lusting like a stable boy after the 
milkmaid, incapable of taking his pleasure elsewhere. He had 

never thought of his future wedding to the sickly and perhaps 
weak-brained Beaurevian princess with pleasure, but now he 
pondered it with something close to dread. Kings cannot hope 
for happiness, he told himself impatiently, lifting his eyes to 
the bookcase. 
His gaze fixed upon his collection of journals by intrepid 
travelers who had explored the wastelands and mountains of 
the known world. From boyhood on, they had excited his 
imagination. If he could have any freedom, it would be this— 
to travel, to see strange and wonderful sights no other man had 
seen. Idly, he picked up A Road Well Taken by Countess 
Elizabetta Volkonsky, a Russian eccentric who claimed to know 
more about the mysterious Hill People than anyone on earth. 
He sat behind his desk and flipped through the pages, 
stopping at a chapter titled “Myths and Rumors”. The countess, 
it appeared, set little stock in these stories, but the people who 
lived in the foothills of the Arkadian mountains told the tales 
faithfully to their children in each generation. 
He skimmed through much of it—the powers of the 
mysterious Mage to heal the sick with just his touch, to bring 
the rain or the sunshine for needy farmers, to appear magically 
when his name was invoked in times of great peril. He skimmed 
another paragraph, his eyes beginning to water from a long day 
of reading dispatches and tense meetings. Suddenly, he started 
awake, rubbed his eyes, and re-read the paragraph. 
The Mage, wrote the countess, is said to teach his power to 
his people, so together they have the ability to disarm their 
enemies. It is said that, from time immemorial, strange things 
have happened to armies that attempt to conquer Arkadia. 
Ghengis Khan’s men found their arrows breaking and falling 
from their suddenly unstrung bows. Their horses fell into heaps, 
and the riders could not get them up again until the Khan 
commanded his trumpeter to sound retreat. 
“Humbug,” said Nicholas. But the prickle at the back of 
his neck was there again. The prickle told him to pay attention 
to a fairy tale. 
He rubbed his eyes and put the book back on the shelf, 
shaking his head in self-disgust. How could he trust his instincts 
when every muscle and bone in his body screamed for that 
incorrigible little chit in the stable? Of course he would believe 

in any nonsense that would make Sera appear invaluable to 
Laurentia and, therefore, permit him to keep her. 
Realistic politics, not fairy tales, would save Laurentia. 
Nicholas took up the brandy and a glass on the way out of his 
study. When he reached his bedchamber, Simmons, his valet, 
snapped to attention, and then stared, open-mouthed at him. 
“Sire,” Simmons muttered in a choked voice. “Your cravat!” 
Nicholas glanced down at the trailing ends of the tie and 
waved him off for the first time in years. “Go to bed, Simmons. 
It’s late,” he said. The valet gave him a wounded look and left 
the room. 
Nicholas pulled off his half boots, drew off his waistcoat 
and cravat and opened his shirt. Not even bothering to pull down 
the counterpane, he climbed into the great bed of state with a 
full glass of brandy and lay among the pillows. His groin ached, 
and his brain ferreted about, reshuffling information into 
possibilities and patterns. 
Damn the little minx! Within three weeks, she had invaded 
his life, refused to stay where she was put, and literally created 
a stink. She seemed to be the one thing in his kingdom he 
couldn’t control. Now, to his humiliation, he lay half-dressed 
in bed, drinking brandy and, no doubt, preparing to dream of a 
small, lush woman who could heal the sick, command the 
weather, and break an arrow with the force of her mind. 

Four 
After a sleepless night, Sera wished Nicholas Rostov in 
Hades. A more mystifying, infuriating, arrogant man had never 
lived before the king of Laurentia. The more he pushed, the 
more she wanted to push back. Until he came too close. Until 
his lips moved not a whisper away from her skin. Then she 
stood as though chained to the spot, in thrall to the very hint of 
his touch. 
She churned with such extremity of emotion that she felt 
completely Outlander. How Grandfather would sigh at her 
helpless attraction to Nicholas Rostov. How Jacob would 
lecture! 
With all this foolishness, she was no closer to either finding 
the thief or returning, shamed but safe, to Arkadia. She tried to 
concentrate on grooming the gentle bay gelding Master 
Raymond needed in half an hour, but her thoughts returned to 
the need to escape. 
“Ho, my pretty, and where were you so late last evenin’?” 
Dawson’s voice cut into her thoughts. A brawny hand landed 
on her shoulder. Sera shrugged hard, trying to dislodge it. The 
groom was getting to be a real nuisance. 
Tall and muscular, handsome in a crude sort of way, Dawson 
thought the world of himself and very little of others. Too bluff, 
too hearty, and hiding a streak of maliciousness beneath a good-
fellow bonhomie, he passed for a one-of-the-boys prankster 
among the others, but Sera saw what he was, and he knew it. 
Lately, he’d developed a new sort of torture for her—his 
unrelenting sexual pursuit. 
The hand rubbed itself down her back. Sera gritted her teeth. 
“Get off with you, Dawson. You’ve enough to do today without 
bothering me.” 
“Prickly little piece, ain’t you? I saw you returnin’ with 
Sergeant Bellows in the middle of the night. It might int’rest 
you to know he’s a wife and two kiddies at home. You might 
play closer to your fellows and forget your ambitions up at the 
palace.” 
“Leave me alone, Dawson, or I’ll shout for Master 
Raymond, and you’ll be out of a good paying job.” 

Dawson’s hands clamped hard on her shoulders. “Try it, 
you little tart, and I’ll tell him you threw yourself on me and 
begged me for it. Who’s he going to believe—you, a slave and 
a Hill woman, or me, a man from his own city?” 
Dawson bent close. She could smell rank sweat and the 
onions he’d eaten with his breakfast. She sighed, loathe to use 
any power that might brand her more of a threat than she already 
was. 
“Let go, Dawson,” she said one more time, but he clung, 
hurting her arms. 
She concentrated, knowing where both his hands were, 
knowing where both his legs were. And turned in one fluid 
motion, using the force, letting it flow from her belly to her 
elbows, arms, and fists. In one lightening movement, she broke 
his hold, kicked solidly into his gut, and sent him sprawling in 
the dirt. 
“Touch me again, and you’ll get worse,” she said and turned 
back to the horse she was grooming. As he gasped for air and 
crawled to his knees, she added, “Nobody saw this. I shall tell 
no one. I have no interest in humiliating you, Dawson. I simply 
wish you to leave me in peace.” 
She heard nothing behind her but the heavy tread of his 
feet as he shuffled away. 
*** 
Nicholas rode the Russian border throughout the next days, 
securing it as well as he could against the French. Everywhere, 
he found homesteaders willing to take a stand and fight. He 
saw nobility in these simple men, and a certain skill with a pistol 
and muzzle-loader. It gave Nicholas an idea, which, on this crisp 
autumn afternoon, he was about to discuss with his generals. 
He awaited their arrival in the private dining chamber of a border 
tavern. 
The generals trooped in, bowing and seating themselves 
where Nicholas indicated. His ensign, Carlsohnn ushered in a 
group of serving maids with blonde braids coiled about their 
heads. Their colorfully embroidered skirts and apron ties flew 
behind them as they hurried to the long table, carrying groaning 
trays. Within moments, the generals had emptied a large turreen 
of Russian borscht, plates of heavy, rich black bread, bowls of 
creamy yellow butter and gleaming black caviar. The maids 

refilled glasses of tea and Russian vodka as quickly as they 
emptied. 
Nicholas smiled and leaned back in his chair, quietly 
surveying the men at table as the vodka and warm borscht 
relaxed them. Oblomov, grizzled and clever, was the key to the 
rest of them. An aristocrat and a brilliant tactician, Oblomov 
had begun his career before Nicholas was crowned. The other 
generals were stubbornly loyal to the old ways, but they would 
follow if Oblomov led. 
Nicholas waited until they were well along into their fifth 
glass of vodka and watched Oblomov carefully. When his stocky 
shoulders slumped in relaxation, Nicholas knew the general’s 
mind was both still lucid and at its greatest stage of openness to 
new ideas. 
Nicholas drew himself erect in his chair. “I wish to enlist 
all the able bodied men on the borders into a citizen army. I’ll 
need several of your finest trainers to drill them in the basic use 
of their weapons. Each of you must give me a list of your best 
infantry leaders. Yes, General Oblomov?” Nicholas recognized 
the general, bracing for reservations. 
“You can’t expect untrained men to form a unit in a matter 
of months. It takes time to make a good military man.” 
“Time is one thing we have not got,” Nicholas said. 
“But to learn the maneuvers, the basic commands, to work 
together, standing in line, facing the enemy…” 
“I don’t wish them to stand in line. These men have defended 
their homes and stock against the bears and wolves of the forests. 
They know how to use a weapon and reload it.” 
“Sire,” General Milensky, a tall, upright old campaigner of 
seventy said. “This is no bear we face. We need every seasoned 
veteran we have to fight the greatest armed force history has 
ever seen.” 
“As did the American colonists not so many years ago. Our 
borderers are the closest thing we have to the American colonists. 
I want them to stand behind trees, behind houses, on rooftops, 
just as the colonists did. Each French soldier they take out is 
one less for our troops to fight. And, as the British showed us in 
the Carolinas, facing a shadow army in the midst of heavy forest 
is frightening and demoralizing. We’ll do as I command in this 
instance, gentlemen. Spare your men now to save them later.” 

The generals’ mutterings died down as each man stared into 
the clear liquid in the glasses before them and thought. 
Oblomov suddenly pounded his fist on the table. “By God, 
I like it. Simple, workable, and the Corsican will never see it 
coming. My compliments, to you, Sire.” Oblomov stood and 
raised his glass. Milensky rose to stand beside him. One by one 
the others got to their feet and raised their glasses. 
“Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov,” said Oblomov. 
“King Nicholas,” replied the others, tossing back the vodka, 
and throwing their glasses against the fireplace mantle. At the 
sound of crashing glass, the serving maids returned with new 
tumblers. 
Nicholas stood and raised his glass. The generals hastily 
refilled their replacements. “Laurentia!” said Nicholas with a 
broad smile, throwing back his head and swallowing the pure, 
stinging liquid. 
“Laurentia!’ shouted the generals and glass crashed against 
the fireplace again. 
Nicholas gave a great, inward sigh of relief. He might never 
be the king his father could respect, but if he compensated for 
his physical flaw with his brain, perhaps he could make his 
people believe in him enough to save Laurentia. 
Nicholas was so pleased by the meeting that he decided to 
return to Montanyard earlier than he’d anticipated. Laurentia 
needed strong allies as well as a citizen army. He should meet 
with Anatole Galerien of Beaureve soon. And he needed to check 
on any number of matters at home. 
Sera, for instance, he thought as he arrived home. Distance 
had not lessened his strange obsession with the Hill woman. 
He had thought of her every day, worrying that she would escape 
in spite of his command to double the number of soldiers who 
guarded her. Katherine would know if she’d gotten into any 
trouble. 
“Send for the princess, would you? I’ll meet her in the 
blue drawing room,” he told a welcoming footman who took 
his cloak and gloves. Two flights of stairs and a long corridor 
brought him to the comfortable, elegant room with light blue 
silk wall hangings and the Gainsborough portrait of his mother 
sitting on a chair, her arm about his shoulders as he leaned into 
her skirts. He must have been three when Gainsborough had 

come to court. Somehow, the artist had captured his mother’s 
fresh beauty and the softness of her expression as she gazed 
down at her son. Three years later, all that love had died with 
his mother. 
“Nikki!” Katherine burst into the room, her face alight. 
“Oh, I am so glad you’re finally home!” she cried, throwing 
herself into his arms. “How was your journey? Did you find 
the borders secure? Please, tell me everything.” 
“The journey was tedious, as it always is on the rutted 
October roads. And yes, the troops are diligent and alert at the 
borders—where they can be guarded. There are so many rough 
streams and so much forest cover, but we would know if an 
army attempted to cross.” 
Nicholas refrained from revealing his deeper fear—that in 
spite of the citizen militia, a small, well-armed cadre of terrorists 
could cross in the darkness at three or four points along the 
northern and eastern borders. 
Nicholas turned again to his sister. “I plan to send Andre to 
Beaureve within the week in order to begin discussions with 
the regent.” 
“But Nikki! Andre has just returned. Surely, you will not 
send him away again until he has a chance to rest and…” 
“Katherine,” he said in a gentle voice. “You know that Andre 
must do his duty, as you must also do yours.” He hated to see 
the pain in her eyes before she averted them. 
But when she raised her face to him again, her eyes were 
clear and steady with purpose. “I know,” she said in a quiet 
voice. 
Nicholas took her hand and led her to a divan covered in 
blue and ivory brocade. Drawing her down to sit beside him, he 
put one arm about her thin shoulders and said, “Now, tell me 
everything that has happened during my absence.” 
“Well…” She was smiling now, all sunshine. “I’m learning 
to ride, Nikki, really ride. Sera teaches me every day. And my 
mare is much more willing.” 
“Sera—she’s well?” 
At least now he knew she was still in Montanyard. 
“Oh, I think she’s in fine health. Although I wish she would 
have taken the bedchamber next to mine when I offered it.” 
“She’s still sleeping in the west wing of the stable? I thought 

you were going to convince her to move into the chamber we 
discussed.” 
“You needn’t thunder, Nikki. She refused to move into the 
palace, even after I begged her to.” 
“By God! We can’t have that.” Nicholas rose and began to 
pace. “Why, a lady who looks like—ahem, she can’t sleep in 
such close proximity to the other grooms. I’ll speak with her 
about this as soon as possible.” 
“But I may still ride with her, may I not?” Katherine’s lips 
were trembling, Nicholas noticed. Damnation. If he didn’t watch 
out, he’d reduce his sister to tears. 
“Of course,” he said to her. “I’d like to come with you. 
Then I’ll have a chance to reason with her and convince her to 
return with us to the palace.” 
Katherine jumped from the couch. “You wouldn’t wish to 
join us before the week is out, would you?” A look of alarm 
crossed her face. 
Obviously, she and Sera had been up to no good in his 
absence. Nicholas carefully hid a grin. Never had Katherine 
acted so—like a girl. Nicholas had been looking forward to more 
dispatches and legal work before dining, but suddenly, all he 
wanted to do was to forget he was a king. It seemed that, for 
just an hour, he could simply be a brother to Katherine and a— 
a friend to Sera. It would be interesting to discover what possible 
mischief the two of them could have gotten into. 
“I believe now would be an excellent time for a ride,” he 
said evenly. 
“Yes, of course. I-I’ll go ahead and warn… let her know.” 
Nicholas whistled as he traveled the long corridor to his 
chamber. He had known that a friendship with Sera would be 
good for his sister. 
****** 
“Sera! We’re in for it, now!” 
Sera tied the bandage she had just placed over the leg of a 
bay gelding and straightened slowly, forcing her weak muscles 
to hold her weight. The foolish horse had cut himself badly in 
pasture, and the healing had drained some of her strength. 
Katherine must have run all the way from the palace, for 
she was panting and red-faced. “Nikki’s home, and he’s insisting 
upon riding with us. Now.” She pulled Sera along through the 

barn and toward her room. 
Nicholas Rostov—returned. As she followed Katherine into 
her chamber, Sera felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach, as 
though she had whirled in circles one too many times. 
“Quick! Think of a reason why he can’t ride with us today. 
Or for the next month. Hurry!” 
“I don’t understand. Why don’t you want him to see how 
well you’re doing?” 
“Because I only ride well astride. He’ll be horrified. No 
lady rides astride. You know that.” 
Sera shrugged. “If he is the man you keep telling me he is, 
then your brother will be impressed with your improvement, 
and not waste his time insisting you follow that foolhardy 
Outlander custom.” 
Katherine’s mouth dropped open. “You’re not the least bit 
afraid of my brother, are you?” 
“What would he do to you? Beat you? Cut off your head?” 
Sera said. 
“You don’t know my brother. It could go far worse for me 
than capital punishment. Nikki can be quite impossible when 
he chooses to be. You just haven’t seen it yet.” 
Sera’s lips quirked. “I sincerely hope I have.” 
Katherine was searching the little room frantically. “You’ll 
have to tell him you’re not well. A sudden case of the grippe, or 
something.” 
Sera shook her head. “Katherine, I cannot lie.” 
“Oh, bother your scruples!” said Katherine glumly. “I’ll 
simply have to lie to him, myself. Where is your mirror? Don’t 
you dare tell me you haven’t a mirror somewhere!” Frantically 
pinching her cheeks, Katherine leaned over the little bedside 
table and looked into the small looking glass Sera placed there 
for her. 
“That’s it,” she said with satisfaction. “If I run all the way 
back to the palace, my cheeks will be on fire and I’ll be 
breathless. A sudden case of something or other—palpitations, 
maybe. I must hurry before I’m caught out. Nikki is terribly 
clever, blast him.” Katherine paused on her way to the door. 
“You don’t have to lie, Sera. Just don’t say anything that 
will make him disapprove of me.” 
Sera gave her reassuring smile. “I promise.” 

*** 
Nicholas strolled toward the stable feeling the smile on his 
face widen into a grin. Something definitely was afoot. He knew 
immediately, of course, that Katherine’s flushed face and 
breathlessness were self-induced. She’d barely had time to sprint 
back when he’d accosted her in the courtyard. He anticipated a 
miracle cure when she discovered that he had just requested the 
pastry chef serve iced gateaux with tea. 
He was looking forward to his ride now more than ever. 
Katherine was one subject both he and Sera could discuss 
without making the issue a spitting contest between them. He 
entered the stable near the alcove where Sera’s chamber lay. 
Momentarily adjusting his eyes to the darkness inside, he sought 
out her room. 
He’d made it his business to know its location as soon as 
he had discovered she was still sleeping in the stable. Standing 
before the door, he placed his hand on it in a light, unconscious 
caress of the warm oak. Before he could knock, the door, not 
completely latched, swung open. 
He saw Sera then. She sat straight-backed upon a chair, her 
loose linen gown flowing about her body. Sunlight from an open 
window poured down upon her like a stream as she plaited her 
long hair. Each strand seemed made of living gold. He stood in 
the shadowed aisle watching her, knowing that he had no right 
to spy like some obsessed degenerate skulking in shadows. But 
he was helpless to stop. 
She must have felt his scrutiny, for she quickly tied the 
braid with a blue ribbon and glanced his way. The swiftness 
with which she rose to face him and the wary look on her face 
saddened him. 
He cleared his throat. “Katherine has developed a most 
inconvenient case of the grippe,” he told her, watching her glide 
toward him, her gown flowing against her in the sudden breeze. 
“I hope you’ll take me as a substitute today.” 
Sera inclined her head. “I shall saddle your horse, Nicholas 
Rostov.” 
Why must she pretend to be a servant when everything about 
her screamed aristocrat, damnit? He took her arm to stop her 
from slipping past him and kept the irritation he felt from his 
voice. “The grooms will saddle my horse and yours, Sera. I 

hear he now tolerates others near him.” 
She looked down at her hands folded in front of her. “Very 
well,” she said. “I’ll go and ask them.” 
“I have already ordered it done.” 
Nicholas waited with Sera in the stable yard. She looked 
everywhere but at him, and Nicholas quite clearly heard her 
sigh of relief when Ned and another of the grooms brought the 
horses forward. Her bright chestnut wore no saddle, at all. 
Nicholas moved to assist her in mounting, only to find her 
already sitting astride the chestnut with the reins in her hands. 
His eyes widened, but he said nothing before the others. 
When they had left the yard far behind them, he walked his 
horse close to hers. “I suppose you’ve been teaching Katherine 
to ride like this,” he said, his eyes glued to the sight of a trim, 
booted ankle peeking from beneath her skirts. 
“She only does so in the privacy of the park, Nicholas 
Rostov. And only for as long as it takes her to learn balance. 
She plans to ride sidesaddle as soon as she’s confident enough.” 
“Is she doing well?” 
“Very well.” The sun illuminated Sera’s face and left him 
feeling tongue-tied as a young boy with his first dancing partner. 
Funny, when he was away from Sera, he never thought 
consciously of her beauty. He was too obsessed with visions of 
her body beneath his. 
They rode on in silence for a few moments, until Nicholas 
made an inarticulate sound of frustration. “What does she think 
I’ll do? Imprison her for riding bareback?” 
Sera’s voice was very soft. “She is afraid to disappoint you.” 
Nicholas ran his fingers through his hair. “Doesn’t she know 
that I would do anything for her?” 
“That is not the same thing at all. She wants your approval, 
not your protection.” 
Nicholas stared at Sera for a long moment. He had worked 
for so long to provide for everyone and make decisions that 
would keep them all safe. A fearsome question pricked him. 
Did he really know the first thing about Katherine or his people? 
He shook his head. “Tell me, little magician, how you 
convinced my sister that she could ride that mare when one of 
the best riding masters in Europe could not.” 
The set of her shoulders relaxed, perhaps because of his 

compliment. Maybe she liked it when he didn’t play the king. 
“Oh, it was quite easy, actually,” Sera said, slanting a look 
at him from beneath her lashes. “I don’t know how your women 
put up with those stiff things,” she said. “How can you feel the 
movements of a horse beneath you in any saddle, for that 
matter?” 
“You know,” he said. “One of the best rides I’ve ever had 
was on one of the worst nights I can remember. I daresay you 
remember little of it, but your chestnut carried both of us for 
hours to the border and beyond. He has a canter that rolls like 
waves.” 
He watched her as she stretched her hands high to the sky 
in an age-old gesture of sensuality and freedom. “Wind Rider 
is magical. At home in the hills, I ride him every day. I need to, 
for my spirit is not as calm and reasoned as it should be. But 
Wind Rider does not care whether I am filled with storms. And 
when we are through with our gallop, I am peaceful again.” 
She smiled, seemingly unaware of what she was doing to 
him, how his body was beginning to throb. 
“But Katherine only needed balance. After she learned the 
rhythm, we played tag in the clearing.” Sera pointed ahead to a 
close meadow rimmed in the gold and brown colors of the oak 
trees. “Wind Rider is fast, but that little mare is even faster. She 
wheels and veers so quickly, I fell off twice trying to escape 
Katherine.” 
Nicholas pictured two young girls full of high spirits, madly 
circling their horses and sprinting after each other. “I wish I 
had been there to see it or even to play.” 
“You, Nicholas Rostov?” 
“Do you think I’m such a stuffy curmudgeon that I won’t 
even play a game of tag?” He used the full force of the Rostov 
frown, just to make her eyes flash. 
“I think you’d lose on that great war horse of yours, that’s 
what I think.” 
“Oh, you do, do you?” It was a direct challenge, and from 
the way she squared her shoulders, Sera obviously knew it. 
“The one with the shortest arms gets the crop,” she said, 
and leaned into him so quickly that the whip was out of his 
hands before he could fully grasp it. She galloped toward the 
meadow full tilt, her long braid bouncing against her back with 

every lift of the horse’s haunches. 
He watched her race away, and a longing that had nothing 
to do with lust churned deep inside him, almost making him 
ache. A simple game of tag. When had he last played a game of 
any kind? For five minutes, he could do so and the world 
wouldn’t stop spinning on its axis. Just five minutes— 
Nicholas’s blood raced in his veins as he urged the horse 
on behind her. “One game, until the sun sinks just behind the 
mountain. Winner awarded one forfeit,” he shouted after her. 
She halted her horse, grinning as the chestnut pranced beneath 
her. 
“Agreed!” she called over her shoulder and wheeled the 
horse to the right, dashing to the narrow end of the clearing to 
wait, and then attack. 
It took Nicholas longer than five minutes to learn Sera’s 
strategy, and then he began to turn the tables on her. She was 
coming in closely, darting past as she aimed her crop to touch 
his shoulder, when the sun hit the rim of the mountain to the 
west. 
Nicholas grabbed the end of the crop. Something glad and 
triumphant rose in his chest. “Done,” he said, feeling the grin 
widen on his face. “I win by one point.” 
She sat the horse, flushed and vibrant, the light from the 
red-streaked sky still shining in her eyes. Her hand still held the 
other end of the crop, and her mouth made a disappointed little 
moue. Warm from effort and excitement, her skin glowed, and 
her hair curled in damp little tendrils about her temples. He 
could smell the scent of her, almost feel the creamy texture of 
the soft skin right above the prim collar of her gown. She looked 
just as she had in his dreams—sensual and enticing beyond a 
man’s daytime imaginings. 
“Winner claims the forfeit,” he said, tugging gently on the 
crop. She was stubborn, just as he had hoped she’d be, keeping 
her hold on the crop out of sheer impudence. He tugged a little 
further and she swayed forward, laughing. She was close 
enough. Nicholas snaked out an arm, swept her off her mount 
and onto his lap. 
Outraged, she opened her mouth to say something scathing, 
he was sure, but he held her hard against him, staring at her 
lips. She went still, watching him intently. Her breathing grew 

rapid, from fear or rising anticipation, he could not tell. Bending 
his head, he inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of horse and 
exertion, and the heady essence of Sera. 
Her lips were soft as a sigh beneath his. He had imagined 
the taste of her for so many nights, and she was sweeter than he 
had dreamed. The whole world seemed hushed. There was 
nothing left in it but the two of them. The way she fit against 
him, the way her arms lifted, twining about his neck, the small 
sound of surrender deep in her throat—all of it flashed through 
his body, and he wanted closer. 
He held a treasure to be savored slowly, and he controlled 
the rising heat. He teased her mouth with little kisses, tasting 
her sensual lower lip with his tongue. With a gasp of surprise, 
her lips parted. He took advantage, entered, and tasted the 
sweetness of her mouth with his tongue. He was certain it was 
new to her, for she froze at first, not understanding. In some 
deep, elemental way, he was glad of it, and plunged deeper, 
claiming her, branding her his. She caught fire at that, opening 
eagerly to him. A low hum of pleasure began deep in his throat. 
It was sweet, the way she clung to him. When, hesitant, she 
touched her tongue to his of her own accord, he gave a groan of 
pure, passionate joy and tugged at the ribbon holding her braid. 
It fluttered to the ground. Loose, all the warm treasure of gold 
fell around his hand as he cupped the back of her neck. She 
arched against him, pliant beneath his onslaught, trusting, 
matching his hunger, and he was undone. 
No woman had ever ignited at his touch the way she did. 
No woman had ever stoked the fire in him from a slow burn to 
the flash of heat that made him forget who he was, where he 
was…Good God! 
Very slowly, very carefully, Nicholas raised his head to look 
at Sera. Her face was flushed, her eyes were dark with passion 
and hazed as though she were spellbound. He raised a hand 
that was barely steady and stroked the tumbled hair back from 
her face. Her lips were bee-stung with his kisses. Anyone in the 
stable would know whom she had been with and what she had 
done. 
“It grows late,” he said. 
He saw the exact moment when she came back to reality. 
Even in the twilight, he could see her deep blush. “Yes. My— 

my horse.” She slipped from his arms and to the ground. The 
air felt cold against his chest. 
“We should return to the stable before they miss us.” 
Sera swung up on the chestnut’s back. She raised her chin 
and nodded once, then took up the reins and started off ahead, 
her shoulders stiff. 
Nicholas cursed himself for a randy bastard. There was no 
excuse for his actions. To take a woman whom he had sworn to 
protect when betrothed to another—he was ashamed of himself. 
Nicholas knew how to get what he wanted. He knew the art 
of persuasion and the delicate threat of force. This miracle resting 
just a moment ago in his arms could be his. And if he pushed 
her to it, she would be the one to suffer guilt, remorse, and the 
appalled stares of his courtiers. He would only feel the libertine’s 
dark satisfaction. 
Nicholas made a decision. He would see her once more 
tonight, privately. He would promise, with the utmost gentleness 
and respect, that he would not trouble her with such overtures 
again. And he would demand that she move into the palace, 
where there would be sturdy locks on her chamber door to keep 
him and every other reprobate out. 
*** 
Katherine knocked on the door to Sera’s chamber later that 
evening. “What did my brother say this afternoon?” 
Sera stared at her, a mass of confusion. She didn’t wish to 
tell anyone what had happened with Nicholas in the park. She 
had not known that so serious a man could have a smile so 
sweet that it stung deep in her chest just to look at it. How could 
she tell the way his gray eyes went soft and amused right before 
he kissed her for the first time? 
And the feelings, all jumbled and twanging inside her! She 
had wanted his kisses with an urgency that shocked her. Even 
more humiliating was Nicholas Rostov’s behavior after he had 
kissed her until she was clinging to him, making those animal 
sounds deep in her throat. 
The man simply froze against her, as though she were the 
wanton concubine he had originally thought her. It made her go 
red right now to remember his cold, clipped voice as she slipped 
to the ground. Blast him for trying to pretend it had never 
happened. Blast him for making her feel like the harlot she was 

not! 
The worst of it was, she’d caused the whole humiliating 
mess. From the start of the ride, she had wanted to tease 
Nicholas, to show him that she wasn’t afraid of him. It was 
rather like tempting a tiger locked safely behind cage bars, and 
then finding that the beast had gotten loose—and that he was 
inside you. 
She must not delay longer, losing her calm focus. She must 
find the way home. 
She rubbed her eyes and heard Katherine’s voice again. 
“Are you well? You look feverish.” Katherine looked at 
her with concern in her dark eyes. 
“No, no, I’m fine,” said Sera. “Now, to answer your 
question. Nicholas seemed very pleased that you were riding 
and enjoying it, and he does not care how you learn. Does that 
make you happier?” Sera started, shocked. Why was she calling 
this arrogant Outlander by his first name? 
“Very much. He was so strange at tea. He said not one word 
to me, not even when I thanked him for the lovely cakes. He 
just started and then frowned vaguely at me, but that was all. 
After tea, he walked out onto the balcony and stared at the park. 
Then, still frowning, he bade me adieu and said he had to go to 
his study. When I asked him what he was going to do, he frowned 
again and said, ‘Contemplate my sins, as any man of conscience 
would.’” 
His sins? Hah! So he saw what happened between them as 
a sin! 
“I am so afraid I disappointed Nicholas,” said Katherine, 
folding her hands before her and staring down at them. “I should 
hate to think I failed at being a sister, as I have at so many other 
things.” 
“Whatever do you mean?” Sera stared at her in surprise. 
“Oh, Sera. At least you could be as honest with me as you 
are with everyone else,” Katherine said softly, fiddling with her 
skirt. Even though only one lamp lit her room, Sera could see 
the self-conscious flush rise to her cheeks. “I am clumsy and 
tongue-tied at a ball, small and plain, and generally as timid as 
a whipped puppy.” 
“But you are beautiful, Katherine.” 
Katherine looked at her very carefully, her eyes full of 

skepticism, then looked away. 
“When you smile, when you forget yourself in another 
person, your eyes shine and your whole face lights up. And I 
am not the only person who believes this to be true.” 
Katherine’s gaze swept to her face. 
“When we arrived in Montanyard, Andre Lironsky rode 
beside me, watching you the whole time. He looked at you as 
though you were the most important thing in the whole world. 
He was like a man caught forever in a snare of dreams.” 
“Andre. You’re telling me that Andre cares for me?” 
Katherine’s face, suffused with joy, held a blazing beauty that 
brought the sting of tears to Sera’s eyes. 
“No. I’m saying he had the look of a man in love,” said 
Sera softly. 
Katherine hid her face in her hands for a long moment. 
When she raised her eyes to Sera again, they were luminous in 
the lamplight. 
“I’m so very glad of it, and so sorry, as well. I have loved 
him all my life. He has a carefree, great heart, and he always 
makes me feel worthy and good. But to have him suffer even a 
little as I do. This I cannot bear.” 
“Why should either of you be unhappy a moment longer? 
He is a nobleman and a councilor to your brother. Katherine, I 
was taught about many of the Outlander customs. Surely, there 
have been love matches between royalty and the aristocracy 
before in your country.” 
Katherine nodded. “At times, yes. Our father and mother 
had such a marriage. I am certain that is why Papa was so cold 
and silent for all those years after her death. But when Laurentia 
is in need of alliances, marriages are the manner in which we 
form them. Now is such a time.” 
“Because of this Napoleon Bonaparte? All of Europe is 
battling this man.” 
“And he is winning,” said Katherine. 
“He is not always the victor. The island nation still fights 
him. I have learned about Trafalgar, and the war in Spain, too.” 
“Britain is far away. Nicholas sends representatives to 
persuade the prince regent to come to our aid if Napoleon attacks 
us. But the British are not very interested in a small country so 
close to the Russian border. Napoleon has hundreds of thousands 

of men, Sera. How are we to stand against him? 
“We must align ourselves with our neighbors and pray that 
Great Britain will aid us eventually. That is why I’ll never be 
able to wed Andre, no matter how much I love him. 
“Still,” Katherine smiled and squeezed Sera’s hand. “It’s a 
blessing to know that he cares for me. And a joy to have a friend 
who will tell me so.” 
After Katherine left her, Sera went to Wind Rider’s stall. 
She curried him to a bright sheen and filled his bin with grain, 
deep in her own thoughts. 
When Grandfather had shown her the palace at Montanyard 
through the scrying glass, Sera had not guessed that the proud, 
bejeweled ladies and gentlemen dancing at the winter balls might 
be hiding an inner grief. That is just what Katherine would be 
doing when she married a man she could never love, and loved 
a man she could never marry. 
This world was too confusing and sorrow-laden. There were 
so many terrible tragedies in nature—death, famine, and flood. 
Why did people insist upon making the rest of life so difficult? 
“Sera!” Young Ned, the groom, broke into her reverie. 
“Master Raymond says come to him, please, and help him 
poultice a horse’s hoof. He says you are the best at healing he’s 
ever seen.” 
Sera paled. If Master Raymond had noticed, soon others 
would, too, and they would begin to suspect. But what else could 
she do when she saw a horse in pain and had the means to take 
it away? Silently, she followed Ned. 
In the brightly lit aisle way, the stable master, a wiry man 
of middle age, stood next to the afflicted horse, one arm draped 
casually over the big bay’s back. Sera recognized Frederick, 
one of the ostlers who traveled between Montanyard and the 
border towns to the east, leaning against an oak wall and chewing 
upon a long stem of grass. 
“There you are, my girl. I’ve got him soaked and the poultice 
made up. If Frederick and I hold his leg up, you’ll have an easy 
time of it pasting that slop into the hoof.” 
One of the grooms held up a lantern as Sera bent over the 
horse’s leg, feeling all around the hoof, homing in on the pain. 
There, to the right of the frog, she sensed the thick buildup of 
blood beneath horn, the throbbing of pressure unable to release 

itself. Placing her palm over the spot, she shut her eyes and 
willed the tingling warmth to flow from deep inside her, into 
and through the hoof. The blood beneath the hoof grew liquid 
and flowed back into the capillaries. The horse relaxed, his 
muzzle resting against her shoulder. 
Frederick grunted as the big warm blood leaned heavy on 
his arm. “He got the bruise right over the mountain, near Selonia. 
I swear, that road gets worse and worse. The only part that’s 
decent is the stretch right out of the city, beyond the palace 
woods. Some`un might have a word with the king and the 
council about the waste of good horse flesh unless that road 
gets repaired.” 
As she poulticed the horse, Sera hid her smile and let the 
ostler’s words roll over her. Frederick was a complainer, but 
she liked him. As the grooms often said, he could talk to a post 
for hours. When he had finished with the latest list of grievances, 
he would doubtless begin to tell them all the news from the 
border. 
“The nobs, now—they’ll be worrit about the same thing 
when they bring those fancy carriage horses back over the 
mountain for the Season.” 
“When do they return?” Sera asked. 
“Soon enough,” said Frederick with a snort. “No doubt one 
of `em’ll be sportin’ a pretty fancy ruby. Eh, girl! Watch that 
poultice lands on the hoof, and not on me back. Now what you 
jerkin’ so hard for?” 
“I’m sorry,” Sera said, beginning the bandaging. “I’ll wash 
the shirt, Frederick. I wouldn’t want to make more work for 
you.” 
“Hmph. That’s all right, Sera.” Frederick stood and 
stretched his back for a moment, leaving Master Raymond to 
hold the horse’s hoof. 
“As I was sayin’,” he went on after he bent again to the 
horse, and Sera finished the wrapping. “The whole town’s talkin’ 
about this ruby. Never seen one so big, they say. A footman for 
Count Vasily comes to the inn where I’m stayin’ fer a package, 
and he says he’s seen it. Some merchant, a fancy, dark fella 
with a thick mustache, brought it to the estate. He was so 
important that he traveled in a fine coach with ten outriders— 
all armed to the teeth.” 

All the grooms had gathered around Frederick and were 
listening intently to the story. Sera straightened. She put her 
hand over her heart to stop its racing. 
“So the merchant brings in this big silver case with him, 
and he opens it. Inside there’s a black velvet cloth and a pouch 
that he opens. He spreads the cloth and shakes out the pouch, 
and…” 
As Frederick drew out the story, Sera fought a terrible urge 
to push him on. 
“…huge, beautiful gems fall out of the pouch and lie there, 
twinkling up at Count Vasily.” said Frederick. “And all of `em 
perfect.” 
“Own up, Frederick,” said the stable master. “No merchant 
has jewels that size. It’s all a big tale, and the footman ought to 
know better.” 
“That en’t the worst of it,” said Frederick. “He’s got this 
special pouch, the merchant has. An’ when he opens this ’un, 
he draws out a ruby, big as a robin’s egg, an’ every way he 
moves it, it catches the light an’ throws off fire sparkles like 
nobody’s ever seen before.” 
“Horse manure!” Master Raymond shook his head. “Never 
happened, Frederick.” 
“They all believe it in Selonia.” Frederick grew very red in 
the face. “The merchant’s stayin’ at a fancy inn there, with his 
hired guard.” 
“Tell us another, Frederick,” a groom said while the others 
nodded. “True or false, they be good stories, eh?” 
As Frederick, mollified, began another tale, Sera slipped 
from the gathering and made her way to her chamber. As soon 
as the door shut behind her, she slumped against it and took a 
deep, calming breath. 
The merchant with the jewels fit the description of the thief. 
He was in Selonia with the Heart of Fire. And the Selonia road 
was just beyond the palace woods. At first light tomorrow, she 
must be gone from this place. 
Restlessly, she paced the tiny room, trying to ignore the 
dull ache that seeped through her. She wanted to go home, she 
reminded herself. She needed to stop the portals between the 
two worlds from slamming shut. And she needed to feel the 
warmth of the Hill sun on her again, along with her people’s 

loving acceptance. But she felt something tugging at her, 
wanting her here in this place. 
She ran down the stairs and into the night. Flinging herself 
against a fence in a practice ring, she stared at the stars, shining 
so brightly, showing her the way home. 
She could make it back. She could be home in only a few— 
An arm snaked out about her waist, lifting her from the 
ground and pulling her back against a solid, very large male 
body. 
“Dreamin’ of the king, now, are you?” Dawson’s hateful 
voice, hot in her ear, the stench of liquor heavy on his breath. 
“Was you out whorin’ with him in the park today? I’ve never 
had a piece the king’s had before. Should prove interestin’, no?” 
“Let me go!” She struggled, shoving with her elbows, her 
fists, but he had her from behind, and he used his weight and 
his strength to tow her backwards into the brush just beyond 
the stable. His gloved hand clamped over her mouth, cutting 
off the very air until she thought she’d faint. 
He pulled her into a copse of trees and flung her to the 
ground. She flipped, sucked in her breath, and raised her voice 
in a piercing scream. With a savage oath, he was on her, covering 
her body. He stifled her scream with his mouth, his tongue 
shoving between her lips. His beefy grip on her throat bruised 
and choked her. Her lungs strained, burning for air. She bit down, 
hard, and he hauled back, slapping her face with such brute 
force that her head spun. She tasted blood. But her legs were 
free for a moment. She concentrated with all the force of her 
mind, found his groin and shoved her knee upward with all her 
strength. He screamed in agony. Dawson still had his hand on 
her throat, and it closed tighter, cutting the air completely from 
her lungs. Black dots swam in front of her eyes. 
“You bastard!” Nicholas Rostov’s voice growled, 
somewhere close. 
Suddenly, Dawson’s hand wrenched free of her throat and 
she gasped, wheezing. Nicholas Rostov stood above her, his 
fists curled about Dawson’s collar as he flung the man about to 
face him. 
“Stinking, perverted bastard.” 
Sera shivered at the deadly calm in Nicholas Rostov’s voice. 
The full moon came out from behind a cloud. In its light, she 

saw how Dawson’s eyes went wide with fear. His head moved 
from side to side like a cornered boar looking for freedom. Then 
he must have realized that the clearing was empty of witnesses, 
for he slowly raised his fists, circling Nicholas Rostov. 
Nicholas Rostov turned to follow Dawson’s movements, 
but he looked lazy, almost bored—and beneath that mien, 
implacable. She had forgotten how large he was. His shadow 
loomed over Dawson. The king stood stripped of all gentleness, 
all civilization. Only the elemental remained, and that was brutal. 
Animal. Deadly. 
Nicholas Rostov lunged forward so quickly, Sera wasn’t 
certain she had seen the movement. He grabbed Dawson by the 
throat—the throat! The man stumbled, gasping for air. 
“You think to brutalize her? And that none will say you 
nay?” Nicholas Rostov’s voice was whisper soft. A chill ran up 
Sera’s neck. The king looked ready to kill. 
Dawson whimpered. “It wasn’t what it seemed. She wanted 
me bad. She’s been trying to get me alone for days. Y’er a man. 
You know how it is with these women. Ride like men, act like 
’em. She likes it rough. Women like her—they’re askin’ for it.” 
Nicholas Rostov smiled, a wolf’s baring of teeth. He 
lowered his hand from Dawson’s throat. “You’ve given me all I 
needed to know,” he said softly. “Defend yourself.” 
Dawson put up his hands and swung. Nicholas Rostov 
deflected his fist as though it were as light as a butterfly. His 
right fist crashed into Dawson’s jaw. Sera cringed at the 
crunching sound. Dawson spat blood and broken teeth and 
slowly straightened. He raised his fist again and swung. 
The king moved left, lightning swift. The blow Dawson 
aimed at his jaw hit nothing but air. Dawson toppled forward, 
righting himself just in time to catch a slamming blow to his 
stomach. He doubled, racing sideways like a crab, but Nicholas 
Rostov appeared in front of him, lifting him with one arm. As 
Dawson struggled to get away from that grip of iron, the king 
dropped him back to his feet and hammered him on the face 
and on the belly, again and again. His breath came hard, but 
even. He could go on all day that way, Sera realized. Until the 
man was a bloody piece of meat lying dead on the forest floor. 
“Stop! Oh, dear gods, stop.” She couldn’t keep the sob 
from her voice. 

Other voices murmured in the dark night. Sera turned her 
head and realized they were not alone. Master Raymond, 
Frederick, and all the grooms stood in a semicircle around them. 
Some held lanterns, bringing more light to the clearing. They 
stared with startled, horrified faces at Dawson, now lying in a 
battered heap at Nicholas Rostov’s feet. 
“This is how you protect a lady?” The king’s voice cut 
through each man. Sera could see that they all shook at his 
words. 
Sergeant Bellows stepped forward out of the shadows. 
Someone must have run for him soon after the king appeared. 
“Escort this offal to the prison for a month of confinement,” 
Nicholas Rostov told him. “Afterward, we’ll decide what to do 
about him.” 
“Very good, Sire,” said Sergeant Bellows, and Dawson was 
led away, still whimpering. 
The grooms, speechless, bowed low and disappeared into 
the darkness beyond the lantern light. Nicholas Rostov stood, 
fists clenched, jaw rigid. Sera rubbed her arms, trying to relieve 
their shaking. 
“Why didn’t you stop?” she said in a voice that croaked 
and saw the shudder that ripped through Nicholas’s tall frame 
at the sound. 
She took a breath and tried to clear her throat, but the 
hoarseness stayed with her. “To do violence like this will only 
spawn more violence,” she said to him. “Let him go after a few 
days. Perhaps he will learn from it. And he did me no real harm.” 
Nicholas turned to her, his eyes radiating his outrage. Very 
lightly, he stroked her throat, and she flinched even at his careful 
touch. He took her face in his hands, lifting it so he could see 
her. He looked closely at her lip and pulled his handkerchief 
from his sleeve, gently dabbing at it. Then he held it before her 
face. The darkness of blood stained the white linen. 
“You call this no real harm?” he asked her. “What would 
you have me do? Stand by and watch him rape you, asking, 
very politely, that he desist? Do you think he’ll learn a thing 
from this? I wanted to kill him. Seeing him… seeing you….” 
Sera shook her head. Denying, refusing to believe it was 
true, she backed away from him. She felt crushed by the ugliness, 
the brutality, the lack of choice. This was a world of horror. 

Nicholas took Sera’s arm and pulled her toward the stable, 
holding her with that same gentle touch. “Someone must see to 
your injuries, my lady,” he said. His manner, his voice, had 
undergone a lightning swift transition. He was grave, and his 
eyes were so soft. 
“I’ll not insist that you move to the palace tonight. You’re 
weary. You’re sickened by what you have endured. The doctor 
will come within the hour. And tomorrow, you’ll come to live 
where I can be certain of your safety and well-being.” 
“No. Please, Nicholas Rostov. I am well. I am happy here. 
Don’t make me live in that prison.” 
He shook his head, stroking her hair back from her forehead 
with a hand that trembled a little. “I can’t protect you here. And 
I can’t let you go. Tomorrow morning, my…Sera. You must 
come to live with us. Where you belong.” 
The doctor came and went. The moon rose higher. Sera 
stared at it from her window. She couldn’t bear it, not another 
day. Nicholas, so gentle one moment, so dangerous the next. 
The violence of his world reflected in his swift, terrible 
vengeance. 
Outside her room were the contented sounds of sleeping 
horses. Occasionally, one snuffled and blew softly. She slipped 
from her room and crept down the stairway, making her way to 
Wind Rider’s stall. 
“I am here, Tzirah,” she whispered to him in the Hill tongue, 
her language, reminding her of her life. She bridled Wind Rider 
as quickly as she could and led him into the park. Throwing 
herself on his back, she galloped him out, trying to break the 
pull of the lodestone holding her here. 
Sera raced for miles to the very end and saw what she’d 
been looking for since she had come to this place—a break in 
the tall, thorny hedge that walled the grounds in. The broken 
hedge still stood at ten feet. Two thirds of the way up, wicked 
thorns spiked out at all angles. A horse and rider crashing through 
them would be torn to shreds. Sera halted Wind Rider and stared 
at it, her breath catching in her throat. Half Outlander that she 
was, she lacked the full power of the Hills, didn’t she? Did she 
dare to risk them both? 
There was no doubt that she must go now. There was a way 
out and a destination. It did not matter how compelling a straight, 

tall, utterly unpredictable man with broad shoulders and 
beautiful gray eyes could be. It did not matter at all. 
She took a deep breath, shut her eyes, and willed Wind 
Rider up. The stallion’s powerful haunches gathered and sprang. 
In a burst of strength, they soared, arced and came down again 
on the other side. With barely more concussion than a four-foot 
jump would have taken, Wind Rider landed, and without 
breaking stride, galloped away to freedom. 

Five 
“They’ve sacked Selonia!” The first messenger arrived, 
shouting the news in the courtyard. Pandemonium hit the palace. 
Nicholas reestablished order as quickly as he could. 
“Oblomov,” he said to the grizzled general, whom he trusted 
to keep his head in the midst of a whirlwind. “Remain in 
Montanyard with most of the army. I’ll lead four regiments to 
Selonia. Above all, we must keep the news of the raid quiet for 
as long as possible.” He didn’t need a nation in panic right now, 
and even less did he need his enemies to realize the Brotherhood 
had somehow slipped through his eastern border. 
General Obomov bowed his gray head. “It’ll take a few 
hours to put together the heavy weaponry and the supplies.” 
The general left in quick step, followed by his aides. 
As he called for his ministers, Nicholas could hear 
Oblomov’s voice barking orders all the way down the hall. 
A short time later, when Katherine burst into his chamber, 
her eyes full of fear, Nicholas was dressing for the journey and 
was suffering Simmons’ ministrations on the knot in his brown 
stock tie. 
“Sera’s gone,” she said. “Nobody has seen her since last 
night.” 
Nicholas froze, then pushed away from Simmons’ hand. 
“Her room is empty?” 
Katherine nodded. “Wind Rider is gone, as well.” 
“Damnation!” As anger pushed back the panic, Nicholas 
shoved his left foot into his riding boot and muttered. “Little 
fool. To think after what Dawson had done to her that she could 
survive out there alone on the road.” Katherine handed him the 
right boot, and he pulled it on with more force than necessary. 
“Of all the times to pull this stunt! How the hell did she get 
out? Does anyone know that, at least?” He flung himself out 
the door, striding down the hallway with long, quick steps. 
“The guards say she never passed the palace or the city 
gates.” Katherine ran to keep up with him. “Andre’s waiting 
for you on the grounds before the palace.” 
Nicholas thought of the way Sera had looked at him after 
he’d beaten Dawson. She had thought he was some mad, 

ravening beast. He, too, had been shocked by his lack of control. 
But the world was full of more dangerous beasts. His stomach 
twisted in fear. 
“I should let her persist in this mad scheme. With the 
Brotherhood loose on the land, not to mention your usual 
assortment of killers and rapists hiding behind every crossroads, 
she’ll be dead or worse in a day.” Nicholas had reached the 
grand staircase and was running down it two steps at a time. 
“Nikki!” Katherine cried out to him in a voice that echoed 
all the way to the painted dome three stories above them. 
Impatient to be off, he turned and looked back at her standing 
on the landing. Her face was pale and her eyes haunted. 
“Bring her home, Nikki. Please.” 
He nodded sharply and, not waiting for the footman’s 
services, shoved his way out the high double doors. 
In the courtyard, Andre was already mounted. “She didn’t 
get out the gates. They’re certain of it,” he said holding out the 
reins of Nicholas’s chestnut. Nicholas swung up into the saddle. 
“That means she’s loose in the park. She was horrified last 
night by the violence, the blood—she can’t understand what 
kind of evil exists in this world. And I thought she might be a 
spy! She said once that when she was troubled, she rode. Andre, 
if she went out in the darkness, not knowing where the cliffs 
end out there beyond the paths…” His voice broke. “I shall 
never forgive myself.” 
Andre stared at him. Then his face softened with something 
akin to pity. “Katherine says she rides like a Valkyrie. That horse 
has sense, even if she doesn’t. Come. It will take the army a 
while yet to assemble with the supplies. We have time to check 
the park.” 
“Take the outer perimeter. Just in case there’s a way through 
that hedge that even the gardeners don’t know about.” 
Andre nodded. “You’ll take the park, itself?” 
“Yes.” If he found her, if she was…dead, he wanted to be 
alone if he had to face that possibility. 
Nicholas took a deep breath. Fear would only get in the 
way. He followed the hoof prints made the night before by a 
large, well-shod horse cantering along the park road. 
At one point, he heard Andre on the other side of the hedge 
and shouted to him. “I’ve found her trail. Keep up with me 

along the perimeter unless you hear a shot.” 
He got to the very end of the park before he saw it, and then 
he simply jumped off his horse and stared at the ground. Here, 
the hedge rose to ten feet, not its usual twelve. Still, not even a 
puissance rider and horse could take a jump that height. Yet six 
feet from the hedge, a good sized horse had gathered his 
haunches and taken off in a jump that wasn’t possible. Thorny 
twigs scattered about meant that he had grazed the top of the 
hedge with his hooves. 
“Andre!” 
“Almost there.” Andre’s voice shouted back to him. 
He heard the beat of hooves and the long slide to a stop 
outside the hedge. “Check the ground about six feet from the 
hedge,” he called out. 
There was silence for a moment. Then Andre’s voice, slow 
and stunned. “I don’t believe it.” 
“She landed there?” 
“And kept galloping, it appears. How is it possible?” 
Nicholas barked out a wild laugh. “Hill magic. What else?” 
“Are you saying that Sera’s a—a witch of some sort?” 
Andre’s voice held just the hint of a hoot. 
A witch…where had he heard rumors of witchcraft before? 
Who had been so branded? Somewhere, in the back of his 
memory, a shadowy picture of a woman rose, dark-haired and 
beautiful. Then that small flash of recognition was gone. 
“Not a witch, exactly, but something—different. 
Something…powerful.” 
In spite of his fear for Sera, a soaring exultation welled up 
from that place he could never control where she was concerned. 
He would find her, by God, and he had his justification for 
keeping her. The woman could make a horse fly like Pegasus. 
What other wonders could she perform for Laurentia? 
“Get back to the palace. I’m going after her.” 
Shortly thereafter, Nicholas sat a fresh mount in the 
courtyard, assigning a troop of men to accompany him and then 
turning to Andre, now remounted beside him. 
“Lead the army along the road to Selonia. I’ll ride ahead 
and meet you with our truant in tow when you arrive there 
tomorrow morning.” Please God, he added silently. 
Nicholas and his men followed Sera’s tracks into the forest. 

Her trail was so clear an old man with cataracts could have 
followed it. He grew both more anxious and more certain of 
finding her. 
As the hours passed, Nicholas galloped through the forest 
in a state of gnawing anxiety. Nightmare visions invaded his 
mind—all of them featuring Sera in tears. It was well after 
moonrise when they came upon a little camp in a mossy clearing 
beside a stream. Nicholas looked through the trees and saw Wind 
Rider grazing placidly. 
He raised his hand to them. “Stay here. I don’t want her 
frightened or disturbed.” 
The men nodded and dismounted, gathering brush to make 
a fire and settling in for the night. Nicholas walked silently into 
the clearing. 
Wind Rider raised his head and widened his nostrils at 
Nicholas’s approach, but he soon lowered it again, cocked his 
hind leg, and half closed his eyes. Nicholas spied a small, 
bundled figure lying still beneath a blanket. There was no fire 
to warm her, he noticed as he knelt beside the blanket. At least 
she had known enough not to light one, lest she attract the 
attention of any brigand in the area. 
Sera slept, trusting as a child, in the midst of a forest filled 
with wild beasts and outlaws. She was breathing, Nicholas 
reminded himself as he bent over her. She was alive and safe. 
Nicholas was afraid to touch her because he wanted to shake 
her until her teeth rattled, or kiss her until the crazy fear that 
had haunted him all day burst into fire, burning away all the 
turmoil. He drew the blanket down to get a good look at her 
before he wakened her. The overhanging branches swayed in 
the wind and the moon shone through, giving him light to see 
her face. She looked tired and worn, and he shook his head, 
feeling half his anger drain out of him like sand from a sieve. 
He shook her shoulder far more gently than he had planned 
to. “Get up, Sera,” he said low. 
Her eyes remained shut. She raised her hand to his as it 
cupped her shoulder, lifted it and brought his palm to her lips. 
Rubbing against it, she breathed deeply, taking in his scent. 
“Nicholas,” she whispered. “I miss you already.” Her voice 
had the soft slur of a dreamer half-waking. 
Something cold and frozen melted inside him, filling him 

with a confusion of emotion he had no means to understand. 
His voice came out in a strangled, low moan. They had hours 
yet to meet the troops on the Selonia road, he reasoned. She 
was so tired. As he slid beneath the blanket, it occurred to 
Nicholas that he had never before actually slept with a woman. 
He had simply satisfied his lust and returned to his duties. 
He settled Sera into the hollow of his hips, her back to him, 
the lush curve of her buttocks warm and soft against him. It 
was a good feeling, to have his arms wrapped about her, and 
the sweet touch of her body all along his. She fit him as though 
she had been made for him. He drew her closer against him, 
burying his face in the tender curve of her neck. 
He smoothed back her hair breathing in the elusive flower 
scent. “Go back to sleep, Sera,” he said. And lay beside her, 
keeping watch through the night. 
*** 
Sera dreamed that Nicholas was kissing her—all over. 
Somehow, his hands were beneath her gown, caressing her 
breasts, teasing them into a fullness of inchoate need. Then his 
mouth was traveling in a slow, tantalizing line from the curve 
of her shoulder down. She could feel the light flicker of his 
tongue and the nibbling kisses along the path he was taking, 
heating her skin wherever he touched it, making her tense with 
anticipation. She liked it, lying with him, feeling the warmth of 
his breath hovering over her nipple. She made a sound in her 
throat, a helpless murmur, and arched upward, moving her hips 
as he gently kneaded her with his hands. She didn’t want to 
wake up. 
Slowly, in her dream, his taut warmth left her. Confused, 
she opened her eyes to find he was indeed there, but standing 
with his back to her, his body rigid in the gray light of dawn. 
She scrambled to her feet, still dream-befuddled and wary. 
What had he done to her? Had it been real, or just a figment 
of imagination, a weakness in her character? Did she desire this 
man so much that his mere presence caused her to dream such 
wicked things? Should she be outraged with him or with herself? 
“Don’t run away from me again.” He didn’t turn. He didn’t 
move. He was a statue in the growing light, perfect, immobile, 
his very essence marble-hard. 
“Let me go,” she said. “And I shan’t have to run away.” 

“Tell me your secrets. How did you jump that hedge? What 
more can you do? Tell me, and help me keep my country safe. 
Then I’ll let you go.” 
“I cannot.” She wanted to scream with frustration, to sit in 
a heap on the forest floor and just cry for loneliness and grief. If 
she allowed it, one world would brand her a witch, just as it had 
branded her mother. And the other world, the one she protected 
with her silence, would see her betrayal as the weakness of an 
emotion-laden child, incapable of higher understanding. 
He finally turned around, his dark eyes boring into her as 
though he wanted to read her very soul. “Little fool. Do you 
have any idea what could have happened to you? Even a first 
time hunter could have followed the tracks you made. It’s time 
to face the sad and sorry truth, Sera. You can’t survive without 
protection.” 
He began to stride for the trees, leading Wind Rider along 
with him. “My men await us just outside this copse. Ten minutes, 
Sera. That’s all the time you have for a toilette.” 
She washed hurriedly at the stream, hearing the snorts and 
rustles of horses, the unmistakable sounds of men breaking 
camp. She realized with horror that she had slept through the 
arrival of what sounded like an entire regiment of soldiers. 
Sera hurried toward the cavalry troop massed at the edge 
of the copse. Nicholas was already mounted on his own horse, 
holding Wind Rider firmly by the reins. She took the reins from 
him and mounted, following Nicholas out of the forest and onto 
the road. 
They rode silently through the morning, the men clustered 
about them for protection. Nicholas called a halt at a crossroads 
and gave her a hunk of bread and a flask of water. 
When she was finished eating, he called to half the men. 
“Take her to Montanyard.” 
“You don’t understand,” Sera said. “I have to go east, to 
my home. Is that so terrible a crime?” 
“Not someday, when the world is a safe and decent place. 
But you’ll never survive such a journey alone, and I can’t afford 
the men it would take to guard you beyond my borders. 
Especially now, when even the borders are no longer safe.” He 
stared bleakly into the distance. 
She hated the look on his face, the anger, and the weariness. 

“Selonia was destroyed,” he said. 
“Dear Heaven.” All that she had hoped, all that she had 
been running to, now shattered. 
“You’ve never seen Selonia, have you? It was a lively 
summer town, full of theatres and assembly rooms and baths. 
The buildings were put to the torch two days ago.” 
“Who would do such a thing?” She thought of the people 
who worked in Selonia, the attendants who helped the wealthy 
take the waters, the maids and seamstresses and stonemasons 
who lived in Selonia. “Oh, Nicholas, how many were hurt?” 
Nicholas turned his head at the low break in her voice. His 
expression softened at what he must have seen in her face. 
“Perhaps there’s another way to convince you that your place 
lies here, helping me keep my country safe. Come with me, and 
you can see for yourself.” 
The men fell in beside them again, and they cantered down 
the eastern road. 
*** 
Emmanuel Aestron walked through the Temple Square, 
acknowledging the respectful bows of the young men and 
women gathered to debate philosophy at the colonnade. He 
inhaled the sweetness of the wisteria vines curling about the 
Doric columns and festooning the marble trellis shading the 
students as they resumed their logical arguments. He passed 
the marketplace, nodding to the farmers whose stands brimmed 
with jeweled fruits and vegetables piled in artistic patterns of 
color and shape. The scent of fresh apples and autumn 
strawberries followed him as he wound through streets lined 
with perfectly proportioned marble buildings, their columns 
topped with friezes of Arkadia’s heroes and Mages. 
At the palaestra of Demosthenes, he turned in, pausing in a 
small courtyard. Two lads, just bathed after wrestling by the 
looks of their wet hair and fresh bruises, reclined on benches 
beneath a tree, sipping water. Seeing him, they both sprang to 
their feet and bowed. 
“Hypocritas, how good to see you,” he said to one of them, 
the son of a friend. “Is my grandson here?” 
“Yes, my lord Emmanuel. He won his bout. Now he is in 
the bath. Shall I fetch him for you?” At his nod, the boy ran off 
and returned a moment later with Jacob Augustus, who 

outstripped him as he quickly crossed the courtyard, his towel 
hanging over one shoulder, a loincloth affixed to his hips for 
decency’s sake. 
Emmanuel could never look at Jacob Augustus without 
pride welling up from some deep place inside him. His body, as 
beautiful as it was, exemplified the perfection of his mind and 
his spirit. Strength and harmony encompassed it, a result of the 
work Emmanuel knew Jacob put into it. Tall and strong, his 
specialty was the pankration, the no-holds-barred wrestling that, 
for some reason, soothed Jacob’s soul while disciplining bone 
and sinew. Since Sera had gone from Arkadia, Jacob had used 
this outlet more often than in the past. 
“Walk with me,” he told Jacob. 
Jacob nodded and they strode into the bright sunlight of 
the street. “What news?” he asked his grandfather. 
“She tried to escape. The king has found her again. He takes 
her to Selonia.” 
“Where she’ll feel more sympathy for these Outlanders. 
Rostov is clever. He ties her to him, and to his world.” 
Hearing the bitterness in Jacob’s voice, Emmanuel sighed, 
reaching within for forbearance. He knew he owed his grandson 
an explanation and didn’t much relish the reaction he anticipated 
from Jacob. The boy would doubtless hate him for days before 
he understood the right reason that prompted his actions. Best 
to get it over with, he thought. 
By now, they had left the city center and walked through a 
quiet neighborhood filled with houses. Emmanuel stopped at a 
bench beneath a willow at the edge of a public park. He sat and 
motioned for Jacob to do the same. 
In the quiet, he could hear the buzzing of bees, and across 
the green, a group of girls and boys sat, concentrating in the 
stillness on brightly colored balls balanced in the air above them. 
Some of them had gotten their balls to spin. A tutor watched 
them carefully. In this way, the more gifted among them would 
be chosen to attend the academy, learning to expand their powers 
for the good of Arkadia’s citizens. 
He wanted to weep for Sera, all alone in a strange world, 
without the comfort of a mentor as the startling strength of her 
power began to evidence itself. 
Emmanuel turned his attention to his grandson, who sat on 

the grass at his feet, plucking the blades one by one with his 
restless fingers. “You have a right to be angry with me, Jacob,” 
he said. “It is my fault that Sera has gone to the Outlanders.” 
Jacob shrugged. “No Grandfather. You have reason to let 
her stay for a while.” 
“But it preys on you, that you must trust this Nicholas 
Rostov to keep her safe. I have to tell you why Jacob, and that 
I had more to do with Sera’s flight than you believe.” 
Jacob sprang up before him, his blue eyes, so like Sera’s 
narrowed. “What do you mean?” 
Emmanuel remained seated, wishing calm, watching his 
grandson’s face soften a bit, feeling his mind open again to him. 
“You know that Sera is not only Arkadian. She is the daughter 
of an Outlander king, and thus, the lawful heir to the throne of 
a troubled nation, should she wish to choose her heritage.” 
Jacob nodded, his gaze on Emmanuel’s face. 
“Your love for me has kept you from realizing the truth. Do 
you believe that I did not look into the soul of the Outlander 
Sera saved and asked us to heal? Do you think I did not know 
he lusted for riches, that he held honor cheap and would easily 
sacrifice it to get what he wanted? Do you really suppose that 
any thief could have stolen the Heart of Fire from its resting 
place if I had not wished it free?” 
Jacob’s burning gaze seared Emmanuel. “You arranged for 
her exile in the Outlander world, for her captivity, for the 
brutality and shame she has suffered and seen?” 
Emmanuel’s heart cracked beneath the weight of his 
grandson’s outrage. “I did not foresee the Nantal burning her 
Hill cloak. But I knew that Nicholas Rostov would visit Hadar’s 
palace.” He stood and reached out for his grandson. 
At the touch of Emmanuel’s hand on his shoulder, Jacob 
flung himself away, staring at him in fury. “You wished her to 
go to him as a hetaera? 
“Jacob.” Although his power was strong, Jacob could not 
withstand the compulsion of Emmanuel’s voice. “It is in the 
worst of circumstances that the true nature of a man reveals 
itself. I wished to see what Nicholas Rostov was made of. And 
I wished for Sera to see it and choose her destiny freely.” 
“You cannot keep her safe. You cannot watch her every 
minute.” 

Emmanuel slowly sat again on the bench. “You know the 
Outlander tale of the Garden?” He motioned, and Jacob dropped 
to the bench beside him. 
“From their holy book?” 
“I was thinking of the story by their John Milton, that 
Paradise Lost,” Emmanuel said. “You remember?” 
Jacob nodded. 
“Sera, like Adam and Eve, is gone from the Garden now. 
Danger is all around her, and greed and hatred. But she has 
something she never had here. She has free will. She has the 
right to grow up, like Adam and Eve, and the right to choose 
her destiny.” 
“ ‘And the world was all before them, where to choose 
Their place of rest, and Providence their guide,’” Jacob 
said slowly. 
“Yes. Do you understand?” 
Jacob gave Emmanuel a reluctant nod. “I understand. But I 
do not like it.” He looked at Emmanuel, his face filled with 
misery. “Grandfather, if the time comes when I think I must, I 
shall challenge you on this and bring her back, myself.” 
*** 
Selonia was a charred ruin. From what Nicholas could see 
as he and Sera rode into the little city, the ravagers had burst 
upon the spa town and destroyed everything. This was a crime 
of madmen who used their foggy religious rationalizations as 
an excuse to terrorize the country and sap it of its will to resist. 
They had not only torched the Georgian assembly rooms and 
the beautiful villas of the wealthy. They had systematically razed 
the workers’ small row houses. 
People were everywhere, dull-eyed with shock, muttering 
or crying out amidst the blackened timbers of houses. The smell 
of charred wood and stone and the nauseating odor of burnt 
flesh clung to the air. Nicholas wanted to tear apart the men 
who had done this to his people, to slice each one of them into 
shreds. But they had disappeared into the terrain like vipers 
after a satanic feast. And he was left to pick up the pieces. 
“Weakling. Unfit to be king,” his father’s voice whispered 
to him. Nicholas had no answer to the damning doubts. But fit 
or not, he was all Laurentia had. 
So he left Sera at his temporary headquarters while he and 

Andre met with the mayor of Selonia and his council. Late into 
the night, the leaders of the town sat with him, giving their 
reports of the damage in property and human lives. He gave 
orders to a group of soldiers to scavenge the countryside for 
supplies and food. He delegated authority, requisitioned 
supplies, and made countless other decisions for hours. By the 
time he had finished all he could do for the evening, he was 
bone weary and still fighting his outrage against the 
Brotherhood. 
He and Andre walked back to his headquarters through the 
empty streets of the city. He could smell the acrid smoke still 
smoldering from the ruins, see an occasional scavenger picking 
through the rubble that remained of his home. 
“I don’t know whether I can control the rage, Andre. I want 
to find them and kill each one of them—slowly. But someone 
is giving them the money for arms, someone who wants to 
weaken us and then conquer. If we don’t find the man backing 
these terrorists soon, the country will suffer more of the same.” 
“Napoleon?” Andre asked. 
“Perhaps. If he takes us first, he can easily plough through 
Jehanna. Beaureve will hold out for a while, but he’ll have all 
the harvest from Laurentia and Jehanna to feed to his army.” 
Nicholas rubbed his tired eyes. “If I could get close to that 
devil and kill him in cold blood, I would in a minute, and sleep 
like a baby afterward. It would be justice,” he said. “I wish I 
were one of the Hill folk. I could foist all of this baggage off on 
the Mage and go find a woman.” 
Sera, he thought. To go as deeply into her body as she could 
take him. To hide from this horror in the scent and heat of her. 
Some time in the night, he had fallen asleep, only to awaken 
on top of her in the morning’s gray dawn. His hands had been 
all over her, his mouth following. And he had wanted closer, 
wanted deep, wanted with an urgency that hit him like a wall of 
flame. He had rolled away from her to stand with his body 
clenched in heat and desire. Fight as he might against it, the 
never-ending lust simply grew stronger. 
“You’re too tired to do any more. Hell, I’m too tired to 
think, period.” Andre rubbed his hands through his hair until 
the blond curls flew in total disarray. 
They had reached the large tent set up for Nicholas. Andre 

gave him a rough squeeze on the shoulder and propelled him 
inside. 
“Get something decent to eat and go to sleep. We’ll know 
more what to do in the morning.” 
Nicholas had just entered when an aide rushed into the tent, 
followed by a breathless messenger, his face sweat streaked 
and dirty with dust from the road. The messenger knelt on one 
knee. 
“Lieutenant Mirovsky, Sire,” he gasped. “I come from 
Count Vorchov.” 
Vorchov—Laurentian Ambassador to Russia! 
The messenger’s face was a mask of fright. “Bonaparte has 
taken Moscow. The Russian troops under the command of Prince 
Kutuzov have retreated to the Kaluga road. What shall we do, 
Sire?” Mirovsky’s gaze clung to Nicholas, as though he could 
magically halt Bonaparte’s inexorable march toward Laurentia. 
Well. One more nail in the coffin, he thought wearily. 
“Thank you, Lieutenant. First you will rest and bathe. In the 
morning, I’ll send you back to Count Vorchov with instructions. 
You have my gratitude.” 
The lieutenant pressed his hand to his heart and rose. 
Bowing smartly, he followed the aide de camp out of the tent. 
Napoleon would winter in Moscow. By spring, he would 
be on the road south. How would Nicholas protect his people 
against an overwhelming army when he couldn’t save Selonia 
from a band of terrorists? 
He sat down on a camp chair set up before his traveling 
desk and leaned on his elbows, his head in his hands. He sat 
there for what seemed a long time, dead and empty. He heard a 
shift of canvas, and then felt the breeze on the back of his neck. 
Attempting to obliterate the impression of weakness he must 
have made when thus caught unaware, he straightened his back 
and looked over his shoulders, expecting his young aide de camp 
to be standing in the doorway. 
Sera stood there with a tray. The lantern light formed a 
nimbus around her hair. Her eyes were a deep, soft blue as she 
looked at him. All of the life in her seemed to surge toward him 
in that look. It made him want to go to her and hold her without 
having to speak, forever. But he was frozen in shame. 
She walked to the desk and set down the tray. Without a 

word, she pulled the other camp chair close to his and sat down. 
He could feel her shoulder, a light, warm solidity against his 
arm. He fisted his hands in his lap, digging his nails into the 
flesh of his palms. He would not break down in front of her 
now. He would not reveal what a fraud he was. 
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her profile as she 
stared straight ahead. Her hand settled on one of his, soothing 
it. It hurt to swallow. He shut his eyes, his teeth bared like an 
animal, fighting the need to let her see how much he needed 
this. Her fingers stroked, gentle, relentless against the resistance 
of his fist. His own hand betrayed him. With a sigh of defeat, he 
felt it tremble and open. She turned it, palm up. He squeezed 
his eyes tighter, only feeling the softness of her fingers as she 
laced them through his. 
He shook his head, stiffening, mouth tight. He wouldn’t 
crack. He wouldn’t. 
But he couldn’t control the break in his voice. “A better 
king would have kept them safe.” 
Her voice was soft in the still air of the tent, her fingers 
magic, melting the frozen musculature as she lifted his hand 
and, turning it over, traced a gentle circle on the palm. “I saw a 
woman today at the children’s center. She had lost two of her 
own children and was there to find her sister’s babe. She had 
seen me ride in with you, Nicholas. She asked me to tell you, 
from all of them, how much hope your coming has brought 
with it. She said as long as you are their king, nothing will defeat 
them. She called you the hope of Laurentia. Nicholas, they love 
you here. They know what you do for them.” 
So. They talked to Sera. While he hid from the people, sick 
with what his lack of foresight had wrought on Selonia. And 
she had spoken to his people, and they had trusted her. 
And because of her, they trusted him. 
Long ago, he had decided to keep secret his vulnerability— 
the illness and his regimen for fighting it. His decision had led 
to a distance, it seemed, between himself and his own people. 
Had Sera, within a few hours, brought his people back to him? 
“They’re fools to trust me,” he said aloud on a laugh that 
was a groan. He dropped his eyes to their entwined hands, afraid 
to let her see the emptiness that must show on his face. 
“You have to eat,” she said finally. There. She had dismissed 

him. He slipped his hand from hers, and she poured a glass of 
red wine and gave it to him. “It is not very elegant, but the 
soldiers all say it is good.” 
He took a sip and very carefully placed the silver cup on 
the table before him. “It’s good,” he managed. 
She came back to sit beside him, he noticed with relief. 
Lord, she’d been cold and stony this morning. Until he had told 
her about Selonia. Then this wellspring of compassion had 
broken through and changed her, utterly. 
As if she had been following his thoughts, Sera touched his 
arm shyly. “The children, Nicholas. They need…oh, everything. 
I put them in one of the buildings that escaped most of the fire— 
St. Andrew’s chapter house. No one has used it for several years, 
and there were still feather beds we could spread on the floor 
for the little ones. I asked the quartermaster for food.” 
“Briggs?” Nicholas was surprised into a laugh. “He’s a 
stingy fellow. How did you ever manage?” 
Sera blushed. “ I promised him you would make sure the 
supplies were replaced.” 
Was she afraid he’d find her impertinent? She had such a 
pretty blush—pink and rosy from her down-turned lashes to 
her rounded chin. 
“I would have told him the same thing,” he said. 
“I have hope that some of the parents are still alive. Do you 
know those animals went house to house and murdered the 
people in their beds? They always seem to leave the children 
alone, don’t they? As though they expect them to die of want 
and misery. 
“Do you know what it is like, to see your father and mother 
stabbed repeatedly by these vile demons?” she continued. “To 
hear their screams, to see the blood, everywhere. And then, when 
they’re too weak to scream any longer, they just whimper, but 
you know they’re still screaming inside. Oh, God! It is not 
human, what they have done to the children.” 
Sera clutched his forearm. Her face was white as a new 
fallen snow, and her eyes unseeing. She was telling him more 
than what had happened to these children, he knew. She was 
telling him something that had happened to her. Of a sudden, 
his own struggles faded in the light of Sera’s pain. 
He pried her hand off his arm, then grasped her elbows. 

“Tell me, Sera. Tell me what they did to you.” 
She gasped, struggled against him hard enough to push 
away. He saw her eyes before she turned her face from him. 
They were focused again and fearful. “I don’t know what you 
are talking about,” she said, jumping up and fiddling with the 
plates on the tray. “We are discussing the children, that is all.” 
“Yes,” he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “The 
children.” She had shut the door, and he couldn’t open it now 
with more questions. He could wait until she told him of her 
own free will. 
When hell froze over. 
Or he could find out through his own sources. 
“I only meant, we cannot leave them to die. We have to 
help them all.” 
This at least, he could do. He nodded, stretching his legs in 
front of him in a deliberate pose of relaxation. “Every one of 
them, Sera. Just tell me what they need.” 
She recovered herself, writing out a list of supplies for the 
abbey, and she slowly became easy with him again. Later, she 
called for hot water so he could bathe. 
The young ensigns who arrived with the hip bath bowed to 
him, and then Sera before they set it down according to her 
instructions. 
“Very good, Mr. Evans. Thank you, Mr. Carlsohnn.” Good 
Lord, she knew them by name already. The men tugged at their 
caps like besotted schoolboys and bowed their way out of the 
tent. 
“Is there anything else you would like tonight, Nicholas?” 
she asked, foolish woman. 
He smiled, keeping his lascivious thoughts to himself. 
“Thank you, no, Lady Sera.” 
She gave him a look of surprise from beneath her lashes. 
“Why call me that?” 
“Because that’s what you are. I’m not the only one to name 
you thus. All the men are speaking of Lady Sera. Should I be 
the only one not to recognize the obvious?” 
“I am just a Hill woman and a slave.” She gave him a wary 
look. 
His fingers touched her cheek, then fell to his side. “You 
are not just anything. And I meant it. Thank you.” 

Sera nodded, a little uncertain motion, and swept out into 
the night. 
She could be incredibly sweet when she wanted to be. He 
would assign Oblomov to her, for the streets weren’t safe for a 
woman alone in times like these, and he knew instinctively Sera 
would go wherever someone needed her help. 
He wished that she could stay with him. Would she have 
nightmares tonight? He wanted to be there to wake her and 
reassure her. He wanted to hold her in his arms again as he had 
last night, to keep her warm and safe. 
He cursed softly. Andre had moved up the date for a meeting 
with Galerien, regent of Beaureve. Within a month, he would 
probably be wed to the blasted Beaurevian princess, the key to 
the alliance with Beaureve, which must be kept at all costs. 
This time was all he could ever have with Sera. He had to 
fight the lust, and even more seductive, the need for her. Just to 
hold her through the night and cover her small, warm body with 
his. So he could sleep, and keep the nightmares at bay. 

Six
The chapter house was in chaos. Children who had scarcely 
noticed their surroundings suddenly became hot tempered little 
savages, screaming at anyone who tried to discipline them into 
some kind of order. 
Nurses and priests ran to Sera as soon as she walked through 
the door. If it were possible for the room to become any noisier, 
it did then. 
“What are we going to do, Lady Sera?” 
“We have no clean linens for the nursery.” 
“Those boys—they’re running wild!” 
She narrowed her eyes at the confusion of arms and legs in 
the center of the room—a group of boys pummeled each other 
over imagined insults. Well, if nobody else was offering 
solutions, she might as well come up with a few, herself. 
Grabbing up a bucket of cold water in her hands, Sera 
charged into the melee. She dumped the water over the heads 
of the biggest four and watched them sputter and jump apart 
like dogs disturbed in the midst of a fight. 
“I need you,” she barked, while twelve and thirteen-year-
olds rubbed their faces and pulled soaking hair out of their eyes. 
“Who knows the streets of Selonia the best?” 
“I do,” said the tallest boy. 
“No, I do,” yelled another, an urchin with bright red hair 
and an impish look. 
“Fine,” said Sera. “You can both prove your claim. You.” 
She pointed to the older boy. “Take these three, and take the 
eastern half of the city. You are looking for any and all children 
who have nowhere to go.” 
“You.” She pointed to the second boy. “Do the same with 
these three on the western side. I want you back by noon. I 
want your names and your parent’s names before you go out, in 
case somebody comes looking for you. And I want your report 
before you go to the refectory to eat lunch.” 
The redhead rubbed his nose, over which were scattered a 
very nice sprinkling of freckles. The boy had a lean, hungry 
look to him, but his blue eyes were sharp and clear. “Nobody’s 
looking for me,” he said. “My mother’s been dead for two years 

now.” He paused, then raised his chin and looked her straight 
in the eye. “Never knew my father.” 
“All the same, I want your name and that of your family.” 
“Ivan,” said the boy, patting his split lip with his fingertips. 
“Ivan Drominsky. S’pose now you don’t want me to look for 
the others.” 
Sera raised her brows and fingered her own lip, still swollen 
from the backhanding Dawson had given her two nights before. 
“Do you know the city better than the others?” 
“Hell—beg pardon, my lady. Aye. I know it.” 
“Kindly bring your boys forward to give their names and 
then take them out. Remember, return to the chapter house by 
the time the town clock strikes twelve.” 
“I’ll do that, my lady.” 
Sera found herself grinning as she watched him leave. She 
liked that scamp, Ivan. Liked his courage in giving her the truth 
of his parentage. Liked the clear, intelligent look he’d given her 
as he spoke. 
She took a deep breath and walked on to the nursery. More 
chaos there, it seemed. Babies who had listlessly sucked warmed 
goat’s milk yesterday were fussing on the harried priests’ laps 
for their mother’s breasts today. Frazzled priests and a few of 
the ladies, who had come to the shelter with vague pretensions 
to philanthropy, looked ready to throttle the infants. 
Sera sighed with relief as one of the priests, a portly, balding 
man holding a baby in one arm, unpacked cloths to use for 
diapers with the other hand. The baby was blessedly quiet, and 
the priest seemed the only adult in the room with any sense. 
Sera reached for the infant and cuddled it close. 
The priest turned to her and shouted over the cries of the 
other infants. “I’m Father Anselm, my dear. I take it you are the 
Lady Sera who put this place together yesterday.” 
“I am,” she said, with a glance at babies. “They don’t sound 
happy.” 
“They’re having a hard time, but at least they’re getting 
some nourishment.” 
“Why not send for wet nurses? Or better still, why not send 
for mothers who lost their babies in the raid?” 
Father Anselm gave her a long, considering look and nodded 
slowly. 

Sera pondered that look, for she thought her suggestion 
perfectly logical. Perhaps the holy men of this country didn’t 
want to hear about the earthier aspects of a woman’s existence. 
But all he said was, “Excellent idea. I’ll see to it 
immediately.” He left her holding the baby. 
Father Anselm returned later with about twenty women, all 
hollow-eyed and expressionless. They entered the chapter house 
as though they didn’t know where they were, or why they were 
there. It hurt to see them so lost. 
“Come with me,” Sera said. The women followed, looking 
neither right nor left. She didn’t waste time explaining, but led 
them into the makeshift nursery. The women stood like statues, 
staring at the red-faced, writhing little bodies in the cribs. 
“Oh, God in Heaven!” cried one of them. Tears streamed 
down her face as she ran to a crib and, with careful, practiced 
hands, lifted the little burden. The baby’s legs pumped in a 
paroxysm of hungry rage, and his back arched against the 
woman’s hands, but she held him safe, settled on a window 
seat and gathered him against her. The baby snuffled blindly 
and found what he needed. 
Another woman went to a cradle, and another, and another. 
The room, as if by miracle, quieted. Nothing could be heard but 
the contented, soft sound of babies at the breast and a woman’s 
occasional, fierce sob. 
Father Anselm stood quietly beside Sera. “Our king may 
believe that he brought you to our country, but I know better, 
my dear. When there is great suffering, God sends his angels.” 
Sera shook her head, red with embarrassment. “I am no 
angel,” she said. 
Father Anselm’s mouth curved in a kindly smile. “Not for 
many years yet, I hope. But when there is need in Laurentia, 
you will fill it.” 
*** 
Two days later, Sera sat in the cloister of the chapter house 
awaiting her chance to slip away. Almost everyone but the 
smallest children helped at this early morning hour with the 
rebuilding efforts in the city. Thanks to young Ivan Drominsky, 
she had a list of Selonia’s inns. 
Until yesterday, Lieutenant Oblomov’s careful attentiveness 
had made it impossible for her to search for the thief. Everywhere 

she walked, he followed. When she tried to evade him, he simply 
smiled and said, “I’m under orders to keep you safe, m’lady.” 
To keep me from escaping, she thought glumly. 
So yesterday morning, she had asked Father Anselm to walk 
her back to camp every night. Then, she told young Oblomov 
that he could leave her each morning after depositing her in the 
orphanage. Of course, he didn’t need to know that she would 
leave the orphanage at noon in search of the thief. 
Sera rose and headed for the cloister gate. With her hand 
on the latch, she heard Father Anselm calling out behind her. 
“Sera, come quickly!” The priest sounded winded and 
frightened. 
The expression on his drawn face made Sera hurry to him. 
“What’s happened?” she asked him, matching his running steps 
as they passed through the archways to the kitchen. 
“Ivan’s hurt,” he said, mopping his brow as they entered. 
Ivan lay whimpering on the long wooden table in the center of 
the kitchen. Blood ran down his leg like a stream in flood. A 
pile of bandages and a bowl of clean water lay on a small table 
beside him. 
“He fell on a broken windowpane. I told him not to forage 
through the ruins, but would he listen? Heavens, the doctor’s 
on the western side of the city, and I must fetch him myself. 
Will you stay with him until I return with the doctor? He’s 
bleeding heavily. I don’t know, Sera,” Father Anselm said in a 
low voice. “It looks very bad. Perhaps there’s something you 
can do for him.” 
Fear gripped her—that she was unequal to the task, and 
that Ivan would suffer for it. “I’ve only worked with horses, 
Father. Do not expect much. But I’ll try,” Sera said. 
“Do your best to stanch the blood flow,” said Father Anselm. 
He ran off to find the doctor. 
Ivan’s freckles stood out on a thin little face that was as 
white as the bandages, and his eyes were wild with pain. “Didn’t 
mean to, milady,” he said in a reedy voice. “But it hurts 
something fierce, it does.” He grabbed Sera’s wrist. 
“You helped the babies. Help me, please.” Sera felt sick 
with apprehension. From the looks of it, the boy didn’t have 
long. And the doctor was very far away. 
Oh, gods! If only the gift flowed through her in full strength! 

All of her pity surged toward Ivan. He grew more waxen by the 
minute. She had to try. Tying a bandage around Ivan’s leg just 
above the wound, Sera let the limited power she had rise within 
her. 
“Sleep,” she wished him. 
Ivan’s eyes blinked once, twice, and closed. His face 
smoothed of pain. 
Sera examined the leg. The glass was still embedded, a long, 
wicked shard plunged into the skin. Ivan’s pulse was weak and 
thready. She shut her eyes and thought clarity, thought peace, 
thought strength. 
The light flooded her. Her heart pounded in a rhythm deep 
and steady, like the tolling of a bell, like the sighing of waves 
against the shore. 
She bent to the work before her, washing the boy’s leg and 
grasping the glass between steady fingers. She tugged, one pull, 
and the glass slid out, leaving a deep gash. She put her hands 
on the gash, delving into that place of calm, directing it outward 
and into the wound, as she did with the horses. The wound grew 
warm beneath her hands. The very air about them both vibrated, 
and she felt the surge of her own blood, her own life, rise through 
her and into Ivan from the tips of her fingers. And there was 
stillness to the room, as though time had stopped in its tracks, 
as though all life paused to listen. A pulsing peace encircled her 
and the child. 
“All will be well,” she said, from the lucid calm that cradled 
them. 
Suddenly, it was over. Sounds from the street insinuated 
their way into the room, and the breeze piped about her skirts. 
The boy slept on, and she sagged against the table, drained, 
weary beyond belief. Her legs could just carry her to a plain 
wooden chair, and she collapsed into it. 
Time must have passed, but she barely noticed it. Her legs 
were still limp as wet wool. Her heavy lids opened reluctantly 
to view her patient. Ivan slept peacefully. It might have been 
another hour before she had the strength to get up, and when 
she finally rose to her feet, she bandaged the boy’s leg and 
cleaned up the blood. 
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the kitchen. Sera 
looked up to see Father Anselm hurrying in with the doctor, 

who set down his bag and deftly unwrapped the bandage. 
He looked from the leg to Father Anselm. “You brought 
me from a woman in labor for this? ’Tis but a scratch.” 
Father Anselm bent over Ivan’s leg. “No. It couldn’t be. He 
was bleeding copiously.” 
The doctor raised a skeptical brow. “Then I suggest you set 
up a shrine in this kitchen, because that boy’s just had a miracle 
cure. On the other hand, perhaps you need a rest, Father. You 
have obviously been working much too hard.” 
“I saw it, I tell you.” 
The doctor waved his fingers impatiently. “Some other time 
we’ll discuss this. I must return to Madame DuLac.” 
As the doctor’s footsteps died away, Father Anselm stared 
at Sera. She turned away from him and busied herself with 
needless cleaning chores. 
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Father Anselm shake 
his head. “I’ll not ask you a thing, my lady. Nor will I discuss 
this elsewhere. But I thank you for saving that boy’s leg, and I 
hope someday you’ll tell me how you did it.” 
Sera slipped from the kitchen as soon as she could, leaving 
Father Anselm to sit by Ivan until he awoke. As she left the 
orphanage, her stomach queasy from doubt and effort, she 
fretted. 
Had the Gift finally awakened in all its fullness? How would 
she learn to control it without Grandfather’s guidance? Would 
it be obvious to others here—like a second head suddenly 
sprouted? They would hate her if they knew. They would 
whisper, and the whispers would grow into shouts of hatred. In 
the end, they would kill her, just as they’d killed her mother. If 
the Gift remained a part of her, home was the only place where 
she could live in peace. 
She hid her clenched hands in her apron. And felt the crackle 
of paper—her list of inns—her possible exit from this world of 
terror and misery. Stopping a woman passing by for directions, 
Sera set out for the hill leading to the northern end of the city. 
She climbed, skirting fallen timbers and rocks until, halfway 
up, she paused and stared, bemused. Silhouetted against the 
sun, Nicholas stood speaking to a group of men. He mustn’t 
see her and wonder and ask questions. 
She slipped behind a copse of bushes. His back was to her, 

his long legs braced slightly apart, and he pointed at something 
in the distance. The light turned his thin linen shirt translucent. 
The play of muscle along his broad back and arms left her 
slightly breathless. Her gaze stroked his slim waist and hips. 
The men clustered around him looked at him with absolute 
trust. Someone gave him a map. His head bent over it, and he 
spoke again. The men’s faces cleared of worry. 
Something hurt, deep in her chest. She would be leaving so 
soon. Seizing the stolen moment and holding it close, Sera 
committed his face, his beautiful, strong body, his lithe 
movements, to memory. Very soon, she would be home again. 
And life would no longer hold the promise of his presence. 
Carefully, silently, she backed away, and then she climbed up 
the long, steep hill. 
The Blue Herron was situated high above the ruins. A stiff 
wind would have torn the inn’s ramshackle shutters from the 
windows, and the building leaned precariously to one side. In 
the yard, drovers shouted crude invitations to women leaning 
from the upper story windows, the necklines of their gowns cut 
so low that their breasts were barely covered. 
At Sera’s approach, a man turned. “Eh, Darlin’, wantin’ a 
bit of coin, are you?” He came toward her, grinning and holding 
out his hand. “You look like a fine ’un, you do. Come away 
with me, luv, and I’ll show you a good time and give you top 
price.” 
Sera’s heart began to pound. The man looked at her as 
Dawson had. She forced herself not to back away and run. 
“Leave ’er be, Tom,” yelled another across the yard. “She’s 
quality, she is.” 
“What’s she doin’ in a place like this, if she’s an aristo, eh 
Cully?” the first replied. 
“I’m looking for a man,” said Sera, just barely holding her 
ground. 
“See, Cully, what’d I tell ya’? An’ I’m yer man, I am.” 
“No, you are not.” Sera cleared her throat. “I am looking 
for a particular man. A merchant. Medium height, dark hair and 
beard, carrying a great many jewels. Have you seen him? I can 
offer a reward for any information.” 
“How much?” asked the big drover. 
“Five Laurentian pounds sterling.” She had that much in 

wages from Master Raymond. “Do you know of him?” 
The drover scratched his head. “Little lady, I’m that tempted 
to say I do and take your money fer a tale I’d make up, but 
there’s too much trouble in this town, and I’ll not add to it. I’m 
that sorry, but I don’t know of any merchant. We’re just arrived 
yester’eve. None of these men will know him.” 
“Perhaps the women, or the innkeeper. . ..” Sera looked up 
at the women in the windows, who were listening intently. 
“The innkeeper, is that what you call him these days?” 
shouted a blonde with rouged lips and cheeks. The others all 
laughed. 
“I might know of someone who knows of someone who 
knows where the merchant is,” said the blonde. “Come back 
tomorrow, and bring your money. I’ll have more news by then.” 
A short time later, Sera slipped back into the orphanage. At 
this moment, giddy with hope, she wanted to dance, to leap and 
skip. Tomorrow, she would surely find the thief and the ruby. 
She had to calm herself, before anyone saw her in this state 
of exultation. Sitting down on a bench warmed by the sun, she 
shut her eyes and breathed deeply. When she opened them, she 
saw Father Anselm walking toward her. His face clouded in 
worry. 
“Do you mind?” He motioned to the place beside her on 
the bench. 
“No, please.” Sera made room for him and he sat with a 
gusty sigh. 
“Ivan Drominsky has fully recovered, but I suppose you 
expected that. He asked for you, and when I told him you had 
left the orphanage for a little while, he said you’ve been 
wandering the city alone, and not in the safer districts. Is that 
true?” 
Sera froze in fear. 
“I can see that it is,” said Father Anselm quietly. “Really, 
my dear, I must warn you that it’s not safe for a woman to walk 
alone. Can’t you ask young Oblomov to attend you on these 
journeys?” 
Sera pressed her fists to her sides. “He has duties of his 
own.” 
In the silence, she could feel Father Anselm’s gaze and held 
her breath, wishing him away before he asked for what she 

couldn’t give—the truth. 
“Please,” she whispered. “Don’t tell anyone else.” 
“I won’t disclose your secrets unless you allow me to. But 
for your safety, please take Ivan and a few of the older boys 
with you, wherever you go. It will keep the young scamp 
occupied and out of the ruins. Will you do that, at least?” 
The boys. . .. Did she dare involve them? Did she have a 
choice? 
“All right,” she said. 
Father Anselm patted her hand. “That’s good. You have 
taken a weight off my mind, Sera.” Then his gentle gaze held 
hers. “Please consider me a friend. I’ll never fear you, my dear, 
nor condemn you for any unexplainable gifts you might have.” 
He left her then, to sit, trembling, until she could force herself 
to walk back into the chapter house. 
*** 
“There you are. Not working her too hard, are you Father?” 
Nicholas forced himself to walk toward Sera in an easy, relaxed 
stride when what he wanted to do was race to her and shake her 
for being late and not sending word tonight. How could he 
possibly get anything done when he worried about what perils 
she might face in the gutted ruins near the chapter house? Just 
yesterday, he’d heard that she’d searched through a condemned 
house for a child’s favorite blanket. 
She looked tired, and at the same time almost twitchy, with 
a kind of excess emotion tugging at her beneath the calm surface 
she attempted. 
“I have kept an eye on her, sire,” said Father Anselm. 
Nicholas gave him a grateful grin. 
“But she is a stubborn little thing,” Father Anselm continued. 
“I doubt she took the time to dine this afternoon.” 
“I was planning on it, Father,” Sera said in protest. “Other 
problems took precedence.” 
“As you see, your majesty.” Father Anselm gave Nicholas 
a wry smile. 
Nicholas nodded, seeing far too well. “Between the two of 
us, we’ll keep her healthy,” he said. 
“I am perfectly fine,” said Sera quickly. 
“So I see.” With Sera, a man had to pick his battles carefully. 
“Lieutenant Carlsohnn has already laid the table. Will you join 

us, Father?” 
“No, thank you. I must return to the orphanage. Two of the 
boys got into a scrape, and I’m to judge their punishment. I 
shall see you on the morrow, my dear.” He bowed to Sera, and 
then to Nicholas, and walked away, whistling. 
She entered the tent ahead of Nicholas and took her seat at 
the small table. He sat across from her, studying her face while 
he told her about his day. 
“The architect who will build the baths has a temperament. 
Have your ever met a man with artistic temperament? No, there 
are probably none where you come from. 
“This man closes his eyes and says, ‘I’m thinking.’ Then 
he goes on to say ochre Ionic columns or Roman murals of 
mermaids and satyrs or something else that gives apoplexy to 
the entire city council. And then I am supposed to make aesthetic 
judgments on this project—I, who have no real interest in more 
than the rough engineering and problem solving. I’ll be the first 
king deposed for his lack of artistic appreciation.” 
Sera looked down at her plate. For a moment, studying her 
down-turned face, Nicholas thought he saw guilt and fear flit 
across it. 
“I must be losing my touch,” said Nicholas. What foolish 
scheme was she hatching now, and why? 
“I thought you were beginning to like my Outlander humor,” 
he said, accenting both syllables as she did. At his gentle 
teasing, she lowered her chin further, and her flush came all the 
way up to her forehead. The niggling worry turned to real 
anxiety. 
“Is anything wrong, Sera?” 
“No,” she said. 
Finally, Nicholas dropped his napkin beside his plate and 
leaned toward her. His fingers lifted her chin. He frowned, 
studying her face. 
“You look weary. Haven’t you been sleeping well?” 
“You needn’t interrogate me,” she said with more asperity 
than he’d heard since he’d informed her that she must stay in 
Laurentia, with him. 
The anxiety turned to dread. She was planning something— 
another escape. He was certain of it. “If you don’t get more 
rest, perhaps you should return to Montanyard.” 

Sera’s chin jerked. “Absolutely not. I’m fine, I tell you.” 
He raised a brow and gave her a long look. “Why aren’t 
you sleeping?” 
“I sleep well enough,” she said and grabbed her fork, 
spearing the fillet and chewing rapidly to keep him from asking 
her more questions. 
“Yes, I can see by the circles beneath your eyes. And your 
voracious appetite,” he continued, eyeing her half-finished plate. 
“We shall have to order larger portions for you.” 
“That is another attempt at this Outlander hu-mor, no doubt,” 
Sera said. She gave him a defiant look, but there was fear beneath 
it. And suddenly, tonight, he didn’t want to fight. He just wanted 
what he always wanted from Sera. A little trust, so he could 
solve the seemingly overwhelming problems she carried with 
her. 
“Well?” 
“It’s the children,” she said, and he knew immediately from 
her quick, guilty glance, and the relief behind it, that it was not 
the real reason, but also, not quite a lie. “There are some who 
will never find families to take them in—boys too old and streetwise 
to be charming, girls not pretty enough. What will you do 
with them?” 
“Wrong question. What will you do with them, Sera?” 
“I?” 
He nodded. “From the first day here, they belonged to you. 
Set up a school, an apprenticeship program—everything we’ve 
talked about. Tell me what you need, and I’ll see that you get 
it.” 
“First Father Anselm and now you,” she said with a sigh. “I 
shan’t be here long enough to oversee such a project.” So she 
thought. But he knew how she liked Ivan, scrappy, angry with 
the world, mischievous. He tugged at her, just as the other 
urchins did. She couldn’t deny them. He needed this to hold 
her here, with him. 
So Nicholas simply gave her a knowing smile, and he called 
for Carlsohnn, who cleared the table and brought his writing 
desk. This was their pattern. Every evening after dinner, she 
wrote directives while he dictated. He would pace the small 
tent, then pause behind her to think as she bent over the writing 
desk. Idly, he would brush his fingers down the graceful nape 

of her bent neck and rub his thumb along the silken skin right 
beneath her hairline, pretending he wasn’t holding his breath, 
waiting for her shiver of pleasure. He would lean over her to 
see how she’d written a phrase, his hands cupping her shoulders 
through the light wool of her gown, tormenting himself with 
the fresh, wildflower scent of her, wanting more, needing at 
least this. 
“First the school, I think.” He stood directly behind her and 
kneaded the knot of tension in her shoulders and neck. He felt 
triumph when she closed her eyes and arched her head back 
toward him. She was so close he could smell that elusive scent, 
see the rise and fall of her soft, rounded breasts beneath her 
gown with every heightened breath she took. 
And all the while, growing warm and hard from her 
closeness, and the need that sprang from something elemental 
inside him, he kept his voice light as he dictated directives that 
would bind her even more to him and this land. 
It was wrong, he knew, to have this overwhelming desire, 
to try to tempt her so she would stay forever. But here, in Selonia, 
they lived in a world apart. Couldn’t they both forget their duty 
to others, if only for a while? Besides, his country needed her. 
She had to stay. 
“The medical facilities,” Sera suggested, dipping the quill 
into the inkwell during a pause, as Nicholas began to pace the 
small tent. 
“It will need its own doctor, a good one. This is just the 
project that will bring Baron Summers out of retirement. He 
needs something more interesting than that ancient trout to keep 
him busy.” 
Sera stole a glance at his face, her face alight with their 
plans, with purpose. Like a greedy miser, he stored the 
memories—portraits of Sera in all her moods. And the odd sense 
of—what? Was this what they called joy?— that he felt on nights 
like this, when they joined their minds and hearts in common, 
hopeful plans. 
“Are you weary?” Her soft voice twined around his 
thoughts. 
“Not a bit.” 
She bent again to her writing, her lips curling in the 
beginning of a smile. 

Sera, who haunted his dreams, even when she fled him. 
Sera, who gave him sweet ease from his grief and his guilt over 
Selonia. What would he do with her when it was time to leave 
this place and return to his obligations? How could he ever tear 
himself away from her? 
*** 
The next afternoon, excitement jittered through Sera as she 
set off with the boys for the Blue Herron, the precious silver 
Laurentian pounds in the pocket of her gown. 
Solemn with their new responsibility, the boys climbed in 
a protective circle around her to the inn. The courtyard was 
even busier than it had been the day before. Wagons stood about 
while drovers yelled and unhitched horses skittered left and right 
in the noise. The blonde woman who had been at the window 
yesterday called out to her and beckoned with her hand. 
“He’s inside,” she said shortly. Sera entered the ramshackle 
building and stepped down a few rickety stairs into the main 
room. After the bright sunlight outside, this place was dim and 
gloomy. Years of soot from the fireplace stained the walls and 
ceiling. Old, scratched and marred tables and chairs with uneven 
legs filled the room. It smelled of sweat and sour ale. A burley 
man sat at one of the tables drinking ale. His clothing, once a 
bright red jacket and black trousers, looked grimy and soot-
stained. His face had a hopeless, empty look to it. 
“There’s your man.” The blonde woman pointed him out 
and left the room. Sera walked to the table, taking care to keep 
her clothing from brushing against the gritty furniture. The boys 
closed in around her, their eyes glancing left and right. 
“Are you the man who knows of the merchant who was 
here last week?” 
“The one with the ruby as big as half your palm? Aye, I be 
he.” 
Sera slid the coins across the table toward the man. 
The man slid them back to her and gave her a look of despair. 
“Nay, mistress. I can’t take your coin, for I no longer know 
where he’s gone.” 
Sera’s heart sank to her feet. “Can you direct me to someone 
who will know?” she asked. 
The man shook his head slowly. “Nay. He hired us to guard 
him. There were ten of us, and later, ten more. We stayed at the 

best inn in town, The Pavillion. Never saw such a place. It was 
fine, it was. Until it burned the night the bastards came to Selonia 
and sacked it.” The man stared down at his ale. 
“I was the only one of the ten who made it out alive. The 
merchant? They didn’t find his body, but nobody knows where 
he’s gone. He just disappeared. Now all I want to do is go home 
and see my wife and children again. After I find work here, I’ll 
save enough to get home. Just see if I don’t.” The man sat, 
staring at nothing, his hand lying listlessly on the table beside 
his ale. 
The world turned gray as ashes. Sera bit her lip and looked 
down at the coins on the table. Then she looked at the man 
slumped before her. His face showed the defeat she felt. She 
gathered up the money and took the man’s hand. Turning it 
over, she placed the coins in it and closed his fist around them. 
“Here,” she whispered. “Take it and go home.” 
“But mistress, I…” 
“By the gods, man. Be grateful you can go home.” Sera 
squeezed the man’s shoulder and walked blindly out of the inn. 
The boys ran to catch up. She was vaguely aware of their 
presence through the gray mist that closed her in. She was 
vaguely aware, as well, of the children’s games, the lessons 
going on in the makeshift classroom and the light slowly 
changing as she worked through the rest of the day. 
But when the darkness came, she entered Nicholas’s tent, 
and he was real. 
“Sera?” he said softly. 
She ran into his arms. “I am so tired,” she said. 
So easily he took her weight as she leaned into him. Tonight, 
she allowed herself to let go in this world of strangers and 
uncertainty. He smoothed her hair, lifted her into his arms, and 
strode to the cot. He sat holding her, stroking her back, 
murmuring against her hair that it would be all right, that he 
was there. He didn’t even ask what was wrong. He just held 
her, deep into the night. 
*** 
Sera woke in her cot. She was still dressed in her gown, but 
someone had removed her slippers. Nicholas must have carried 
her here some time in the night. She dragged herself into a sitting 
position and faced facts. The thief was but a chimera, now. But 

nobody knew for certain that he was dead. He might still be 
alive. Father Anselm had offered her help. That afternoon, she 
asked him for it. 
“Yes, I have heard of the merchant and his treasure,” said 
the priest. They were sitting in the chapter house garden, taking 
in the noon rays of sunshine with their meal. 
“Is it important to you to know whether the man is dead or 
alive?” he asked. 
“It is vital. And where he is if he is alive. Can you help 
me?” 
“It may take some time, but I have several friends in the 
countryside. If anyone knows of this man, I’ll send word of 
him to you.” 
“Thank you, Father. Thank you with all my heart.” It was 
only after Father Anselm gently removed her hand from the 
sleeve of his cassock that Sera realized she had been clutching 
it as though it were a life line. Relief flooded her, that Father 
Anselm trusted her. She began to hope again. 
That night, Nicholas told Sera that they could leave the city 
in the hands of its officials. She set out for the capital beside the 
king, surrounded by the divisions of cavalry. Still, she carried 
hope in her heart and purpose renewed. 
It was not until Nicholas and she rode together through the 
gates of Montanyard that Sera learned the king had not forgotten 
her last escape attempt, or his decision regarding her quarters. 
“When this war is over, I hope you’ll take part in solving 
the problems of all Laurentia’s orphans. In the meantime, your 
move into the palace will help you become acquainted with the 
people you will work with in the future.” 
Sera stared up at him, her eyes narrowing in the first stirring 
of fear and anger. “What do you mean, my move into the 
palace?” 
“I’ve already ordered your room readied,” he replied with 
a maddeningly calm smile. “It’s quite lovely, actually. You’ll 
like it. We’d do well to hurry, Sera. The modiste will be waiting 
for you now.” 
Sera had a difficult time keeping her voice from rising to a 
shout. “I have no need for new dresses. The horses do not care 
what I look like.” 
“Ah, but the courtiers do. Far more than is reasonable, in 

my opinion.” Nicholas’s voice was smooth as a boat gliding 
over quiet waters. “And since I expect you to be accepted as a 
member of my court, you’ll have to dress the part. It’s time for 
you to burn those plain gowns you seem so fond of.” He gave 
her a slow, heated look that covered her from the top of her 
head to the tips of her toes. 
“Did you think that I’ve forgotten what Dawson did to you? 
Did you suppose I would rescind my order? Learn this, if nothing 
else. Once given, my word is absolute. You are a lady to the 
bone, and as a lady, you will live.” 
Sera trembled with an overwhelming combination of fury 
and fear. If she could not get to Wind Rider, how would she 
ever get home? “You cannot keep me from the stables!” 
“You may ride every day with Katherine or one of the 
guards.” Nicholas looked different, now. His face was all sharp 
planes and angles—his brows straight, black slashes above eyes 
that burned down into hers. He looked too powerful, too 
dangerous, too male. He looked at her as though he owned her 
soul. Numbly, she shook her head, trying to shove back against 
the force he was exerting on her with just a look. 
“If you have another brilliant plan to escape, forget it,” he 
said in a controlled, low voice that made her shiver more than if 
he had shouted at her. “I’ll know where you are at every 
moment.” He leaned toward her, ostensibly removing a small 
branch from her shoulder where it had fallen sometime during 
the ride, but Sera knew he was using the moment, branding her 
with that light touch, just to let her know how closely he intended 
to guard her. 
“I told you on the night when I came after you, Sera. You 
are mine, and I’ll never let you escape. Get used to it.” 
Nicholas waved away the groom waiting to take his horse. 
He wheeled sharply and galloped off in the direction of the park, 
leaving Sera to dismount at the entry to the palace, trying to 
still her body’s helpless shaking. 
*** 
Nicholas found a secluded prospect in the park upon a rocky 
hill. He dismounted and sat blindly staring out at the river 
beyond. He wished he had never seen Sera, wished that he had 
her in his bed, at his table, by his side every waking hour of the 
day. 

Wishes were useless, trapping a man in dreams that couldn’t 
come true. Because of wishes, he held a woman against her 
will whom he could neither woo nor forget. 
He faced reality. Selonia was over. The desperately needed 
alliance with Beaureve had him trapped. Even if he were free, 
his obsession with Sera threatened everything he had worked 
all his life to build. 
His father had shown him what happened to a man who 
lost control of his emotions. Everyone in the kingdom had 
suffered because of it. 
He would never do the same. Laurentia’s fate depended 
upon it. 
He knew the tightrope he walked every day, holding on to 
his health by strict self-control, never knowing when his body 
would betray him. So far, that control had protected Laurentia, 
for it kept the illness at bay. That control also meant that he 
very rarely made a mistake. 
Until Sera. With Sera, he’d lost his edge, cared less about 
perfection and more about joy. Any more of this self-indulgent 
dreaming and he’d lose complete control. 
Usually, he hid inside from winter, fenced and boxed 
rigorously, got his rest, and never overindulged in food, drink 
or sensuality. But now, he had visions of skating with Sera on a 
frozen pond, teaching her to drink champagne, and keeping her 
up all night with his lovemaking. With Sera, he forgot he wasn’t 
. . . normal. He gritted his teeth. What folly! He might make 
himself sick for weeks and bring the country down with him. 
He remounted, and rode toward the palace. And halted the horse 
twenty feet from where he had begun. 
“Bloody hell,” he said aloud. Why had he ordered that Sera 
occupy the one chamber in the palace that was accessible to 
his? 
The first hale from a guard galloping toward him startled 
him from his thoughts. “Oblomov,” he said, recognizing the 
young lieutenant from Selonia. He and Carlsohnn were close 
friends and both had excellent heads on their shoulders, except 
in the presence of one impossibly beautiful Hill woman. They 
had followed Sera about in Selonia like adoring pups. 
“What news?” Nicholas asked. 
“Dawson, Sire—he’s escaped.” 

The first chill of fear shot through Nicholas. “When?” 
“Last night. He had a visitor, a woman. She must have 
slipped him a knife. He used it to kill the guard who brought 
him supper. The soldiers have been searching since midnight, 
but to no avail.” 
“Send out more men. Scour the forest where he’ll go to 
ground. Go. Do it now.” 
Oblomov wheeled his horse and galloped back toward the 
palace. Nicholas took the path toward the stables at no less a 
pace. He didn’t understand why his heart kept pounding like a 
hammer in his chest. Any sane man would cut and run given 
Dawson’s options. But there was something about the way 
Dawson had looked at Sera. Nicholas had seen that look on the 
faces of the country folk when they set out milk and honey at 
night to keep the wood spirits from stealing their babes. It was 
raw fear of unknown, powerful forces—like witchcraft and 
magic. And a man like Dawson would wish to utterly defile 
and destroy what he feared. 
*** 
Dawson raced through the forest, almost mad with 
exultation and terror. He had managed it—taken advantage of 
the confusion after the sacking of Selonia and escaped the dank, 
filthy pit they’d thrown him into. The young guard who had 
heard his moans in the night and his pleas for help lay dead, his 
throat slit. It was child’s play, really, and even easier to steal a 
mount from the stables when half the grooms were at the borders 
with the army. 
If he could just get to the eastern border and enter Beaureve 
without being stopped! He was so close. As he whipped the 
horse on, it crashed forward through bracken and vine. He was 
going to make it, he just knew— 
A hand shot out, grabbing the reins. The horse shied, rearing, 
and flung Dawson to the ground. He groaned, shook his head 
to clear it, and rose on one elbow. A sword at his throat, the 
point sticking in just enough to pierce the skin, stopped his 
movement, and he looked up in terror. A band of men surrounded 
him. He was too scared to turn his head and count them, but 
there were many, dressed completely in black against a gray 
dawn. 
The Brotherhood! He’d be dead in less time than it took to 

swallow if he didn’t think fast. His mind worked at a fever pitch. 
“Please,” he said. “I have naught against you. I like what y’er 
doin’. Got my own beef against that bastard Nicholas. Truth to 
tell, I was lookin’ fer you, hopin’ to join with you against him. 
I’m good with a knife, and I can shoot straight. Just tell me who 
to kill, and I’ll do it. Won’t ask fer a pence, believe me. It’ll be 
my pleasure.” 
The man with the sword at his throat paused a moment, 
looked over his head to another who stood opposite. They spoke, 
to Dawson’s surprise, in Beaurevian, and he felt his bowels 
cramp. From what he heard, they normally never spoke. If they 
betrayed their nationality in front of him, he didn’t have much 
of a chance, did he? 
“I know the palace real well,” he said through a dry throat. 
“Jest take me to the man in charge, and I’ll tell him things that’ll 
help him.” The point of the sword at his throat dug in deeper. 
“Think how mad he’ll be if you lose this chance, eh?” he 
wheedled, driven by desperation. The sword withdrew, slowly. 
Dawson remembered to breathe. 
“Come,” the man standing above him said in Laurentian. 
They let him mount, which Dawson considered a hopeful sign. 
Then they shot out of the forest and across a field. For a few 
hours they traveled through rocky ways, until they came to a 
mountain valley. The leader rode ahead. The others made him 
dismount and watched him with cold and wary eyes. Dawson 
stood up and tried to look cocky until the dark stares of the men 
sent him skittering for a log. He sat, head down, trying to block 
out the gibbering terror that lodged in his brain. 
At the sound of hoof beats, he jumped up. A rough hand 
pushed him down again. He groaned, landing on his knee against 
a sharp rock, but he remained kneeling, too terrified to even 
look up. 
A shadow crept over him, chilling his flesh and making it 
crawl. “You have information about the palace?” The sinister 
voice seemed to come from the grave. 
“Aye. I worked there for many a day,” he said and shifted, 
trying to ease his knee off the rock. 
“Tell me why I should not kill you now,” said the voice. He 
chanced a look at the speaker. A figure, cloaked and hooded in 
black seemingly without face or real substance, stood above 

him. For one mad moment, Dawson thought he looked at Death, 
himself. But a hand covered in flesh appeared from beneath the 
cloak. 
“I can help you. I can tell you things about the palace, about 
the people who are closest to the king. You can use me, sir.” 
“I am interested in a girl,” said the voice. “A new arrival. 
Do you know of her?” 
“Aye! Aye, I do, sir. Sera, she’s called. Worked in the stables, 
’til the king took a liking to her.” He thought of the thrashing, 
the humiliation, and his anger overrode his fear. 
“Now I hear she’s to settle in the palace. Nicholas, he wants 
to ride her. She’s a pretty enough piece, and eager to spread her 
legs for him.” 
“Sera,” said the voice. “Seraphina, perhaps.” 
“If you want her, sir, I could find her fer you. I’m probably 
the only one here who knows what she looks like, eh? And I’ll 
do it, not fer a reward, but fer the pleasure of seeing that little 
whore brought low. Would you like fer me to bring her, sir?” 
The hand holding the sword hesitated and dropped. 
Dawson shuddered in relief. The sweat poured down his back, 
and he prayed that his cramping bowels wouldn’t give way. 
The specter motioned, and three men stepped forward. 
“These men will accompany you. They will stick closer 
to you than your own skin. If you have not produced the girl by 
the month’s end, they will kill you. Do you understand?” 
Dawson nodded madly. “Aye, sir. You needn’t worry, 
sir. I’ll bring her back before the new moon.” 

Seven
“Sera!” 
As she stared in devastation after Nicholas galloping toward 
the park, Sera heard Katherine’s voice. Katherine ran down the 
stairway, her face flushed and wreathed with smiles. Reaching 
Wind Rider’s side, she scratched his chin and looked up at Sera. 
“I am so glad to see you. Nicholas sent a messenger to me 
immediately after he found you. I was so relieved.” Katherine 
reached up a hand and squeezed Sera’s as it gripped the reins. 
“You mustn’t try to run away from us again. So many terrible 
things could have happened to you, and then how I would have 
suffered for you!” 
A groom helped her down and bowed low. Reluctantly, she 
realized there was nothing else to do but walk into the palace’s 
front entrance beside Katherine. She had never come this way 
before. Her ignominious visits had been in the dark of night, 
through the back stairways for yet another royal scolding. Now 
she climbed wide marble stairs and walked through a tall set of 
double doors intricately carved in bronze. Another imposing 
marble staircase led into an enormous hallway beneath a high, 
high dome. 
It was an odd sort of palace. For all its glittering ormolu 
vases, its overly fussy inlaid furniture and its magnificent statues, 
it was beautiful in the way that a harmonious natural setting 
was beautiful. If Sera didn’t consider it a prison, she would 
have felt almost comfortable in it. 
“My grandfather had it built,” said Katherine. “I’ve always 
loved it—the airiness and the sense that a family, not a monarch, 
lives here.” 
“Come,” she said, as Sera lingered before a statue of Apollo 
with his lyre, thinking of home. “You must be fitted for gowns. 
Tomorrow, if you’re not too weary from your journey, I’ll show 
you the town.” 
Katherine stopped before a door on the second story and 
opened it. 
Sera stepped inside and stared. “You use these chambers 
merely for sleeping?” she asked, shocked at the space around 
her. 

“Of course. Nicholas insisted that this one be made ready 
for you. It was my grandmother’s. Do you like the wallpaper? I 
used to count the species of birds when I was a little girl, but I 
never could count that high.” 
“This is not a room for someone like me,” said Sera, looking 
at the bright colors on the wall, the pink silk curtains hanging 
from the high tester above the wide bed, the blue Aubusson 
carpet that covered the entire floor. 
“Oh, but my lady, it is perfect for you. With your golden 
coloring, your delicate bone structure.” A tall, slender modiste 
with graying curls bustled in, followed by three assistants, buried 
beneath the large bolts of cloth they carried. She bowed to 
Katherine as the princess walked toward the door. 
“I’ll see you later today,” said Katherine, and shut the door 
behind her. 
The modiste looked her up and down. “His majesty chose 
well—a charming setting for his beautiful jewel.” 
His beautiful jewel? “I am no one’s beautiful anything,” 
said Sera with a frown. 
The modiste prattled on as though she had not even heard 
Sera. “Now, we have little time to lose. You must have the first 
gown ready to wear by this evening, and also a sleeping gown, 
one that will enhance your lovely bosom and those soft 
shoulders. I have chosen a sky blue for you tonight. It only 
needs the measuring to complete it, and we will make more 
each day. If you will shed that. . .” Staring at Sera’s travel stained 
gown, the modiste sniffed and hurried her behind a screen set 
up at the end of the chamber. 
Deftly, she unhooked the gown, leaving Sera only in her 
chemise. She stood behind the screen, hot with embarrassment, 
while the woman wielded a tape measure across her breasts, 
her hips, and down her legs, clucking in admiration all the time. 
Sera had stripped to a short tunic many times on the exercise 
field, but never in her life had she experienced anything so 
invasive. 
“You are quite special, you know. The king has never gone 
so far as to house one like you in his palace.” 
Sera froze. “And just what do you mean by ‘one like me’, 
Madame?” 
“An irresistibly beautiful young woman who has captured 

the imagination of the commoners and the passion of a king.” 
The modiste nodded her head once in satisfaction. “Yes, that is 
exactly how I shall put it to Monsieur Carlsohnn when I order 
the rest of your fabric.” 
“You will not discuss me with anyone, Madame, else I shall 
not wear one of your gowns, and if I am asked why not, I shall 
say it is because you are a foolish gossip.” Sera controlled the 
urge to shake the woman. 
The modiste seemed not the least bit fazed by her outburst. 
“I assure you, Lady Sera,” she said cheerfully, “the courtiers 
gossip already. Now that I’ve seen you, I shall certainly express 
my own admiration of your beauty to all of them.” 
Sera heaved an exasperated sigh and simply gave up the 
battle. The woman chatted on about how careful Sera must be 
to dispose her favors upon only the most powerful and the richest 
of the nobles, for she would, of course, wish to influence the 
king in their favor only when liberally rewarded. “Take jewels, 
that’s my advice. Coin is so déclassé,” said the modiste as she 
pinned and tucked the dreadful silk nightgown that revealed far 
too much of Sera’s breasts. 
Sera felt her stomach lurch. One such as she. The king’s 
mistress—that is what this woman meant, and everyone knew 
it. 
The modiste finally quitted the room, taking Sera’s only 
gown. She heard a sound at the door and skittered behind the 
screen again. As it opened, she peeked out. Servants entered 
with a hip bath that they placed before the fire and filled with 
hot, steaming water. They laid towels and a robe upon a wooden 
chest and left silently. 
She scrubbed her body hard in the bath, trying to wash away 
more than the dust of the road. Her mind went round and round 
on the best way to escape Montanyard, but there were guards, 
and walls, and a king who could find her as easily as a mage 
could find the Hills in a hill cloak. She bowed her head, her hair 
trailing in the cooling water, feeling like a bird caught in a snare. 
She shivered, reached for a towel and dried her body. 
Wrapping the robe about her, she walked to the tall windows 
and looked out at the park, longing for freedom and home. Her 
hand rested on the wall, with its brilliant paintings of birds and 
flowers. Idly, she traced the outline of a beautiful bright green 

bird in flight, stroking the spread wings, the rose colored throat, 
the jewled eye. Her fingers paused. Her eyes widened. 
“A nikos,” she whispered, startled and amazed. “How? Who 
knew of this?” 
A nikos, precious and symbolic—found in only one place 
in the world. 
Arkadia. 
Sera pressed her forehead against the cool pane of the 
window and quiet filled her soul. Surely, this was a sign that 
somehow, someday, she would go home again. 
The next morning, she left the beautiful cage that was her 
chamber to meet Katherine in the palace’s entry hall. The 
princess, dressed in her pelisse and muff, peered out the high 
window and frowned. “I don’t know whether we can go today,” 
she said. “Just look at those clouds. You can hear the wind. It’s 
going to rain at any minute, and I’m not allowed to go out when 
the weather looks so threatening.” 
Sera looked up at the sky and over at Katherine’s gloomy 
face. In some ways, the princess was as much a slave to her 
position as Sera had been in Hadar’s palace. 
She looked up at the sky again and wondered. If I truly had 
the Gift in all its power, would it be so bad to use it for Katherine? 
To give her a happy day, would it be wrong to ask the sun to 
come out and the clouds to disperse? What harm could it do? 
“Come on sun,” she whispered inside her heart, inwardly 
chuckling at her own foolishness. “Shine for Katherine.” 
The sky lightened. The clouds thinned. Wisps of blue 
showed through the gray, and then, like a triumphant conqueror, 
the sun burst through, warming the earth. Even the brisk wind 
quieted to a pleasant breeze. 
Katherine turned to her laughing in delight. “Did you see 
that? It was almost as if the sun felt sorry for me. Hurry! If we 
get out of here now, nobody can call us back.” 
Katherine’s face was aglow with more than crisp air and 
bright morning sunlight. “I want to thank you,” she said in a 
confiding voice. 
“For what?” Sera asked in guilty surprise. Could Katherine 
have guessed? For that matter, had she actually brought about 
the change in weather, or had she simply wished when the 
weather decided to change of its own accord? Fear gripped her. 

How could she learn what to control and what to set free when 
she had no one to ask? 
“To thank you for so many things,” Katherine said, bringing 
her back from her frightening thoughts. “Your friendship. The 
chance to talk to you about matters closest to my heart. For the 
courage you gave me to finally reveal myself to…to…” 
“You didn’t! Did you truly, Katherine?” 
Katherine blushed, this time a rosy, feminine color that 
complemented her glowing dark eyes. “I did! I lured Andre into 
the garden last night, and I told him of my feelings for him, and 
he, well, he returns them, Sera. Really, to hear him, his ardor, 
his voice! He took my hand, and he kissed it. He knelt before 
me—can you believe it? Me!” 
“Of course I believe it, goose. Anyone looking at him could 
see it in his eyes. That is wonderful news. I wish you happy, 
Katherine, with all my heart.” 
Katherine stared at her as though she had lost her wits. “But 
we cannot wed, you know that. Still, it’s good to know one is 
loved in so delightfully thorough a manner.” 
“You should wed! When this war is over, everything will 
change for the best. Perhaps the Russians will defeat Bonaparte, 
and Nicholas will find and defeat the Brotherhood. It is possible, 
you know.” 
“Oh, my dear,” said Katherine, and her beautiful, expressive 
eyes looked upon her with such compassion. “You are a dreamer, 
and I’m, well, I’m a Rostov. My future doesn’t hold happiness, 
but duty.” 
Then, her lips curved in a mischievous grin. “So, let us be 
realists, Sera, and indulge ourselves where we may, in a 
shopping spree.” 
“A shopping what?” 
“A spree. Where you don’t care about economy—you just 
buy whatever you like and hang the cost.” At Sera’s blank stare, 
Katherine laughed. 
“Don’t tell me you’ve never done anything without 
considering the cost?” 
“One thing,” Sera said quietly. And that was why she was 
in this strange world. 
But it was difficult to hold even a wisp of resentment with 
Katherine. The townspeople bowed and smiled at them as they 

walked toward the town, followed at a discreet distance by a 
palace footman. The princess insisted upon buying her an 
intricately embroidered blue shawl from Kashmir, a pair of pink 
satin dancing slippers that were so pretty she did not even object, 
and a pair of white leather gloves that were soft as butter. 
The drapers, silversmiths, cobblers, and confectioners Sera 
met that day made her feel more at home than the pinched-
nosed courtiers she had passed on her way to Katherine’s room. 
They welcomed her with the same familiar fondness they 
showed their princess. At Carlsohnn’s, the fine fabric shop, Sera 
spied some lace in the back corner of the shop window. It would 
be perfect for Katherine. Sera bade her move ahead to the next 
shop, planning to buy some of it for her as a surprise. 
“Aye, Lady Sera,” said the draper unrolling the lace and 
cutting several yards of it, “it’s convent made. Feel it, now. Ain’t 
it lovely?” 
Sera allowed that it was, indeed. 
“Our boy, Billy Carlsohnn, was the ensign for his majesty, 
all the time you were in Selonia. And our cousin, Carrie, her 
youngster was the little girl you found at the orphanage for her. 
Oh! You’re all they can talk about. We’re that grateful, my lady.” 
The draper handed her a brown parcel wrapped with a length 
of string. “And if I might be so bold as to congratulate you, my 
lady, I believe I speak for all of us.” 
Sera ran to catch up with Katherine, who stood beside the 
heavily burdened footman in front of a small teashop with a 
blue and white sign above the door. 
Katherine eyed the menu posted upon the window. “Oh, 
lovely! They have those little poppy seed cakes that you must 
try, and the cream filled tarts.” 
“Katherine,” she said, holding her back with a hand on her 
arm. “Monsieur Carlsohnn wished to congratulate me on 
something. What was he talking about? Have you any idea?” 
“About the new title and lands you own.” Katherine 
wrinkled her nose. “Didn’t Nikki explain it to you? You’re the 
Countess Fremons now.” 
Sera shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since we returned 
from Selonia.” That was only yesterday. Why did she feel as 
though eons had passed since she’d been with him? 
“What is this Countess Fremons nonsense?” she asked after 

Katherine led the way into the teashop and ordered for them. 
“Oh, Nikki thought that you ought to have a title and land 
of your own. Fremons has been in our family for generations. 
It’s a rich province, and you’ll love the old castle. It was built 
several centuries ago, but just last year, Nikki had it renovated.” 
“Katherine, I cannot accept a gift like that.” 
Katherine’s nose wrinkled in puzzlement. “Why not?” 
Because your controlling brother didn’t even bother to 
tell me himself, she thought. The waitress smiled and bobbed a 
curtsey as she set out the cakes and tea. 
Sera tried to put the matter calmly for Katherine’s sake. 
“Well, it’s rather a… bribe, isn’t it? For staying, I mean. I expect 
to go just as soon as I may.” She looked carefully at Katherine. 
“You do realize that, don’t you?” 
Katherine shrugged and smiled. “Oh, I know that you wish 
to leave soon, but you wished to leave last week, and the week 
before that, and you’re still here.” She squeezed Sera’s hand. 
“It’s only fitting that you receive a title and land after all you 
have done for us.” 
“I have done nothing,” said Sera, and the teacup rattled 
against the saucer when she put it down. 
“Montanyard and Selonia do not agree. Nor do I. Now, try 
one of the gateaux—the one with the pink marzipan flower.” 
Nicholas gave her none of his time, but an outrageous title 
and land to go with it, did he? That underhanded, overbearing… 
Outlander! I am going home, she thought. Very soon. Just wait 
until I see him again—I’ll tell him what I think of his titles. 
*** 
Nicholas spent the time waiting for Sera to comply with 
his summons by attempting to work at his study desk. But he 
could barely concentrate on anything but the hands of the ormolu 
clock slowly rounding the hour. At the soft knock on his door, 
he jumped up from the chair, forced himself to stand quietly 
against the desk, and called for her enter. 
She slipped inside, a graceful woman of almost otherworldly 
beauty, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. “You wished to see 
me, Nicholas Rostov?” she asked him. 
“Where the devil have you been? I hoped to see you an 
hour ago.” 
“I was in the town with Katherine. Are you angry because 

you thought I had already escaped?” Sera’s face set in a stubborn 
expression, and Nicholas groaned inwardly. 
Against his own good sense, he had called for her in order 
to, well, not quite apologize, but to try and make up a little for 
their last meeting. It wasn’t well done of him to leave Sera alone 
without at least helping her to fit into palace life. 
He took a calming breath and began again. “I wished to see 
how you’re getting along, that’s all. Do you like your chamber?” 
She shrugged. “It is comfortable—as prisons go,” she said. 
He sighed. “I’m going to ignore that last, Sera, rather than 
go into the whys and wherefores of your stay in Laurentia. So 
you’ve been out in the town with Katherine. Did you enjoy 
yourself?” 
“When I could forget. I do not wish a title and land, Nicholas 
Rostov. Please, take it back.” 
He shook his head. “You don’t understand yet, Sera. 
Someday, you’ll meet a man at court. Someone you’ll wish to— 
to….” Oh, God, he had to stop stammering. He took another 
calming breath. “Someone you may marry. And in order to do 
that, you’ll need both the title and the land.” 
All the color drained from her face, to then rush back again. 
Her eyes gave off blue sparks of fire. “You think I would ever 
align myself with an Outlander?” 
He nodded. “If—if you loved him.” Rushing on, getting it 
all said, was the whole reason for this meeting, he reminded 
himself sternly, even as he ground his teeth at the thought of 
Sera with anyone else. 
“And you need to know all about the court if you’re to make 
a proper match. So I’ve made a list of your activities for the 
next month or so.” He grabbed up the paper and thrust it into 
her hands quickly so she would not suspect his own were a 
trifle unsteady. 
She perused the list, a look of shock fading from her face, 
to be replaced by the disdainful thrust of her chin. 
“A schedule. You’ve given me a schedule, like a schoolgirl. 
Do you think for one moment I shall keep to it?” 
Merde! It was worse dealing with Sera than with a hundred 
hostile ambassadors. He hated being devious and clever with 
her, when there had been only perfect harmony between them 
before. “If you wish access to the stables, yes. I think you’ll 

meet with the masters listed and learn what you need to know 
from them.” 
Her eyes flashed in regal scorn, and for a moment, he 
wondered what idiocy made him think she needed to know 
anything more about being a noblewoman. His hand reached 
out for her, then fell to his side. 
“I only want you to be happy here, Sera. It’s the best I can 
do. Please, try to understand that.” 
“I understand perfectly, Nicholas Rostov,” she said with 
ironic scorn. “You want me to turn into one of your ladies. I 
must embroider, dance, gossip, and learn the proper way to 
curtsey. And then my life will surely be meaningful and therefore 
quite happy, will it not?” 
That had been how they’d left the matter. Except that 
Nicholas woke each morning with the feeling of a heavy weight 
pressing him down, and it had nothing to do with the future of 
Laurentia. It had everything to do with the one woman he could 
not stop thinking about, and lusting for, and wanting beside 
him—and how she’d looked at him when he threatened to refuse 
her the one joy she had in this palace she thought a prison. 
Thus, by the king’s command, Sera faced a battalion of 
embroidery masters, instructors in court etiquette, tutors in 
Laurentian history, and lastly, Monsieur Gallopet, the spindly 
legged, supercilious dance master, with whom Sera finally drew 
the line. 
“Tell that monkey to leave me alone!” she said to Katherine 
one day in midweek. 
“But Sera, Nikki said— 
“He never bothered to say anything to me about any of 
this. Do you realize that all his—his orders have been delivered 
by you? I shall not learn to caper and simper, even upon the 
command of the king.” 
“Oh, dear,” said Katherine. “What shall I tell Nicholas?” 
“Tell him I shall see him in Hades before I put up with that 
spider.” 
“I’ll tell him nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact,” said 
Katherine with a lift of her chin, “I’ll tell him nothing at all.” 
“As you wish,” muttered Sera. 
She was strangling in this place. 
*** 

That evening, the maid Annette helped her into a woolen 
dress of a soft rose color. “You dine en famille tonight,” she 
announced. “And the king will be there.” 
The décolletage shocked Sera, who had only gone about in 
day dresses before tonight’s command performance. “I cannot 
wear this,” she said, coloring. 
“Oh, my lady. It is charming and quite modest, I assure 
you.” Annette fluffed out the sleeves, which came to her wrists, 
and turned her to the cheval glass. “You see? Barely any cleavage 
showing, at all. It is much more demure than your ball gowns.” 
Ugh. If she had to appear in anything lower than this 
neckline, she might as well stand in front of a house of ill repute 
holding a sign that read “for hire; hourly rates.” 
Why was she so tense? It was just dinner. Just Nicholas, 
who had dictated what her life should be and then avoided her 
forever. 
The sky was dark by the time Sera followed a footman 
holding a branch of candelabrum down the long corridor, past 
other silent footmen in powdered wigs and satin. If she were 
stark naked, she wouldn’t have felt any more exposed. The man 
opened a door into an elegantly appointed dining room. A small 
table was set beside a window overlooking a small garden. 
Katherine and Andre, who had been standing close together, 
jumped apart as the door opened. Katherine colored prettily. 
Andre recovered first and bowed to Sera. 
“Another lovely damsel. Whom shall I assist first?” he asked 
with a grin. 
Sera smiled back at him. With Katherine’s and Andre’s joy 
fairly flaming on their faces, they would be good company 
tonight, making this meeting less awkward. Still, she would 
have preferred a larger buffer—say a dinner party for eighty. 
“Katherine first, if you please,” said Sera with a wry smile. 
“She has been a princess longer than I have been a lady.” 
Andre’s hands rested possessively upon Katherine’s 
shoulders as he helped her into her seat. 
As he took his own, Sera leaned toward Katherine. “This 
gown is too low in front,” she whispered. 
“No,” said Katherine peering at Sera’s chest. “It is quite 
modest.” 
Nicholas walked into the room. 

“Late again, Nikki,” said Andre. “This makes the fifth time 
this week. Anything I should worry about?” 
Sera turned to look at the king. She had a difficult time 
catching her breath. Nicholas in travel-stained clothing was a 
formidably attractive male, but in evening dress, he was 
splendid. His deep blue velvet coat and breeches fit his body so 
well that one saw everything—his wide shoulders, his slim waist 
and hips, his long, muscular legs. Elegance, strength, and 
symmetry together in one man. She looked down at her hands 
clasped before her, her stomach a tight ball of nerves. 
“Nothing of note. A meeting that ran overlong with the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer.” 
Nicholas’s curt nod settled into a frowning stare as he took 
his seat opposite Sera. He rose and rounded the table, taking 
off his dinner jacket, then dropped it over Sera’s shoulders. “That 
gown is not proper to be worn publicly,” he said. 
“I told you,” Sera muttered to Katherine. She wished she 
could crawl back to her room. Nicholas returned to his chair. 
He kept his eyes on the wine the footman poured for him. 
“Nonsense, Nikki,” Katherine said. “The gown is charming. 
Mine is cut a good deal lower.” 
“Then perhaps you should both use a different 
mantuamaker. Kindly see to it tomorrow.” 
“I shall do no such thing! Nicholas, what has gotten into 
you? You’ve never complained about my gowns before, and 
Sera’s are perfectly proper. Are you threatening some form of 
social isolation for us?” 
Nicholas stared at Katherine in what looked like blank 
shock. Sera wondered if she had ever openly questioned her 
brother’s judgment before. 
“When a kitten turns into a little tiger, it’s wise to let her 
have her way,” said Andre with a sidelong glance at Katherine. 
After a moment, Nicholas inclined his head in a gesture of 
defeat. “Very well. Let Sera be a slave to these immodest 
fashions,” he said. “And hope the men of the aristocracy have 
some self-restraint.” 
So she was nothing to Nicholas but a Hill slave who had 
embarrassed him yet again. She wanted to clutch the heavy 
dinner jacket around her and run back to her room. 
Nicholas motioned to a footman standing unobtrusively 

against a wall, and the man reappeared within moments with 
the first course. 
As Katherine, obviously emboldened by Andre’s 
admiration, teased and laughed with him, Nicholas lapsed into 
a stiff silence. He looked at the blinis on his plate as though 
they were the most fascinating of objects. 
Sera cautiously watched Nicholas out of the corner of her 
eye. He leaned back in his chair, dangling his wineglass by the 
rim. His face was as remote and formal as it had been when he 
first refused to look at her in the palace of Iman Hadar. He looked 
as though he had never been young and never laughed. 
“What are you thinking, sitting so aloof in your corner?” 
Katherine asked him. 
It had taken an act of will for Sera not to ask that question. 
It would have flowed from her so naturally in Selonia. She 
needed a good, swift kick. 
“I’m wondering about the Brotherhood, and about 
Napoleon, and how the French are waging a bloody clever 
internal campaign against us, and how I wish to h—beg 
pardon—to heaven we could crack their code.” 
“Why are you certain Napoleon is behind the Brotherhood?” 
The words were out of her mouth before she could call them 
back. Nicholas looked at Sera as though she were a foolish child 
allowed to sup with adults who had more important matters to 
discuss. He raised his hand and began counting reasons off on 
his fingers. “Bonaparte is conquering Russia. Laurentia borders 
Russia on the south with well-built roads to all of Europe. We 
are a wealthy state. Our people are ripe for the winds of 
liberalism—actually, they lead the rest of Europe in that 
philosophy. The country is ready made for Napoleon’s brand of 
reform.” 
Sera raised her brows in what she hoped gave an impression 
of cool superiority. “If I were king, I should not forget Ockham’s 
Razor before I ruled out other possibilities.” 
“What?” Nicholas looked at her as though she had just 
stepped out of a madhouse. 
“William of Ockham,” said Sera, in a voice that sounded 
pedantic to her own ears. “Reduce things to their bare essence 
by shaving away facts that do not impact upon the situation.” 
“I know what the devil Ocham’s Razor is, Countess.” 

Nicholas gave her a look that might have downed a bird at thirty 
paces. 
“Excellent,” she said through gritted teeth. 
“I wouldn’t wish to discuss subjects that might confuse 
you.” “Would you care to enlighten us upon the bare essence of 
our problem?” At Nicholas’s icy sarcasm, Katherine squirmed 
in her seat, but Sera was too angry to be cowed. 
“The Brotherhood attacked you in Jehanna. Jehanna is 
southeast of Laurentia. Napoleon and his army are northwest 
of Laurentia.” 
“Foolish woman.” Nicholas said. “Iman Hadar is far too 
old and soft to mount such a devious campaign.” 
Sera wanted to punch him in the stomach. “Goat-brained 
Outlander.” She allowed herself that pleasure, at least. “There 
is another to the east of Laurentia, younger, more evil, and 
devious enough to destroy the devil, himself.” 
“Galerien?” Nicholas looked at her—really looked at her. 
Then he shrugged, neatly relegating the unruly Hill child to the 
nursery again. “You speak from a natural antipathy, but your 
theory has no factual basis. I realize Galerien harasses the Hill 
people. However, Galerien, although an unpopular king, is a 
long time ally.” 
Sera waited for more, but Nicholas only began to spoon 
Russian caviar and sour cream upon his blini. He’s only an 
Outlander, and therefore, a dolt, she fumed. Why do I even care 
to warn a man who ignores me and patronizes me and rudely 
demonstrates that he barely suffers my presence? 
Sera remained silent through coffee and brandy. When 
Nicholas rose and bowed formally to her, holding out his hand, 
she stood without accepting it, and preceded him out the door. 
“The Season begins soon,” he said, walking beside her down 
the long hallway. “You will make your debut at the opening 
ball.” 
Sera had eaten little at supper. Now, she felt the effects of 
the wine she had drunk. “I don’t wish to mix with your court. I 
don’t wish to be here, at all.” 
“You will do quite well here. As long as you make an honest 
attempt to understand the expectations of society.” She hated 
the new tone of voice he took with her. As though he were ages 
older and far wiser. “You have a quick mind, Sera, and a great 

deal of natural grace. With help and instruction, you’ll fit very 
nicely at court. Katherine and you will do very well together.” 
“And that is my new position, is it?” Sera shook with some 
very nasty emotion she had never felt before, but it was tearing 
her insides apart. “I am now a sham countess, and the Princess 
Katherine’s friend.” And nothing to you, she added silently. 
“That is exactly your position. Any woman of your former 
status would be delighted with this advancement. And as I shall 
be quite busy in the next months, it is natural that you and 
Katherine utilize the time to become close companions.” 
Sera looked straight at him. If her eyes were blazing or tear-
filled, she could not care less that he saw. “Firstly, you may be 
ashamed of my ‘former status’, but I believe the shame of it 
belongs to the Nantal and Iman Hadar. Secondly, nothing is 
natural with you, Outlander. That is your saddest problem.” 
When she heard a shattering crash behind her, she was too 
furious to look behind her to see what it was. Instead, she threw 
the dinner jacket at him. And to her own consternation, she 
picked up her skirts and ran all the way down the long hallway, 
past the perfect figures of stolen gods and heroes, past stone-
faced guards who looked straight through her, into the empty 
place of artifice they had chosen to call her chamber. 
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,” she said in a voice low 
and harsh to her own ears. Her fists clenched at her sides. She 
wanted to scream. She wanted to break something. She wanted 
to— 
She whirled, her gaze blazing, and stared into the fireplace, 
where kindling and wood for a fire had been laid in wait for the 
maid to light at Sera’s return. A curl of smoke rose from the 
kindling, and then the wood burst into flame. Pushed aside by 
the force of her anger, the iron fire tools beside the mantle 
crashed to the floor, clanging against each other as they rolled. 
The door flew open. Annette raced into the room, then slid 
to a stop in front of Sera. “Oh, my lady, I heard the noise and 
came as soon as I….” She turned, her attention caught by the 
heat coming from the fireplace. 
“But what is this?” she said, replacing the fire tools in their 
stand beside the mantle. “You should have rung for me,” she 
said as she added another log to the blazing pile. “You should 
not try to light the fire, yourself. It is not seemly.” 

“No,” said Sera, sitting down on her bed before her knees 
gave out from trembling in the sick aftershock of realization. 
She had started the fire with her mind! “I should not try that 
again.” 
*** 
Nicholas automatically caught the jacket and leaned against 
the corridor door, staring at nothing as his mind churned. He 
hadn’t meant to hurt her, damnit. What right did she have to 
show him everything she was feeling? Had she no defenses at 
all? What could he do but what he was doing already? 
She tied him up in knots. Why did she have to wear a gown 
like that tonight, so he could see the creamy swell of her breasts 
just above the taut wool? Little fool! Couldn’t she see he was 
hanging on to his honor and hers by a thread? The thought of 
other men eyeing her, dancing with her, seducing her, sent him 
into a paroxysm of jealousy. 
Beautiful little fool. He ought to send her back to her hills, 
and be free of this damnable lust. Perhaps that was the best 
way—for both of them. 
But then, she was not such a little fool, was she? Ockham’s 
Razor, indeed. Was Sera’s theory worth investigating? He 
pushed off away from the wall, still deep in thought. Galerien 
had been an ally for a very long time. 
He glanced across the hall at a Chippendale table placed 
beneath a high, arched window. Shards of a Chinese vase, Ming 
Dynasty, he believed, lay scattered on the floor beneath it. He 
crossed the hall, hunkered down and picked up a shard, staring 
at it. A breeze no doubt had swept it to the floor. He stood up 
and examined the window behind the table, expecting to find it 
open. 
It was shut. The night beyond was clear and calm. No gust 
of wind had pushed the vase off the table. 
He looked down the hall in the direction Sera had fled. Was 
it possible? Could she have done it in anger? In hurt? In 
frustration equal to his own? If she had the power to break an 
object with her mind, was that mind also capable of superior 
understanding, concerning, for instance, Galerien and Beaureve? 
She spoke the language, after all. 
He remembered that prickle at the back of his neck, warning 
him to take her with him for the good of his people. In these 

terrible times, what country could afford to lose an advisor 
whose mind was quick and cool, whose power could send a 
vase crashing to the floor? What king could ignore her? 
He couldn’t send her home now. The feeling of relief that 
coursed through him made him despise himself. Unbridled lust 
was for the weak. He had a country to lead. 
He looked at the broken vase again and shook his head. 
Some servant, dusting in hurry, had placed the vase too close to 
the edge, no doubt. Still, a man ought to investigate every 
possibility, even what seemed remote at a given time. 
He went to his study and called for Lieutenant Carlsohnn. 
It was cobwebs and moon dust, in all probability. Nonetheless, 
he would send discreet agents across the border. It would give 
him something to think about. Something besides how much 
he ached each night, burning for Sera, knowing she was just 
below him, and all he had to do was walk the secret stairway to 
her chamber, and like the lowest libertine on the face of the 
earth, take what he craved before he succumbed to a lifetime of 
duty and regret. 

Eight 
Sera did not see Nicholas again for rest of the week. 
Immediately after what she thought of as the disastrous dinner, 
he sequestered himself in his chambers. It was for the best, she 
knew. She had never feared a man more than she feared Nicholas 
Rostov, the catalyst to an outburst of magic so overpowering, it 
set wood ablaze and flung iron to the floor. 
Too late, the Gift she had longed for all her life, the proof 
she was a true Arkadian, flowed forth. But she was alone here, 
without the comfort and the aid of a mentor. And she didn’t 
know how to control the power. 
Why now? Somehow, it was all tied up with Nicholas. And 
Katherine, and Andre, and Selonia, and the merchants of 
Montanyard, and the palace guards, and Ivan and Ned, the stable 
boy, and…Her heart was full to bursting with all the feelings 
these people evoked. This world so full of violence and beauty 
stirred things inside her she’d never felt at home. It was as though 
she were a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, and her senses 
were painfully alive to everything around her. Was this what 
Grandfather called the painful process of growing? If so, she 
prayed it wouldn’t last very long. 
She should stay away from Nicholas until she found calm. 
She should try to forget whatever strange and terrible longing 
he stirred in her. It was hopeless, after all. 
But where was he? Andre would know. Sera finally found 
Andre in the library and questioned him as to Nicholas’s 
whereabouts. 
“Don’t worry yourself, Sera. He’ll be fine in a few days.” 
“What do you mean?” she asked, beginning to feel sick. 
Had she hurt him, too, that night when she’d been so angry? “Is 
he ill?” 
“Almost well again, actually. Nothing serious this time.” 
“This time?” Now she was alarmed. 
Andre shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “A lung problem. 
He’s…susceptible if he becomes overtired, or chilled, 
or…overexcited. Now, Sera, he’ll be quite all right. As I said, it 
didn’t become a problem this time.” 
She was at the door in a wink, but Andre was right behind 

her, holding the door shut with one hand outstretched over her 
shoulder. “He won’t thank you for going to him, Sera. Don’t 
worry. He knows how to take care of himself.” 
The days grew shorter. Nicholas, apparently recovered, 
thank the gods, was far too busy ruling the country to request 
Sera’s company. She went from fearing for his life to wishing 
she could give him a piece of her mind, and then leave this 
blasted prison before she burned the place down. 
“Sera.” She heard Katherine’s voice from the corridor. Sera 
ran to unlatch the door. 
“Hullo. Are you feeling quite the thing? I haven’t seen you 
for two days.” Katherine looked worried and more lonely than 
normal. 
“I am quite well, thank you. I was simply. . . out of sorts.” 
“It’s the chill, and the constant rain. I’m glum, too. Since 
we can’t go outside, would you like to explore the palace?” 
Katherine looked so wistful, she hadn’t the heart to say no. 
“Of course.” 
“Oh, good.” Katherine took her arm and walked the 
corridors with her, showing her room after room of treasure— 
robes of fine silk and ceremonial swords from the east, porcelain 
from England and Germany, teak wood and gold from the 
Americas. 
“Those are my ancestors,” Katherine said as they strolled 
through the long gallery. Kings in full court dress, with swords 
at their sides and scepters in their hands stared down at Sera 
with a haughty resemblance to Nicholas in his most dictatorial 
moments. 
“Goodness,” she said, not knowing what else to say. 
The queens were no better. Proud and stiff, they dominated 
the paintings without actually inhabiting them. 
“They make me feel rather small, actually,” said Katherine, 
shivering. “Come, let us go into the blue room. I’ll show you 
my favorite portrait.” 
They walked back to the family quarters and entered a lovely 
room Sera had never seen before. She looked up at the woman 
so informally posed with a small boy at her knee. 
Katherine stood before the portrait, looking at it with 
undisguised yearning. “My mother,” she said. “She 
looks…warm, doesn’t she?” 

“She looks very kind,” said Sera. “What was she like?” 
“I don’t know anything about her,” said Katherine. “She 
died giving birth to me.” 
“But your father—didn’t he tell you about her?” 
Katherine bit her lip and refused to meet Sera’s gaze. “My 
father never spoke to me at all. Well, of course,” she went on, 
her words hurried, “he was very busy. He barely had time to 
oversee Nikki’s education, much less pay attention to me.” 
“But surely Nicholas would have told you all he 
remembered.” 
Katherine sighed. “I have asked him once or twice, but he 
says he was too young. He remembers nothing of note.” 
“I see,” said Sera. What a family! If she could, she would 
have gone straight to the grave and dragged the old king out of 
it to give him a piece of her mind. As it was, there was only 
Nicholas to harangue. If she ever saw him again. 
*** 
A letter came from Father Anselm the next day. Sera raced 
down the corridor, caught the startled eye of a footman, and 
slowed her steps to a much resented ladylike pace to the library, 
deserted at this time of day. Once within its privacy, she broke 
the seal of the letter and eagerly read through his news of the 
boys and Selonia to the passage that made her heart leap in her 
chest. 
You asked me to send news of the merchant who visited 
Selonia just before the terrible attack. A man bearing his 
likeness was seen in the village of Vurst not twenty miles from 
here. He travels east to Montanyard, but is so mysterious about 
his plans that no one knows for certain when he should arrive 
in the capital or what route he will take. From a word or two 
that he dropped to the farmer with whom he stayed, I would 
surmise that he will reach Montanyard within a fortnight or 
so. If I hear anything more, I shall certainly apprise you of it. 
A fortnight! She still could get home with days to spare 
before the cliff walls closed. Now, she had a choice to make. 
She could leave and run the risk of capture and death without 
ever finding the thief, or she could remain in Montanyard and 
wait for him. She clenched her fists. The thief would come. She 
might find the ruby before she escaped to find her way home 
again. 

There was always the chance that the thief would arrive at 
the capital early. Her mind began to whir, planning ways to 
anticipate his entrance into the city. As long as she took someone 
with her, she could roam all the countryside east of Montanyard, 
and no one would stop her. She could pretend to visit the ladies’ 
necessary in the inns and instead question the innkeepers. 
She did not have to sit like a coddled child while fate played 
out her last chance. By the gods, she would free herself from 
the foolish extremes of emotion buffeting her heart. She would 
go home, learn to use her power wisely, and forget all about 
Nicholas Rostov. 
*** 
Nicholas stepped into the library. A fire burned in the hearth, 
dispelling the chill of the corridor. How he hated the coming of 
winter, particularly after the close call he’d had last week. He 
walked toward the marble mantle, holding out his hands to the 
warm blaze. 
And stopped short to see Sera sitting before the fire staring 
into the coals. Her hair glowed like a halo above the high collar 
of a gold velvet gown. His fine plans to keep her at a distance 
melted like dew in sunlight. It was all he could do not to raise 
her from her chair and tug her into his arms. He parted his lips, 
as though he might breathe in the taste of her in the elusive 
perfume he could just discern from across the small room. She 
was so deep in thought she hadn’t even heard him. 
Nicholas’s honor was losing ground to his baser instincts. 
He turned to go, and at that moment, she looked up at him, blue 
eyes coming back into focus from a long distance. She slipped 
a piece of paper into the pocket of her gown. Was it a letter 
from some besotted nobleman? He frowned, reminding himself 
that it was none of his business who courted her. 
“Please excuse me,” he said and bowed slightly. “I didn’t 
mean to startle you.” His voice sounded stiff and cold to his 
own ears. He turned again to go. 
His hand was on the door latch when she spoke. “You might 
have your secretary give me your daily schedule so I may stay 
entirely out of your way.” 
He turned and leaned against the door, assuming a casual 
stance. “Why such sarcasm, Countess? I have not been avoiding 
you.” 

“And why turn your face from reality, king?” Her voice 
rang, silver, mocking. “I accept this latest development in our 
non-friendship. Surely, you can do the same.” 
He crossed to the fire, facing her, his shoulder leaning on 
the mantle. “Very well. I am the king. My duty dictates that I 
have no…intimate friendships.” 
She remained seated, refusing to rise and acknowledge him 
as king. No, she sat in the brocade library chair as though it 
were a throne, back straight, her feet tucked beneath the folds 
of her golden skirt. Covered from head to toe, she glimmered. 
Like a queen or an angel. 
And like a queen, she waved a hand in an unmistakably 
dismissive gesture. “I take your meaning, Nicholas Rostov. I 
am aware that it is not your way to take companionship from a 
woman, even one with whom you might have an…intimate 
friendship. But tell me. Does your duty deny you a sister?” 
“Of course not.” He grew heated that she should, in a typical 
feminine maneuver, switch tactics on him and accuse him, not 
of ignoring her, but Katherine. “I give my sister attention, the 
best instructors, and companions like yourself with whom she 
may be at ease.” 
“And what of yourself have you given her?” 
“I care about her,” he said, stung. 
“Enough to tell her of her mother?” Her voice was soft. 
“Mother?” Something sore and painful closed in on itself. 
“Mother died when I was six. I barely remember her.” 
“Katherine knows nothing about her at all. I have studied 
the Gainsborough painting. She was very beautiful, and she 
had a look about her that reminded me of—well, she looked 
very kind.” Her voice went on, a soft, relentless challenge to 
the very core of his control. 
“Your father hated Katherine, didn’t he? She has told me 
he never recognized her existence. He must have blamed her 
for your mother’s death. For that, and many other reasons, 
Katherine needs to know that her mother would have loved her.” 
With a swirl of gold, Sera rose and gave him a parody of the 
deep court curtsey used by petitioners to their king. 
She walked to the door, proud, chin up, and turned to face 
him across the room when she reached it. “If you please, 
Nicholas Rostov, permit yourself—within the parameters of your 

heavy duties—a sister.” 
He turned his back to her and got very busy poking at the 
fire. And didn’t put down the poker until he heard the quiet 
click of the door shutting behind her. 
He lay awake for a long time that night, his hands stacked 
behind his head, staring at the tester above his bed, red velvet 
in the red light of the fire. In the morning he sought Katherine. 
“Walk with me,” he said. The day was overcast, but warmer. 
Katherine got her gloves and umbrella and walked beside him, 
out the doors of the palace and into the wide lane entering the 
park. 
“Our mother,” he began, “was happier than I had ever seen 
her when she knew she was carrying you.” 
*** 
Nicholas dressed quickly for the supper party Katherine 
had planned for his last night at home. Sera would attend, along 
with enough of a crowd to ensure that he did not throw her on 
the table, fling her skirts up, and force himself upon her—at 
least until dessert. He had fought the battle against his damnable 
lust for weeks, and all he had for his success was a wicked 
temper and a sense of intense emptiness. Well, at least he would 
see her, if he could crane his neck far enough to catch a glimpse 
of her down the length of the table. 
He hurried to the Egyptian salon, a fantasia that his mother 
had decorated with pillars, small, bright figures, and ancient 
vases, long before the craze hit England. Katherine stood before 
the fire, resplendent in a tiara and a blue satin gown trimmed 
with silver lace. The color of the lace somehow brought out the 
cool silver in her eyes. 
He fingered the lace at the elbow of Katherine’s sleeve. 
“Very pretty.” 
She looked up at him with pleased surprise. “You think so? 
Sera gave it to me, just for this gown.” 
He wondered what it would be like, to have the freedom to 
give and receive—presents, thoughts, emotions—with Sera. And 
he was jealous of his own sister. 
“I’m glad we’re alone for a moment, Nikki. I wanted to 
thank you for telling me about our mother yesterday. But I also 
wanted to ask you something.” Katherine stared down at her 
folded hands. “What was our father like before she died?” 

Unbidden, a memory sprang to mind. He was very young— 
five, perhaps. He was in the garden with his mother, and he 
heard a voice call out to them. His father’s voice, deep and 
eager, from the balcony off the first floor drawing room. 
What a hero he’d looked, tall and young, laughing as he 
leaped over the rail onto the grass below, sweeping his mother 
up into his arms, covering her face with kisses. He’d grinned 
down at Nicholas, lifted him to his shoulders, and Nicholas had 
felt like a conqueror, riding so high above the ground, safe and 
loved. 
“He was a good king. A good father. He had a lot of friends 
then,” he told Katherine. 
“But not after,” she said in a quiet, wistful voice. 
“No. I think love was very bad for him. It destroyed him 
inside and, worse, endangered Laurentia. Oh, he knew how to 
act the king. But he neglected his friends. He neglected…his 
children. He didn’t pay attention to details. When he died, our 
defenses were inadequate, and our allies no longer reliable.” 
Nicholas shook his head and frowned. “Love isn’t for kings. 
He should have known that.” 
The room slowly began to fill and he took his place, grave 
and cool as his father had been, murmuring the correct phrases 
to the noblemen and their wives who bowed and passed on to 
accept a glass of wine from a footman. 
“Lady Tranevale, how good to see you,” he said to a stout 
old dragon festooned in diamonds. The old biddy kept her purse 
strings notoriously tight. 
“Delighted, your majesty,” she said with a curtsey. 
“And now that you are here for the Season, perhaps you 
would be so kind as to join my sister’s committee for the orphans 
of Selonia.” Nicholas perused Lady Tranevale’s plump face for 
signs of rebellion and employed the Rostov frown when he 
found them. 
Lady Tranevale froze in the midst of her refusal and gulped. 
“I shall certainly speak to the princess concerning these 
unfortunates.” 
“This evening, if you will,” said Nicholas, smoothing his 
voice free of inflection. 
“This evening.” Lady Tranevale huffed away. 
Good, thought Nicholas. She had no choice but to give, 

and generously, to St. Andrews orphanage. It was not much, 
but at least he could do this for Sera. 
As though his thoughts had summoned her, she appeared 
in the doorway. He tried to stifle the shock of need and pleasure 
running through him at the sight of her. She shone from head to 
toe. Her hair was gathered up in soft loops, emphasizing her 
graceful neck. Her white gown, a simple, flowing silk etched 
with blue ribbon, dipped seductively above her breasts and clung 
to her hips, swaying when she walked. She wore no jewelry. A 
ribbon of blue enclosed her throat. He could still feel the texture 
of her skin there, its vulnerability, its warmth. 
“Your Majesty.” Another courtier bowed. He went through 
the motions, accepting the undeserved compliments for his 
“rescue” of Selonia. It was all so ridiculous. If he had been 
wise or diligent enough, Selonia would not have burned to the 
ground. 
The dinner party swirled about him. They dispensed with 
the stewed trout and began in earnest upon the saddle of lamb 
when Nicholas felt he had divulged his expectations for agrarian 
reform quite enough with the finance minister seated to his left. 
He stole a glance at Sera seated several seats down the table 
from him. Immediately, he wished he had not. 
The son of the English Ambassador, that young fop, 
Darlington, whose blond good looks and carefully assumed 
romantic air set Nicholas’s teeth on edge, sat on Sera’s left. He 
hung on her every word, and she wasn’t even speaking to him. 
She was deep in conversation with venerable Lord Elder, to her 
right. 
Nicholas watched Darlington with narrowed eyes. The 
bastard’s avid gaze traveled to the spot just at the back of Sera’s 
neck where it curved into her gleaming shoulders. Wandering 
further south, Darlington’s gaze clung to the swell of Sera’s 
breasts above her bodice. Damnit, he’d told Katherine to get 
rid of those gowns. 
Darlington took advantage of what must have been a break 
in Sera’s conversation with Elder. Whatever he said caused a 
blush of softest pink to suffuse Sera’s neck and cheeks, and 
lower, lower, turning her skin from the purity of cool marble to 
radiant incandescence. Galatea, come to life. Darlington raised 
his glass to her in a slow, meaningful manner. 

Nicholas clenched the napkin in his fist. Profligate swine! 
“Your Majesty, won’t you tell us about your plans for the 
Season? Rumor has it that the opening ball will be even more 
magnificent than last year’s.” 
“I do not know, Lady Chandler. You must ask the princess 
about the arrangements, as she is responsible for the 
preparations.” 
“Such a heavy obligation for one so young. Perhaps I can 
help. I should be happy to do anything for your family, Sire. Or 
you.” Lady Chandler slanted him a look and smiled seductively. 
My God, thought Nicholas. Propositioned like a customer 
at a bawdy house—at my own table. What next? 
Next came the lobster curry and more dreary conversation. 
Further down the table, Darlington smiled and pointed to Sera’s 
plate. Sera raised her fork to her mouth. Surprise and undisguised 
pleasure lit her face. Nicholas clamped his jaw together. She’d 
just tasted something new to her, and Darlington would take 
the credit, explain it all, when it should be him. 
Sera, for her part, took another bite of lobster and turned 
again to Lord Elder, escaping the pressure of Lord Darlington’s 
attentions. She liked the old fellow on her right—liked his 
straight-backed, upright posture, the clean silver hair brushed 
to a shine, his stark black evening suit and snowy white linen. 
He seemed a forerunner of what Nicholas might become if only 
he developed some humanity. 
Lord Elder was the only person present who, without a hint 
of snobbery, recognized her as a newcomer and had been telling 
her about Laurentian customs. He had just gotten round to 
betrothal practices. 
“Laurentian swains do not gift their ladies with a betrothal 
ring. I suspect the custom began when the first possessive 
bridegroom-to-be wished to make it known beyond a shadow 
of a doubt that he claimed the lady he—forgive me, my 
dear…desired. Consequently, he bought not a ring, but a 
necklace, and as fine a one as he could afford. The custom 
prevails to this day.” 
“Does not the poor gentleman receive some token of his 
future wife’s esteem?” she asked as Lord Elder motioned to the 
footman to refill Sera’s glass. 
“Oh, indeed, m’dear,” he said. “The lady gives the 

gentleman a ring. If possible, the ring is old, treasured over the 
years by her family. If this is not possible, she makes a great 
show of visiting the jeweler’s shop and selecting a fine ring on 
the morning after she has received the necklace. Her buying 
spree is more likely to spread news than would posting the banns, 
although we also do that, on the first Sunday after the exchange 
of gifts.” 
“Lady Sera.” Lord Darlington leaned too close to her— 
again. She could feel his breath against her back, and inwardly 
wished him to the nether regions. 
“And if the lady wishes to refuse the gentleman’s kind 
offer?” she asked pointedly, staring as coolly as she could at 
Darlington until he reddened, sat back in his chair, and turned 
to the woman on his left. 
“Ah, well, then. The gentleman need not be publicly 
embarrassed by her refusal. If the answer is yes, then the lady 
has worn the necklace and given her token for all to see. If it is 
no, then no one knows except the couple involved. Unless the 
lady is no lady, but a preening, self-centered wench. And then, 
the entire town has two interesting bits of gossip. Firstly, they 
discuss the poor gentleman’s broken heart, and then they discuss 
his lack of taste in choosing a mate.” 
At last, sweet wine appeared at the table. From what the 
etiquette master had droned to Sera, she would be free in a short 
while to leave this table and, after another interminable hour, to 
return to her chambers. 
With a swift nod of his head, Nicholas signaled to Katherine, 
who rose, followed by all the ladies at table. Sera followed the 
others, loathe to enter the sitting room, but knowing she must. 
Katherine took up a Chippendale chair close to the fire. Women 
surrounded her, and from where Sera stood against a window, 
partially hidden by shadows, she could hear their compliments 
upon the dinner. 
“I think he’s absolutely magnificent.” A cloying voice cut 
into her thoughts. The woman Sera had noticed at Nicholas’s 
side during dinner—the one who had all but sat in his lap— 
stopped beside an elderly lady hefting a great load of jewelry. 
They stood in front of her hiding place, speaking in low tones. 
“Oh, no, my dear.” The old lady wagged a finger at the 
younger one. “This is not a man to romanticize.” 

“But he is so—masculine. So powerful.” 
“Bah! He has no heart, only a stiff-necked conscience that 
he imposes upon the rest of us until we must shriek with 
boredom. He is cold as ice. My dear, rumor has it that his mistress 
must make an appointment with his secretary in order to see 
him at all. No, the king is not the man with whom to form a 
liason. 
Sera reacted in the most illogical manner. She wanted to 
rail at the tart who wished to become Nicholas Rostov’s mistress, 
and she wanted to defend him at the same time from the older 
virago’s insults. If she chose to scold the former, she would 
cause a terrible scene. She froze, remembering her anger after 
the family dinner and its consequences. 
Much better to cause only a little disturbance. She stepped 
out of the shadows. 
“Your king has very few flaws,” she said, enjoying the play 
of shock and affronted embarrassment on the older woman’s 
face. “I would not count lack of feeling among them. Certainly, 
in his care and support of his subjects, Nicholas Rostov has 
demonstrated his noble heart.” 
Before the women could form a reply, Sera inclined her 
head a fraction of an inch just as fussy Monsieur Pettit had taught 
her to do with those courtiers who were below her. The barely 
concealed insult made the old lady’s face turn a nasty shade of 
red. So, she had made an enemy. At least she’d not sent her 
whirling toward the ceiling. 
Sera moved beyond them, willing her hands not to shake. 
But their voices rose, and she heard every word, just as, 
doubtless, she was meant to. 
“Who was that?” the younger woman said in a stage 
whisper. 
“Nobody,” said the older. “A waif from the hills, an ex-
slave. There were rumors that he wanted her, but no one has 
seen them together for weeks. She is only one of his good works, 
a charity case masquerading as a lady.” 
Sera continued across the sitting room. Schoolgirl lessons 
in an alien culture, a court of rakish fops and wasp-tongued 
women, and a monarch who turned from warm and caring to 
cold and disapproving for no reason at all. Why should she care 
what they thought of her? 

She would ask one of the guards to take her riding tomorrow 
afternoon in the country east of Montanyard. Perhaps she’d just 
ask Darlington to accompany her. He’d be easier to fool. Perhaps 
she would bring water and food with her in her saddlebags, just 
in case she found the merchant. And then, she would race away 
on Wind Rider with the Heart of Fire. Yes, she would leave 
these Outlanders to the world they deserved. 
*** 
Nicholas searched out Sera the next morning. She was not 
in her room, but a maidservant informed him that she was 
walking in the gardens. One of the gardeners pointed out the 
route she had taken down one of the brick paths. He followed 
the path until he came to an old walled garden. She was kneeling 
among the neglected roses, digging in the dirt with bare hands. 
“Sera.” His voice sounded too stern, he knew. 
Sera put aside her spade and rose to her feet slowly facing 
him, worrying her lower lip with her teeth. 
“We have servants to do that,” he said. He wanted her happy 
and cosseted, not on her knees and breaking her nails over some 
silly weeds. 
“I needed—they are alive. It soothes me to do something 
productive.” 
“Come here,” he said, and it was no longer a command, but 
a plea. 
Her lower lip jutted out in a stubborn moue, but she came 
forward until she stood before him, hiding her dirty hands behind 
her back. 
“I have to go away for a few days. I want your promise that 
you will remain safely within the walls of Montanyard until I 
return. Will you, Sera?” 
“I cannot give you that promise,” she whispered and backed 
up a pace. 
His hands clamped about her arms, pulling her forward until 
she was a hair’s breadth from him. “If you can’t, I shall take 
you with me. Which will it be—here or at Anatole Galerien’s 
palace in Beaureve? 
She seemed to turn to stone beneath his hold. “You go to 
Galerien?” 
“He offers a closer alliance. I must go to hear what 
concessions he thinks to wring out of me for it.” 

She shook her head, her eyes full of fear. “He is an evil 
man. Don’t trust him, Nicholas.” 
“Don’t worry.” He loved it when she said his name in that 
soft voice. She was worried. About him. Her clear gaze held 
nothing of the coldness that had existed between them for weeks. 
He bent his head closer and smelled fresh earth and warm 
sunlight, and the natural perfume of her body. “I trust nobody. 
But Galerien needs Laurentia as much as I need Beaureve.” 
“I wish you wouldn’t go.” Her voice shook. 
“Why are you afraid of Galerien, Sera?” A fine tremor 
wracked her body. She was silent for a long moment. 
Then she lifted her hands, grabbing his arms. “He hates my 
people and has sent men to seek us out and destroy us all. If 
you must have this meeting, take a large army with you, 
Nicholas. I beg you. Don’t discount my words. Galerien is a 
dangerous man.” An unruly gilded lock fell over her forehead. 
Nicholas gently drew it back, placing it behind her ear. Her 
muscles were still rigid. He could feel the tension all through 
her. He felt a perfect bastard, asking her to make a choice 
between a man who must give her nightmares and remaining in 
Montanyard. Then there was Dawson’s escape. Should he 
frighten her further by telling her about it? He couldn’t seem to 
think straight. Here she was, almost in his arms, rubbing her 
hands all over his chest and tantalizing him to the point of 
combustion without seeming to realize what she was doing. 
A possibility came to him—perhaps she liked to touch him. 
He tried very hard to keep a grin of delight from breaking 
through and concentrated on her fears, instead, for they might 
get him what he needed—a promise from her to remain where 
he knew she would be safe. 
“You would be unhappy to come within a hundred miles of 
Galerien, wouldn’t you?” he asked her. 
“Yes.” She sounded so forlorn. Instinctively protective, he 
pulled her closer. 
“Will you stay until I return?” Rather than demand, he asked 
her. 
“I cannot promise you anything.” She gave him that 
stubborn pout that was both an aggravation and a catalyst for 
lust. 
A fierce heat blazed through him—frustration with her 

refusal to trust him, the hot need of his body and something 
more elemental that he refused to scrutinize. The fire surged 
through his veins, pulsing hot, burning away logic and caution. 
His hands seemed to work on their own, shaking her slightly. 
“You will stay here for your safety and because there is 
something you give my country that I cannot.” 
Her eyes widened, uncomprehending. 
“You are unaware of what they say about you in the market 
place, in the small towns? Word spread westward from Selonia. 
Already, the common people take hope because of you. They 
think you are some kind of gift, some good luck charm that can 
protect them from the evil threatening Laurentia. It’s a 
superstition I shall use as long as I may. 
“Only for a few days, Sera,” he said. “Say you will stay for 
my people.” 
She paused, apparently deep in concentration, as though 
she were measuring something of the utmost importance— 
maybe just time. Abruptly, she nodded. “All right.” 
He let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “So. 
Here you will stay, where my guards can keep you safe. Don’t 
suppose for an instant that a weak fop like Darlington is capable 
of protecting you.” After weeks of frustration, the heat took 
hold and fanned itself into a possessive blaze of frustration. 
She gave him a blank look. “Darlington? What has he got 
to do with this?” 
“He was all over you last night. At dinner and later, when 
we joined you. Making sure you were seated near the fire. 
Laughing with you, complimenting you. Leaning over you in 
the most proprietary manner. Did he escort you to your door? 
Did he do this to you?” 
Before she could protest, Nicholas pulled her roughly to 
him. He kissed her. Hard. This was what he had ached for. This 
was why he had wanted to throw Darlington out the nearest 
window. 
“Just this one last time,” he murmured against her lips. 
Before he sacrificed everything for Laurentia.He dominated her 
with his will, with his force, molding her lips to his. He could 
feel the exact moment when she softened in his arms, when she 
met his kiss with equal ardor, when her lips opened beneath his 
tongue. She tasted honey sweet. Gentling his assault, he reveled 

in the warm welcome of her mouth, of her body bent to him, 
her breasts pressed to his chest. His hand splayed across the 
curve of her back, pulling her up, rubbing the demanding heat 
in his groin against her hips. She made a low moan, and he 
molded the contour of her breast with his other hand, kneading 
gently. 
The tight bud of her nipple peaked beneath the thin wool of 
her gown. He weighed the soft swell of her breast, lifting it in 
his hand, rubbing against the budding nipple with his thumb. 
She moaned low in her throat and arched to his teasing fingers. 
What incredible pleasure to touch her so intimately, hearing 
from the helpless sound she made that she had no defense against 
his passion. He wanted to take her now, naked in the soft, green 
grass, her body warm from the sun and the heat he was building 
in her. 
He wanted—what he couldn’t have. He froze, coming back 
to himself with furious self-loathing. And made the mistake of 
looking at her. 
Her face was flushed, her blue eyes cloudy with passion. 
Slowly, he pulled his hand away from the curve of her breast 
and set her back on her feet. 
“I—I have acted abominably. I’m so sorry,” he said, almost 
stammering the words. 
Her soft, unfocused gaze snapped into clarity, and she 
looked as though she would like to see him drawn and quartered. 
“Say whatever you wish to others, Nicholas Rostov, but do 
not lie to me. You are not sorry, and neither am I.” She reached 
up and fisted her hands in his hair, tugging his face down toward 
hers. 
She kissed him—a sweet, hot, open-mouthed kiss, her 
tongue playing with his as he’d taught her just a moment ago. 
He groaned, pulled her closer, and plunged his tongue deep, 
reveling in the taste of her. She moved her hands down against 
his chest and gave a little shove, causing him to lift his face. 
She looked at him for a moment and her face softened. She 
patted his cheek, her smile warm and giving. 
“There,” she said. Without another word, she turned and 
walked away, as regal as a queen. 
*** 
Sera stood at her window watching the king and his men 

ride out. The soldiers were resplendent in their red tunics and 
blue breeches. Every buckle and spur gleamed in the afternoon 
sun. The whole scene looked like some brave pageant from a 
history lesson in the scrying glass, but their destination in 
Beaureve boded ill. Her fear rose, for all these brave men and 
the king riding so tall and proud before them. 
Nicholas cared, at least a little for her. And he wanted her. 
She had felt the very real evidence of his desire. She didn’t 
understand him a bit, but she couldn’t carry anger against him 
any more. 
Katherine stood beside her holding her hand, staring at the 
king’s first minister who rode beside him, his hair an untamed 
mop of bright curls beneath his hat. She and Sera watched until 
the last soldier trotted out of sight, and the last sword hilt caught 
the glint of a sunbeam. 
“Thank you,” Katherine said. 
“You are always thanking me. Whatever for this time?” 
laughed Sera. 
“It is easier to watch them go with someone who 
understands.” 
Guards passed, courtiers hurried by behind them. “Come,” 
said Sera. “Let’s ride, so we can talk openly.” Far better to talk 
with Katherine than Darlington, she thought and laughed. She 
wanted the wind in her face, the free flow of Wind Rider’s 
haunches beneath her. Since she had walked from the garden, 
her spirit hadn’t been at ease. She was worried about Nicholas 
and giddy with a tenuous hope she refused to examine too 
closely. 
The park was still beautiful, for the trees were graceful even 
bare of leaves. The hemlock and the holly grew lush here in 
late October. She felt better in the clear, chill air. 
Pulling up after a brisk race with Katherine, she said, “I 
believe you must tell Nicholas that you will not be a pawn in 
the game of power. Tell him you love Andre. Tell him you will 
do better for Laurentia if you remain here, happy and useful to 
him and your people.” 
Katherine gave her a sad smile. “How could I ask him for 
that which he denies himself?” 
Sera shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand.” 
“Don’t you know? Nicholas is betrothed,” Katherine said. 

Sera worked very hard to keep her face expressionless. Very 
hard. “Betrothed,” she said, and her voice sounded far away, as 
though it were coming from underwater. “To—to whom is he 
betrothed?” 
“The princess Catherine Elizabeth of Beaureve. Anatole 
Galerien’s niece. Galerien is really just the regent of the country 
until the princess weds.” Katherine’s dark gaze, always eloquent, 
spoke pity. 
Sera ducked her head. She didn’t want pity. “How long has 
he been….” 
“Betrothed?” Katherine said gently. “Since he was six, I 
believe. My father took him to Beaureve to sign the betrothal 
papers. King Stephan and his queen were still alive. It was quite 
a ceremony, apparently. Nicholas told me about it just the other 
day. When they returned, I was born, and my mother was— 
well, dead.” 
“Why hasn’t he married this princess? Surely, she is old 
enough to wed,” Sera said, her heart pounding. 
“She is not well,” Katherine said. “She lingers at the convent 
where she has been at school all these years. Perhaps at this 
meeting, Nikki and Galerien will agree on a date, and then the 
wedding will take place.” 
“I see.” The wind blew chill through the bare branched trees. 
“The night is upon us,” she said to Katherine, taking care to 
keep her voice calm. “It is time we returned to the palace.” 
Sera sat awake long into the night. A storm raged outside 
the palace, but it was nothing to what raged in Sera’s mind and 
heart. Her stomach hurt. She couldn’t stop shaking, walking 
the floor of her pink and blue cage, trying to deal with the outrage 
and sick misery swirling through her. She had given her word 
to a scoundrel who kissed her and then went off to make a 
marriage with someone else, even if that someone else was really 
her. 
The room was too confining. She took up a candle and 
slipped out into the hall. The guard near the door bowed, but 
she brushed past him, walking the stairway, her flame guttering 
in a sudden gust of wind. Up she went until she entered the 
long hall, past the disapproving, ghostly portraits, until she came 
to the last, a likeness of Nicholas. 
Tall and straight he stood, his sword belted at his side, his 

eyes meeting hers in a young face cold, but seemingly 
honorable—what irony. “I owe you nothing,” she whispered. 
“Tell me, why shouldn’t I ride out of here tomorrow? What do 
I care if Napoleon or Galerien topples you from your blasted 
throne? What do I care if the cliffs close out your world forever?” 
Suddenly, it was all too much. She put the candlestick beside 
her on the floor and sank down, drawing her knees up to her 
chin. “But there’s not just you to consider, is there? I gave my 
word, thinking of Katherine and Father Anselm and the 
orphanage, and all the shopkeepers, and young Ned. You knew 
that, you counted on it, you reprobate. Even if the thief comes, 
even if I retrieve the Heart of Fire, I’m stuck here. Until you 
return with some sham princess probably trained to kill you 
while you sleep. It would serve you right, Nicholas, to marry a 
traitorous fraud.” 
Sera began to laugh. She covered her mouth, trying to stem 
the hysteria. The last thing she needed was for someone to hear 
and see her like this, alone at midnight, slumped on the floor of 
the long, dark hall, laughing like a lunatic while lightning slashed 
through the sky outside the high windows. But it was the final 
irony. 
This stupid Outlander king who alternately wooed and 
ignored her was betrothed—to her. Sera—Catherine Elizabeth 
Seraphina Galerien, daughter of King Stephan and Queen 
Marissa, had fled Beaureve immediately after the Brotherhood 
slaughtered her parents. While Nicholas wasted his time in a 
cold, calculated attempt to build alliances, the elusive princess 
of Beaureve took shelter beneath his very roof from the beasts 
that still stalked her. 
In her extremity, Sera did not perceive what was happening 
around her until it became shockingly evident. The rumbling 
sound crashing in on her ears brought her head up sharply into 
consciousness of her surroundings. The long gallery walls began 
to shake. The floor beneath her moved like a wave. Portraits 
swayed and danced on the walls, their heavy gilt frames ringing 
against the stone. The windows rippled, stressed by some 
cataclysmic force that beat against them from within the gallery. 
Dear gods, was the force coming from her? Sera, her heart 
beating a tattoo of horror, shut her eyes. With all her will, she 
wished calm, wished serenity, wished understanding. She 

pictured her grandfather, his blue eyes deep with understanding, 
his calm seeping through her. She whispered to him, asking for 
his help. 
The rumble died. The walls stood still. The oak floor boards 
settled into place beneath her. The storm abated. The rain no 
longer lashed at the windows but fell quietly to soak into the 
ground below. 
Shouts sounded outside the gallery. Boots clapped against 
the wooden floorboards. She looked up to find a protective circle 
of guards bending over her. 
“My lady, are you all right?” 
She nodded, still too upset to speak. 
“Thank heavens. We heard the noise,” he said. “We thought 
the gallery might be caving in on you.” The guard held out his 
hand and helped her up. 
Another picked up the candlestick. He looked about him, 
eyes wide with surprise. “It appears to be unharmed.” 
“I am relieved,” she managed to say. 
Exhausted, she let them escort her down the stairs and to 
her chamber. The guard handed her the taper in front of the 
door. 
“Please have the workmen check the gallery tomorrow,” 
she told him, pulling her wrapper tightly about her. “Just in 
case there is a weakness in the structure you cannot see.” As 
there is in me, she thought. 
“Of course, my lady,” he said, saluting her as she slipped 
into her room. 
Her last thought before she fell into bed was that she had 
managed, for once, to control the Gift before it did irreparable 
damage. Whenever she felt these terrible, deep emotions, she 
would think of Grandfather and imagine him beside her, 
listening and accepting her, no matter what the truth in her heart 
might be. But the power was growing, and she had no assurance 
that next time, she would be able to restrain it. 
For the sake of Laurentia and her people, she had to go 
home. 
In the morning, Sera awoke with a pounding head. The sky 
was leaden with roiling clouds. She had promised not to leave, 
but she had not given her word to stop the search for the thief. 
The young soldier who always accompanied her when she left 

the city met her at the stable. He was a likeable youth, with 
round blue eyes and a snub nose. The guard waved them through 
the palace gate. 
“Perhaps we could ride by the river today,” she said to the 
soldier. The thief might travel the river, she thought. The youth 
nodded and fell in behind her. Usually, he was talkative and 
entertaining with his stories of his large family. But today, he 
seemed to know that she wanted time to herself, and with the 
gentle understanding she had never expected in a man trained 
to kill, he gave it to her. 
At the edge of the city lay a river valley with lush fields 
and hedges to jump. Sera took the main road downward through 
the valley. Wood smoke rose from farmhouse chimneys, the 
yards and fences neatly kept. She felt the lonely twinge of 
jealousy the traveler feels for the native when home and kin are 
far away. She sank so deep into melancholy that she didn’t even 
hear the thundering of a team of horses as a carriage approached 
from behind and nearly overtook her. 
A shot rang out from behind. Sera pulled Wind Rider to the 
left of the road and glanced backward. To her horror, her young 
guard listed to one side, a stream of bright blood running from 
his shoulder. He dropped from the saddle to the road. 
The driver gave a shout and swerved around the fallen 
soldier. Horses reared in their traces and men jumped from the 
carriage as it thundered to a halt a few feet in front of her. Sera 
pulled sharply at Wind Rider to gallop him toward the fields 
where the men couldn’t pursue them. 
Rough hands grabbed at the reins and caught at her, hauling 
her from the saddle. She flailed at the arms that held her in a 
grip of iron and stared up at Dawson’s malevolent grin. She 
struggled wildly, but a huge hand came from behind carrying a 
handkerchief that smelled sickeningly sweet. 
“Nay, Mistress Fancy, ‘yer coming with us,” Dawson 
crooned. “Too bad I can’t have my pleasure with ‘ye first, but 
there’s someone wants you bad enough to give me plenty for 
‘ye. Perhaps later, when he’s taken some of the starch out of ‘ye 
and ‘yer worth naught else to him. Perhaps then me ‘n you’ll 
have our fun, eh, Sera?” 
Oh, gods, she thought in despair. And then the darkness 
overtook her, and she was lost. 

Nine 
Two miles from the border with Beaureve, a rider 
approached the train of soldiers and diplomats traveling with 
Nicholas. The king took one look at his dusty cloak and weary 
eyes and ordered a halt. 
“Carlsohnn, “ he said. “What news?” 
Carlsohnn, grim-faced, saluted in the saddle and handed 
Nicholas a leather case. “I have found the Brotherhood base,” 
he said. “Twenty miles east, well within Beaureve, in the 
foothills of the Arkadian mountains. The maps, the description 
of their numbers, their artillery and supplies are in the case.” 
“I see.” Galerien, the bastard. Nicholas motioned Andre and 
his ministers forward. “We must plan our strategy.” He turned 
to the weary, young shopkeeper’s son who had brought him the 
precious truth. 
“Thank you, William Carlsohnn, Baron of Alsynia.” 
Carlsohnn gave him a dazed look. “Majesty,” he whispered. 
“This is unnecessary.” 
“You may have saved all of Laurentia, my lord. You are fit 
to rule some of it,” said Nicholas. “Sit, take your rest, and then 
return to your family.” 
“My king, if you proceed to Beaureve, I would remain by 
your side. This man is treacherous. You may have need of every 
soldier here.” 
Nicholas clasped the young man’s dusty shoulder. He had 
not thought that men such as Carlsohnn would care enough to 
risk their lives twice for him. It warmed a place in him where 
there had been only cool purpose. 
Carlsohnn bowed and went off to clean the dust from his 
uniform. When Nicholas alerted his ministers to Carlsohnn’s 
news, shock and outrage appeared on faces, old and young. 
“What shall we do?” Andre asked. 
“Proceed. Buy a bit of time. Sleep light and armed at the 
traitor’s palace. And get out of there sooner than we thought 
to.” 
“Nicholas, there’s the threat of poison.” 
“He doesn’t need poison to take Laurentia. He has the 
Brotherhood. But just in case….” Nicholas smiled grimly and 

called an ensign to him. 
“Get me a dog, small enough to fit into one’s pocket. I don’t 
care how ugly the mutt, as long as it is well trained and 
obedient,” he said. “I’ve no desire to be found out for a fraud.” 
And so they went on, and soon they passed through the 
ancient arched gateway of the grim town of Constanza, which 
Nicholas remembered from his childhood as a cheerful, busy 
lake town. The stalls in the market offered only a few drab bits 
of garden produce—moldy cabbages, sad looking carrots, a few 
worm-eaten apples. The citizens, who were once prosperous, 
looked as desolate as people in the midst of a terrible famine. 
“What has happened here?” Nicholas wondered in a soft 
voice. 
Andre, riding beside him, shook his head. “I don’t 
understand this. Beaureve’s treasury has great wealth.” 
On the far side of town, the palace rose, now more a fortress 
than a summer home. Shards of broken glass jutted up from the 
tops of the surrounding walls. Nicholas stared at the guards at 
the front gate, armed to the teeth with sword and pistols. The 
place looked as though an outlaw king lived inside. 
As they entered, Nicholas saw luxury to rival an eastern 
potentate’s great palace. The hallway sparkled with the light of 
thousands of candles, reflected in the high sheen of gilt and 
silver. Andre and his guards checked Nicholas’s room for 
security, as he shed his jacket and handed it to his valet. 
Andre made a questioning sound. Nicholas caught him 
looking at the flowing linen of his shirt. It showed the dirt marks 
left by Sera’s small hands. 
“What?” he asked Andre. 
“Been doing a bit of gardening, old boy?” Andre’s tone 
was much too amused. 
He attempted a look of disinterest. “I found Sera digging in 
the dirt. What of it?” 
“And you didn’t change afterward? How long have I known 
you, Nikki?” 
Nicholas exhaled in an exasperated huff. 
“Right. I’ve known you all my life. You hate being dirty 
for any longer than you can help. You could easily have changed 
that shirt before we left. Perhaps in future you might persuade 
the lady to give you a favor more in fitting with your sensibilities 

than half the kitchen garden. A silk scarf with a bit of her perfume 
might do, a glove that her tiny hand had graced, a— 
“Shut up, Andre.” Nicholas’s whole face felt as though it 
were on fire. “It wasn’t a kitchen garden. It was a rose garden.” 
“I see,” said Andre with a wicked grin. “Well, that makes 
all the difference, doesn’t it?” 
“Go find someone else to devil,” said Nicholas. 
“Too pleasant to watch you stew, old man,” he said, his 
hand on the door to the outer corridor. “By the way, we’re to 
meet with Galerien in an hour.” 
Nicholas bathed and changed into full court dress for the 
state banquet. He stood before the mirror, wearing a long, white 
embroidered waistcoat, a blue velvet coat and knee breeches 
and silver buckles on his shoes. By God, he hated walking into 
a battlefield with nothing but a ceremonial sword by his side. 
Galerien and his ministers were waiting for him at the end 
of a sumptuous dining room where silver chandeliers hung 
overhead, glittering in the light from a hundred candles. The 
long banquet table was set in heavy gold plate and fine crystal 
for eighty. Nicholas took his place beside Galerien to 
acknowledge the officials, and then took a moment to speak to 
his host before approaching the table. 
At forty-five, the regent was still a handsome man, slender 
and straight backed. His dark hair was clipped short and streaked 
with gray, but his face was ruddy and his smile quite charming. 
Galerien’s cloth of gold coat over maroon velvet knee breeches 
made him look like some oriental pasha. 
“Rostov! How good of you to come,” he said with a hearty, 
deep laugh. He took Nicholas into his arms to give him the kiss 
of peace, the snake. A furious yipping and snarling erupted. 
Galerien backed up a few steps and stared open-mouthed at 
Nicholas’s coat pocket. Nicholas smiled apologetically and 
pulled a tiny lap dog from the pocket. The little cur growled 
ferociously and bared his teeth at Galerien. 
“Sorry, Anatole. Mischa’s invaluable to me. Here, why don’t 
you get him used to your scent, and then he’ll be as friendly as 
a puppy.” 
Galerien looked askance at the snarling little animal who 
resembled a rat more than any canine Nicholas had ever seen. 
“Perhaps another time,” he said faintly. 

“Very well. One can’t be too careful these days, what with 
the Brotherhood at our doorstep, and treachery abroad. Mischa 
is my taster.” Nicholas petted the cur, who bared his teeth at 
Galerien again. 
“This dog has a stomach so delicate, he’ll become ill a 
moment after swallowing any poison. Clever little mutt, isn’t 
he?” 
Nicholas dumped Mischa back into his pocket and sighed, 
inclining his head toward the Laurentian troops just entering 
the great state dining room. “If Mischa here meets with an 
unfortunate attack upon his digestive tract, my guards will kill 
the man responsible.” To Nicholas’s satisfaction, Galerien 
blanched. 
“Now, Anatole, tell me how you have been dealing with 
the terrorist threat that hangs over both our heads.” He clapped 
Galerien on the back and walked beside him to the head of the 
long banquet table. 
As the ministers bowed, Galerien gestured to the seat on 
his right, cautiously marking the position of the lapdog, which 
Nicholas proceeded to bring out of his pocket and place on his 
lap. 
The china and crystal appeared almost at once, with an extra 
plate and bowl for Mischa. Through the turtle soup, the roast 
pheasant stuffed with truffles from France, the ices and gateaux, 
and the toasts, Nicholas fed the dog. Galerien, a smooth and 
convincing talker, was unusually silent through the meal. 
In a quiet moment over brandy, Nicholas pondered the 
interesting fact that the Brotherhood had begun its nefarious 
work against Galerien’s older brother, the popular and kindly 
King Stephan and his beautiful queen, Marissa. 
Only their daughter, poor Catherine Elizabeth, survived. 
For the last two years, Nicholas had begun to suspect that the 
hidden princess was either a lunatic or a mental deficient. But 
he had thought himself trapped. 
Until now. Amidst the muffled clatter of silver and plate, 
the realization struck him, almost taking his breath. The voices 
of the ministers receded. He was free to choose his own bride. 
Nicholas felt the kick of his heart as it accelerated. He 
pictured Sera, veiled and in white, walking the abbey’s aisle 
toward him, and all the people rising as she passed. He kept 

back the smile that tugged at his mouth. Happiness spread 
through him until he wanted to burst with it, to shout to the 
ministers, and Galerien, and his own men. 
“To Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov,” Galerien 
was saying. The ministers stood, lifting their goblets, and drank. 
Nicholas quickly gathered his thoughts. He rose and gave 
what he hoped was an appropriate toast in return. He slid through 
it automatically while wondering why Galerien had called him 
here and when the despot would see fit to tell him. Galerien 
turned to him directly after the toast. 
“Nicholas Alexander,” the king said easily. “If you will be 
good enough to join me in my library for a private discussion 
after our repast.” 
“Delighted,” murmured Nicholas. At last. 
Surrounded by his first editions, Galerien was even more 
self-congratulatory than he was in the midst of his opulence. 
He sat behind his inlaid desk puffing on a cigar and swirling 
the brandy about in his glass. 
When he pushed a small miniature forward for Nicholas’s 
perusal, Nicholas thought it must be a portrait of his sequestered 
betrothed. In his present mood, which veered from cold fury to 
deepest relief, Nicholas felt a tug of sympathy for the princess 
he no longer had to marry. He’d help her if he could. Right after 
he knocked her uncle off the throne of Beaureve. 
But the offered miniature was a portrait of Galerien, himself. 
Nicholas looked up from the portrait and gave Galerien a 
questioning glance. 
Galerien waved a negligent hand. “I am sorry to tell you 
that there can be no match for you and my niece, Catherine 
Elizabeth. I have received distressing reports. She may be dead 
within the week.” Galerien looked anything but distressed by 
the news. 
“I shall speak plainly to you. Between these cursed religious 
fanatics and Napoleon’s troops so close to our borders, our cause 
must be one. I am aware that your sister is of marriageable age.” 
Galerien blew several smoke rings and sipped his brandy. 
“As you know, Nicholas, I am merely regent of Beaureve. 
My niece’s impending death will cause uncertainty throughout 
the land. And because poor Catherine Elizabeth will die without 
issue….” Galerien let the thought hang in the air. 

“Within days, I’ll be king, with a responsibility to ensure 
the Galerien line. As you know, my late wife and I were not 
blessed with offspring, a veritable necessity for any monarch. 
Whereas your family has always been… fruitful, shall we say? 
Yes, your sister will be a fine wife, a treasured bride.” Galerien 
carefully brushed an ash off the end of his cigar and steepled 
his fingers, looking at Nicholas over them. His eyes sparkled 
with greedy anticipation. 
“I see,” said Nicholas. Was Catherine Elizabeth truly dying, 
or did Galerien plan to hurry her demise? His hands itched, and 
he pictured them wrapped around Galerien’s throat. “This is a 
matter I must take up with the council, of course, and with the 
princess,” he managed to say smoothly. “You will have your 
answer in due time.” 
And if you think, you snake’s spawn, that I would let you 
touch my sister…. Nicholas kept his face still in that polite mask. 
“Kindly do not make me wait too long, my dear Nicholas 
Alexander,” said Galerien, executing his tight-lipped parody of 
a smile. “For the sake of both our countries.” 
“In due time, Anatole Dimitri,” said Nicholas, rising and 
bowing smartly. “As I have told you.” 
“I shall wait as long as I can,” said Galerien, also rising. He 
held out his hand, and Nicholas took it. 
The back of his neck gave a warning prickle. There was 
danger here—deadly danger to Katherine and Laurentia. He 
had to find a way out. If only he could drop the pretense, 
challenge Galerien now, and get the whole thing over by dawn 
tomorrow. But kings did not duel with other kings. They simply 
went home and prepared to sacrifice thousands of lives in a war 
that could destroy both kingdoms, leaving only bare bones for 
Napoleon’s soldiers to pick. 
*** 
The next morning, Nicholas rose before the sun and rode 
out with his troops. Galerien, hastily roused, appeared at the 
balcony above the courtyard in his dressing gown. 
“Why such haste, my dear Nicholas Rostov? Our meetings 
were to last three days!” 
“Ah, my very dear friend and ally, this matter we discussed 
is of utmost importance. I must return and meet with my full 
council as soon as possible. You understand, I am sure.” 

“Of course, of course,” said Galerien. Greed and cunning 
replaced the suspicion in his eyes. 
The day was blustery and overcast, but they made good 
time toward the border and crossed it shortly before noon. 
Nicholas breathed a little easier for being back in Laurentia, 
but he was still wary of surprise attack. At a check to rest the 
horses, he informed his ministers of last night’s meeting with 
Galerien and revealed his plans to attack the Brotherhood base. 
“And,” he said quietly. “All of what we’ve discussed must 
be kept absolutely quiet. I want none but young Carlsohnn, you 
men, and the generals to know of our plans.” 
Sera had known all about Galerien, he thought as they 
mounted up again. What conflict lay between her and the double-
dealing regent? 
In the far distance, a black carriage resembling a heavy mail 
coach with six horses rumbled towards them. Andre glanced at 
Nicholas, and he nodded. After what Carlsohnn had learned, 
anything attempting to cross their border would be searched. 
The men fanned out on the road, making passage impossible 
for a carriage and team. As the coach rolled closer, Nicholas 
could make out three men, heavily muffled, sitting atop. He 
spoke a few words to the captain of the guard, who saluted and 
urged his men forward. The horses were almost upon them when 
the captain shouted, “Halt, in the name of the king!” 
The driver muttered and halted his horses. 
“Step down,” said the captain. “Reveal your faces!” 
The driver slowly lowered his muffler to reveal a heavily 
bearded face and climbed from the box atop the coach. The 
other two outriders slipped silently down from the coach and 
raised their hands in the air. 
“`Tis naught, my lord,” said the driver standing casually 
against the coach. “Just a gentleman an’ his lady off for a private 
matter, is all.” Nicholas rode slowly forward and stared at the 
driver. Bearded as he was, he could have been any number of 
men. But Nicholas had heard that rough burr, almost a cur’s 
growl once before, at a time so deeply etched in his memory 
that he would have recognized that particular voice anywhere. 
Dawson! His blood froze in his veins. 
“Open the door,” he said to the soldier nearest him. 
Dawson pulled a pistol and shouted a warning. The other 

two drew their own weapons. Dawson aimed and pulled the 
trigger. A soldier’s arm shoved Nicholas to the side. The shot 
whizzed past Nicholas’s head, just as a knife sailed through the 
air and sliced through Dawson’s throat. Dawson, gagging, 
clutched at the knife and dropped to the ground. Nicholas’s pistol 
smoked in his hand, as did Andre’s. The other two men lay 
dead at Dawson’s side. 
Nicholas looked to his left for the man who had saved his 
life. Carlsohnn’s hand, the one that had shoved him and then 
thrown the knife, was shaking, but his mouth was curved in a 
beatific grin. 
“It’s all right,” Carlsohnn said. “It’s all right.” The lieutenant 
let out a gusty sigh of relief. 
Nicholas’s heart was going like a trip hammer. He 
dismounted at a run and flung open the carriage door. He tore 
the blanket from the small, limp bundle on the floor. 
“Sera,” he said. His hands were clammy, and his stomach 
clenched. But she was breathing, and even as he pulled her 
against his chest, her eyelids began to flutter. 
“Ooh,” she moaned. 
“Sweetheart, hold still,” he said, working at the ropes tying 
her hands and feet. “I’ll have you up in a moment.” 
“I think I am going to be sick.” 
“Hold on just a moment. There. Lean on me and let it go.” 
He held her head until the nausea passed and then wiped 
her face with a handkerchief. “Be a good girl and lie down for a 
moment, here, up on the seat.” 
She curled up and moaned again, her head on his lap. A 
soldier came with water, and Nicholas gave her a sip. 
“Better? Good. That must have been nasty stuff they 
drugged you with.” 
”Awful. Nicholas.” She tugged his sleeve, pressing against 
him. “I didn’t run away. There was a young soldier who rode 
with me. He has a mother and ten brothers and sisters. They 
shot him. You have to help him.” 
He signaled two of the men, and they galloped ahead to 
look for the soldier. “Of course you didn’t run away. You gave 
me your word. No, give it a few moments until you get your 
head on straight. Then I want to hear what happened. You can 
tell me on the way home. We’ll travel in the coach, together.” 

Sera was still so pale. It made him sick with worry. Had 
Dawson—but no, he couldn’t think about that, or he’d go mad. 
But had they given her too much of the drug? People died from 
chloroform in the hospital. 
“I want to get out of here,” she said. “It’s awful. It smells of 
that stuff.” 
“All right. Tell me when you can stand, and I’ll take you up 
before me on the horse.” 
“Now.” 
“Slowly. That’s right, down to the ground. I’ll mount first. 
No, let Andre lift you up to me. Captain! Another cloak. There, 
nice and snug.” He tucked it around her, pulled her back against 
him, and gave the signal. As they moved forward on the road 
home, he found he was shaking all over. 
*** 
“It is well. He has found her!” To the shock and 
consternation of the guests seated around a small room in the 
Mage’s palace, Jacob Augustus threw open the doors with a 
crash. The sound echoed off the entryway and down the broad 
halls of marble. He stopped, ashamed of his outburst. In his 
relief, he’d raced downstairs from the watchtower wherein lay 
the scrying glass and burst into a feast his grandfather gave in 
honor of the festival of Hermes. Even a child of ten knew one 
did not dishonor the god with such a careless loss of dignity. 
“How good of you to come, Jacob,” his grandfather said 
smoothly, indicating the couch beside him. “My grandson had 
pressing personal business elsewhere,” he told the notables in 
the dining chamber, “but we shall not pause from our discussion 
to talk about it.” A servant appeared from nowhere. Reaching 
up, he carefully placed a myrtle wreath on Jacob’s hair. 
Emmanuel’s face was serene, but Jacob, looking closely, 
saw joy light it, like a lamp in early evening before the sun has 
set. “Please, dine with us and tell us what you think. Myron has 
suggested that we add Euripides to the program of plays for the 
Dionysia this Spring.” 
Jacob composed himself and reclined against the pillows 
at the head of the couch. A servant silently poured a cup of 
wine mixed with water and handed it to him. Another 
unobtrusively placed a plate of roasted lamb and a bowl of 
yogurt and honey on the small enameled table by the couch. He 

sipped the wine and took that instant to calm himself. 
“My apologies, sir,” he said to his grandfather, “and to all 
our guests. In this year of Outlander turmoil, I should think The 
Trojan Women most instructive. Long ago, the fate of those 
women brought tears to the eyes of hardened soldiers. Today,” 
he added with a meaningful look at Emmanuel, “it will remind 
us of why we were sent to Arkadia, why we were instructed to 
remain separate, and what we have learned since.” 
Emmanuel took the dig with a forbearance that made Jacob 
ashamed of himself. Who was he to instruct his grandfather? 
The talk of the festival went on around the room. “Jacob, 
give us the tale of the Delian Twins,” his grandfather said. Jacob 
wondered if Emmanuel could see into his mind and knew his 
failing, or that he simply wished to make Jacob happier and, 
therefore, calm within himself. He rose and took the harp from 
the bard sitting in the corner of the banquet room. After a few 
moments of tuning, he began the old song of the twins coming 
into their strength, Artemis the Huntress, and Phoebus Apollo, 
golden, far-shooting lord of the bow, all truth and light. 
He loved this story. First, because he was dedicated to 
Apollo and never tired of stories about the god. Secondly, 
because the music was sweeter than most of the bard songs that 
tradition allowed, and thus, he could raise his voice and revel 
in the lyrical beauty of the notes. 
It confused and humbled him that this secret temptation 
should so overwhelm him. He would be Mage someday and 
responsible for carrying out all the laws of Arkadia. They, of 
course, included the ban on music that only aroused the senses 
without uplifting the soul. Indeed, he’d so lost himself in the 
hunger for music that he had learned to read the classical scores 
of the Outlanders, turning to them with a desperation like that 
of a man enslaved to drink or women. He’d felt an undeniable 
longing to hear their instruments. In secret, he memorized their 
notes and their harmonies. 
Worse yet, when alone on the practice field with javelin or 
discus, he would silently imagine himself singing the notes of 
their composers and throw to the rhythm. It seemed that in this 
temptation only, his soul was capable of duplicity and evil. Even 
now, lost in the spell of the old music that he was permitted to 
sing and play, he held the last notes too long, surely a sin of 

pride. In spite of the appreciative murmurs from the diners, he 
could look at no one as he gave the lyre back to the bard. 
As he returned to his couch, the talk turned to the Dionysia, 
the games and the plays, and the hope that this year’s prizes 
would go to playwrights worthy of the old masters. 
Drusus Antiocus, making a small motion to Jacob, spoke 
quietly from the couch to his left. “It has come to my attention 
that Thalia, the daughter of Leonides Palos, has come of age. 
My son Lysander is in need of a bride. He had been set to ask 
for your sister Seraphina some time back, before this regrettable 
business regarding the Heart of Fire. It would have been a good 
match—the Aestron Gift combined with our skill at mathematics 
and telepathy.” 
He gave Jacob a questioning look. “Shall I speak to 
Leonides or shall I wait?” 
Jacob nodded, signaling his understanding. He’d grown up 
with Lysander Antiocus, respected his friend for the strong, kind 
man he’d become, and admired Lysander’s calm demeanor and 
good sense. The women considered him handsome, as well. He 
would make a worthy bridegroom for Sera. He wondered if 
Drusus came to him because he sensed that Jacob wanted his 
sister back now. Whereas Grandfather would insist that she 
remain in that hellhole they called the rest of the world. 
It would not go on much longer. Jacob would see to that. 
“Sera will return soon. My sister would bring honor to your 
family, Drusus. And I would be honored to give her to my friend 
Lysander. I shall tell him so, myself.” 
*** 
After meeting with his council, Nicholas sent word to 
Katherine that he wished to see her before luncheon. 
She took one look at his face and said, “Do quit fretting. 
Sera’s fine. And no, Dawson didn’t touch her other than to hold 
her still while the others drugged her. She has a headache, of 
course, but the doctor promises she’ll be fine by tomorrow. 
When Wind Rider came back to the stables alone, I think we all 
went a bit mad with worry. Thank the good God that you came 
home early enough to catch them.” 
“We have to discuss something else, Katherine.” He threw 
the miniature of Galerien down on a small table before her. She 
grew white as a ghost and turned toward the window. 

“Is this to be my husband?” she asked. 
“No. I would sooner marry you to a stoat. But Katherine, I 
need time to rid Laurentia of the Brotherhood’s threat. I won’t 
bother you with all the details, but for the meantime, please, 
accept this betrothal, knowing that I shall break it as soon as I 
can.” 
She looked at him, her smile tremulous. “Am I to send a 
shy but pleasing letter to Galerien, thanking him for this honor?” 
He nodded, feeling like the lowest worm on the face of the 
earth. “Just for a little while, Katya. If you could play him, 
t’would make a difference, I think.” 
“I shall compose something fitting by this evening. Do you 
not think that he will be satisfied to receive it by return 
messenger?” 
“I do. I should like to propose a meeting between you and 
Galerien here, for a month or two from now. That will keep him 
quiet, I believe.” He couldn’t look at her. 
“Nikki. The British—will they help us against Napoleon?” 
He shook his head. “I don’t know.” 
Nicholas didn’t even hear Katherine’s approach. Her 
footsteps were muffled by the thick carpet. It was only when he 
felt her take his hand that he raised his head. 
She gave him such a look. He wanted to shout to her to hit 
him, or to run away, but not to fix her dark eyes on him with 
such love and trust when he couldn’t give her any comfort or 
reassurance. 
“You have done all you can do, Nikki. Don’t waste this 
time in guilt. Take what you can from it. I certainly plan to do 
so. And if the angels are with us—who knows? Maybe both of 
us will be happy for the rest of our lives, no?” 
When had his little sister grown up? She was right, Nicholas 
thought. His troops, posted now at the border with Beaureve, 
would repel Galerien’s army. Plans to attack the Brotherhood 
base were well under way. There was nothing left to do but 
wait, and hope. 
He felt an odd lightening of spirit. For the first time, he was 
no longer fighting shadows. He might be dead this time next 
year, but in the interim, he would take what he wanted and give 
back as much of himself as he could. 
Nicholas left his sister and strolled the long hallway to his 

chamber. A footman’s normally impassive gaze whipped to 
Nicholas’s face. It was only then that Nicholas realized he was 
whistling a rather bawdy tune he had learned at a tavern on the 
docks of London when he was a student. 
*** 
In the few days since he had rescued her from Dawson, 
Sera found herself once again totally confused by Nicholas’s 
behavior toward her. On the first morning, he appeared at her 
chamber door several times, inquiring after her health to the 
most minute details—how much of her breakfast she’d eaten, 
how well rested she was, if she’d risen from her bed. 
Not completely satisfied with the answers, he’d come into 
the room to see for himself, bringing Katherine and Andre along. 
“An unfortunate necessity, for propriety’s sake,” he’d told 
her with a charmingly wicked grin—the reprobate. She’d steeled 
herself then and managed a cool, impersonal mien. He hadn’t 
seemed to notice. Instead, he’d questioned her closely about 
the headache, a lingering result of the drug, insisted that she 
not get up again that day, and checked what food Cook prepared 
for her. A few days ago, she would have melted at his fussing, 
but she was on her guard with him now, too. Perhaps guilt 
motivated his actions. 
She waited for the announcement of his betrothal to the 
false princess, but it did not come. And she wondered what 
unfortunate young woman Galerien had placed in that role. 
Today, fully recovered from the effects of her abduction, 
Sera faced the trial of her final ball gown fittings. She realized 
immediately that Madame Sophie’s propensity for outrageous 
gossip remained the same, and Sera took advantage of it. “Tell 
me, Madame Sophie, what do you know about the princess 
Catherine Elizabeth Galerien?” 
“Oh, my dear child, you have nothing to fear. She is very 
sick—some say she is a little fou, you understand. Her uncle 
has sequestered her for so many years that there must be 
something very grave about her problems. No, you will not be 
usurped by that poor little thing.” 
“Where is she? Does anyone visit her? Do some of the lords 
of Laurentia carry messages from the king to this princess?” 
“No, no. She never receives anyone.” 
Perhaps there isn’t a sham princess, at all, Sera thought 

as the modiste prattled on. 
“Once the marriage is consummated, and the heir assured, 
I believe the king will return to you with the eagerness of a new 
lover.” 
“Kindly say no more.” Sera went hot with indignation at 
Madame Sophie’s insinuation. 
“Ah, my dear, you are such an innocent.” The modiste shook 
her head and patted Sera’s shoulder. “You must look at your 
situation as the way of the world. Mistresses have a power over 
men that wives only rarely possess. And you already have that 
power over the king. All the people watched you return to town, 
myself among them. We worried, you see. You were half-
conscious at the time and so pale. 
“But it was the king who surprised us, nay, shocked us that 
day. For he rode with you in his arms, my dear. And he held 
you as though he would never let you go. Did you not realize?” 
she asked. 
Sera grew hot with confusion and a thrill that sent her 
perfidious heart soaring. “That day is rather blank in most 
places.” 
“Ah. Understandable. But so it was. You have nothing to 
worry about from the little sickly princess. You will have no 
rivals for this king’s love.” 
Sera felt worse, really, than she had when Dawson drugged 
her. The tawdriness of it all—a mistress waiting alone while the 
man she loved bedded his wife for a child! And then, apparently, 
they all expected that she would take him back to her bed, as 
though nothing had happened. 
Annette knocked at the door and entered holding a blue 
gown across her forearm. “I hope you are almost done, here, 
Madame. I have orders to ready Lady Sera for the afternoon.” 
“Ah oui, I am finished.” The modiste dropped a curtsey to 
Sera. “My dear lady, it is always a pleasure to serve you. Be 
aware that we Laurentians have a great fondness for you.” 
“You must hurry, my lady.” Annette laid the dress across 
the bed and opened the door yet another time, to admit several 
serving men carrying a large copper tub and buckets of hot water. 
Sera splashed and scrubbed as quickly as she could. Where 
was she going, and why hadn’t anyone bothered to tell her? 

The maid helped her into the day dress she’d brought—a 
light blue woolen gown with a matching cloak lined in sable. 
“There, my lady,” she said as she buttoned a pair of white 
kidskin gloves over Sera’s wrist, “you’ll be warm enough now 
to walk about.” 
The maid arranged Sera’s hair in a complicated, upswept 
mass of curls as she sat before a vanity mirror and stared at the 
stranger she was becoming. As Annette slipped a tall sable hat 
over the coiffure and handed her a muff of the same fur, Sera 
felt like a goose being carefully stuffed for a gourmet’s dinner. 
It was already cold enough to wear a fur hat, thought Sera. 
Time was passing inexorably. Another two weeks would 
bring snow to the mountains, and after that, the waterfall would 
freeze. She couldn’t ask Nicholas for help. She had sworn the 
same oath of secrecy that every Hillman swore, and there was 
no recourse but to stay until the thief arrived. Where in heaven’s 
name was he? 
Her stomach knotted. If he does not come soon, she 
promised herself, I shall set off at once for the Hills. 
“There,” said the maid, smoothing the fur-lined cloak about 
her shoulders. “You’ll not catch cold if I can help it.” 
“But where am I to go?” asked Sera in confusion. 
“Why, to the grand staircase. The king will meet you there. 
Did he not tell you?” 
“No one tells me anything, Annette.” Sera picked up her 
skirts and walked down the long corridor. 
Nicholas was standing at the foot of the great stairway, his 
elbow braced negligently upon the newel post as he watched 
her descend the stairs. He wore a brown superfine jacket that 
emphasized his wide shoulders and slim waist. His cravat was 
tied in a complex fashion, and the emerald in the stock pin at 
his throat glittered in the light from the high dome. He looked 
elegant and easy in his overwhelming palace. 
“Hurry up, or we won’t have time for tea.” His deep voice 
echoed all the way up the staircase. Sera kept on walking, feeling 
the heat rise in her cheeks. 
She forced herself to look calmly at Nicholas, daring him 
to rid himself of that lazy, sensual smile. 
He seemed entirely different from the unpredictable stranger 
who occasionally spun her senses in five different directions. 

He looked both younger and more frightening. A dark lock had 
slipped from his normally neatly parted hair and hung over his 
forehead. His gray eyes glittered with a restless heat beneath 
the cool depths, like a fire banked beneath ashes. As he 
straightened away from the newel post, he seemed suddenly 
alive with a fixed purpose, an intention concentrated upward, 
at her. 
Even covered by the cloak, she felt exposed. He looked 
at her as though he knew all of her. Just seeing him again had 
her quivering in fear and confused her enough to make her 
clumsy. With a sinking in her stomach, Sera pictured herself 
slipping and sliding down this grand staircase, to the shock of 
powdered footmen who lined it like life-sized lead soldiers in 
blue and gold satin. 
She was trembling when she finally reached the bottom 
stair. Nicholas did a strange thing. He bent over her gloved hand, 
blocking her from view of the servants. Turning her palm 
upward, he placed the gentlest of kisses on the sensitive spot 
just between the glove and the sleeve of her jacket. 
As her pulse leaped, Sera felt his lips curve against it, and 
she quailed beneath the realization that he knew just what he 
was doing to her. She wondered how she would ever hide herself 
successfully from him. She thought of the modiste’s and Lady 
Tranevale’s original speculations and called herself a fool. 
Nicholas straightened and took her hand, laying it upon his 
arm. In a light voice he said, “Young ladies who get abducted 
must learn to defend themselves. Come.” 
To learn what? Violence? “No.” Sera shook her head 
vehemently. 
“Yes,” Nikki said gently and drew her inexorably to the 
door. 
Sera thought she might freeze on the spot. She felt the cold 
hit her face as soon as she walked outside. 
Behind the palace stood a target. A manservant appeared 
from nowhere with a brace of pistols and offered them to the 
king. Nicholas chose one and gave it to her. 
“This firearm does not resemble a dead rabbit,” he said, 
carefully extracting the weapon dangling awkwardly from her 
fingertips and repositioning it in her hand. “That’s better. Lift 
your hand and take aim. Brace your hand on your left arm. 

Even in the best of circumstances, these things are known to 
shoot wide of the mark, and we can’t have that, can we?” 
“No.” She handed the weapon back to him, looking at it 
with revulsion. 
“What do you mean, no?” 
“I cannot learn to kill another human being. Ever.” 
“You’re not going out hunting, sweetheart,” Nicholas said 
in a gentle voice. “This is for your own protection.” 
She shook her head. “Not even to save my life. It goes 
against everything I was taught, all I believe in. Can you not 
understand?” 
“I understand that I almost lost you. They could have killed 
you, Sera. They would have. And then I—I…” A look of anguish 
flashed across his face, hollowing out the curve beneath his 
high cheekbones, and then it was gone. 
“All right. We’ll call this target practice. I am only interested 
in making you a wicked expert at hitting that bull’s eye in the 
middle there. All the other targets will never dream of attacking 
you. All right?” 
“No,” she whispered, but a small smile tugged at her lips, 
betraying her. 
“Sera.” He lifted her chin with his forefinger and looked at 
her, all serious and beautiful, and she was lost. “If Katherine 
were threatened by a wolf, would you shoot to wound, not to 
kill? It could happen, you know. Game has been scarce recently. 
Have you heard the wolves howling near the city? You ride 
with Katherine every day. Would you let her die if you could 
protect her? You wouldn’t need to kill anything if you shot well 
enough to only wound.” 
Sera thought hard. “If I could heal the wolf afterwards, I 
would do so,” she said. 
His voice was soft as eiderdown. “But you would have to 
be very good with a pistol to give the wolf a chance, wouldn’t 
you?” 
She bit her lip and nodded. 
“Then I suggest you begin to practice, for Katherine’s sake 
as well as the wolf’s.” 
Nicholas’s eyes were so full of trust. He seemed to be giving 
her everything he held dear, knowing she would protect it. And 
she, on the other hand, plotted every day to leave as soon as the 

thief came and she had the ruby. 
Against her conscience and her upbringing, she took the 
offensive thing in her hand. 
Nicholas’s manner slowly changed. His concentration, 
always overwhelming, was focused solely on her in the most 
businesslike fashion. He taught her to load her own weapon, 
powder, ball, and rod, again and again, so she wouldn’t forget. 
It felt like she aimed a thousand times, and she found she had 
an uncanny instinct for hitting the target. In another life, she 
thought, she might have been a cold-blooded killer. 
Finally, as her arm grew heavy and sore, Nicholas said, 
“Enough. Any more and I’ll have to give you an army 
commission. Come. I wish to show you the abbey.” 
As she approached the courtyard, Sera caught sight of 
Katherine and Andre. “Are they going with us?” she asked, 
smiling and waving to them. 
Nicholas leaned near. “Chaperones. Every well-bred lady 
needs them.” His breath was a warm caress against her cheek. 
He took her hand again and tucked it into the crook of his arm. 
“I wanted your first real experience of the abbey to be with me. 
Rather selfish of me, I admit, but then, I am the one with the 
most to gain should you decide you like it here better than any 
other place in this world.” 
She hated his ease while she fought so hard against her 
own conflict—the need to go, the desire to forget that he was 
impossible and the worst sort of womanizer. 
“I have to go home, Nicholas. Very soon.” 
“No,” he said with a low growl. “I told you. Look around 
you. The people love you. They need you.” 
She understood quite well. He kept her for his country, not 
for himself. 
“Don’t you like it here at all?” he asked in a voice velvet 
soft. 
She wanted to say yes, she liked it when he was close, and 
kind, and seemed as though he needed her and valued her 
somewhere beyond the worth of an occasional mistress. “I am 
certain that, if you took me back to my grandfather, he would 
agree to help you with Laurentia’s problems.” 
“How could he possibly help Laurentia?” She heard the 
barely disguised frustration in his voice and reacted blindly. 

“He knows a great deal more than you do, Outlander.” She 
stopped herself, appalled that, in her lack of control, she’d 
revealed more than she should. 
Nicholas’s gaze sharpened. He looked at her as though she 
were a butterfly of rare interest, one he would anesthetize and 
stick on a pin. “What kind of knowledge, Sera? Is he the Mage, 
perchance?” 
“What would you know about the Mage?” she asked, 
stalling. 
“Yes or no, Sera? Is he the Mage?” Nicholas’s voice was 
soft, but beneath that very softness lay his inexorable will, and 
she shivered as she felt his hand clasp her wrist. “Don’t attempt 
to misguide me. Yes or no?” 
She felt sick inside. She could not lie, and she could not 
give him the information he sought. “Take me back to the hills 
and ask him, yourself,” she said at last, but faintly. 
He sighed and let go of her wrist. She rubbed at it, and he 
reddened. “Enough. I—I’m sorry. I don’t wish to hurt you. But 
I have a country to protect. Whenever we’re together, I want to 
probe and delve and worry you into giving up all your secrets.” 
“If people wanted to share their secrets, they wouldn’t be 
secrets,” she said, staring down at her toes. 
“Yes. And we all have them, don’t we?” 
“Especially you, Nicholas Rostov.” She thought of the sham 
princess whom he would marry. 
“Especially me.” He took her arm again, gave her a smile 
of such unalloyed charm that she did not know quite how to 
react. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. 
He laughed, raising his hands in surrender. “I promise, no 
more questions. Or, if you prefer, later, when we’re alone, you 
may ask me as many or more questions than I have asked you. 
And unlike you, my dear, I shall attempt to answer them all.” 
Sera nodded. Oh, she’d ask him all right. She took a deep 
breath and raised her chin. If this was to be a truce of sorts, she 
would walk with him into the central square to stand before the 
soaring walls of Montanyard Abbey. And by her calm, dignified 
behavior, he would never know that he had the least effect upon 
her, at all. 
Katherine and Andre, who had strolled slowly behind them, 
now caught up. 

“Nikki,” said Katherine, “some baron’s daughter, just come 
to court, accosted me with a purse full of money and a request 
that I introduce her to you. The lady certainly believes she is 
pretty enough to catch your eye, Nicholas.” 
“I hope you warned her that bribery is against the law,” 
said Nicholas. His gray eyes turned hard as slate. 
Katherine smiled at Sera. “He’s quite fierce about those 
who wish to curry favor.” 
“I see.” 
What Sera saw was another aristocrat eager to take Nicholas 
to her bed. And if Nicholas didn’t want this one, she was certain 
he’d find another. Which was fine with Sera. 
She hated Nicholas Rostov. No, she couldn’t afford such a 
violent emotion. She just pitied him because he was Outlander 
and an unenlightened womanizer. 
As they neared the abbey, Sera stared at its airy arches and 
flying buttresses dominating the square. Nicholas held the door 
for her. She slipped inside, hoping the soaring vaulted ceiling 
and hushed corridors might soothe her. 
Sera took off her gloves in order to keep her hands from 
wringing together as she worried. Why couldn’t she stop 
thinking about this Outlander king and his sham marriage? 
Why hadn’t Grandfather fetched her? Why had he left her 
alone to deal with the burgeoning power of the Gift? He need 
only look into the scrying glass, and he could find her and come 
for her. Although he had never said one harsh word to her, 
perhaps now he was very angry. A huge lump rose in her throat. 
Would he allow her back into Arkadia if she returned without 
the Heart of Fire? 
She sank onto a bench and bowed her head, biting her lower 
lip. Nicholas sat down beside her, so close to her that she could 
feel the warmth and the tensile strength of his arm and shoulder. 
She resisted the desire to lean into that strength. Instead, she 
took a deep breath and closed her eyes, calming herself in the 
cool quietude of the prayer house. 
Nicholas’s solid shoulder just touched hers. She could feel 
every breath he took. How did it help her that he could be there, 
both accepting and ignoring her at the same time? She glanced 
at him beneath her lashes. He didn’t look back. She watched 
his mouth curve upward, just a little. Then he took her hand, 

and his fingers laced through hers. The touch of his skin against 
her ungloved hand was electric, warm support and wicked 
enticement. She had to break the spell. Now. 
She slid her hand from his grasp. He glanced at her, his 
brows raised in question. She rose abruptly, and without a word, 
he stood. When she moved, he walked beside her, matching his 
easy strides to her own. Seemingly ignoring her rejection, 
Nicholas pointed out the statues of the saints and the virgin, 
and the rose window at the western end of the transept, glowing 
with all the colors of the rainbow, until they reached the tall 
doors of the prayer house. 
Once out on the street, he continued in the role of amiable 
host and tour guide. “The abbey has the finest acoustics in 
Europe and Russia.” 
“Perhaps Notre Dame has better, Nikki,” volunteered 
Katherine, walking behind them with Andre. 
“Never.” 
“Acoustics for what?” Sera asked him. 
“Concerts, of course. Masses. Music.” Nicholas looked at 
her closely. “Have you never heard a concert?” 
Sera shook her head. “We do not have this music. It 
releases—dangerous emotion.” 
Nicholas looked at her sharply. “What sorts of dangerous 
emotions?” 
“Those that confuse the soul and keep it from right reason,” 
she said in a tone that implied that every school child ought to 
know this. 
Nicholas felt the slight chill at the back of his neck, and the 
fine hairs rose there. His senses sang faintly, like strings of a 
harp when a wind passed through them. He vaguely recalled 
reading something to the effect when he was a schoolboy. What 
was it? Oh, he wanted to know everything about her. A lifetime 
would never be enough. 
“Your majesty! Lady Sera!” Mrs. Torville called from the 
door of her teashop. “How good of you to come.” She ushered 
them in, past the usual number of intellectuals, aristocrats, and 
gluttons who filled the little shop to capacity. They made their 
way to a rather private alcove where Mrs. Torville had laid a 
table for them. 
The woman was a plump and beaming testament to her own 

delicious pastries. “I am glad to see you better, Lady Sera,” she 
said. Sera gave her a startled look. “All of us know of your 
latest mishap, my lady, and of His Majesty’s gallant rescue. 
I’ve got some blueberry tarts made special, to help you put the 
roses back in your cheeks. I call them the Lady Seras.” 
Andre and Katherine caught up with them, greeting Mrs. 
Torville fondly. Nicholas helped Sera into her chair, pushing 
away the twinge of disappointment. He had counted on their 
total involvement with each other to keep them in the dim 
recesses of the abbey long enough to give him some time alone 
with Sera. 
At least at this small table, Sera sat close beside him to his 
right, and he could feel the warmth of her body and scent the 
elusive perfume she wore. But she did not seem to be in a very 
receptive mood. She stared at her teacup and merely pushed 
the tart around on her plate. 
Nicholas refrained from raking his fingers through his hair 
in frustration. How did one speak to a brooding female, anyway? 
One discussed the activities of the day, he supposed. It certainly 
wouldn’t do to begin with the shooting lesson. 
“Montanyard Abbey is said to rival Notre Dame and 
Westminster Abbey in its architecture,” he began, sounding 
every bit the pedant to his own ears. “It has been the scene of 
every royal wedding in the last six centuries.” She froze and 
kept her eyes resolutely on her untouched plate. 
“Didn’t you like the Abbey?” he asked, hurt by her 
disapproval. 
“It was quite beautiful,” she said indifferently. 
“Perhaps you would like to attend Sunday services there. 
We have a chapel in the palace, of course, but it is quite majestic 
in the abbey, and all the people of Montanyard….” Will see us 
and know that I am courting you in all seriousness. 
“I shall not worship in your prayer house,” she said, pursing 
her lips like a disapproving governess. 
“You need not worship, but to see it with all the candles lit 
and—“ 
“No. Your religion is nothing but lies. It says not to kill, but 
you hand me a pistol and teach me to do so, and still you may 
go to your prayer house whenever you like, and you all live 
that way. Why, you will marry your Beaurevian princess in that 

prayer house, and then you will take a mistress, even—even 
though you will promise to cleave to no other.” 
Katherine looked up from her private conversation with 
Andre. Her mouth dropped open. Sera was sure her shrew’s 
voice must have carried through the crowded teashop, titillating 
and shocking aristocrats and commoners alike. 
Nicholas threw a sharp glance Katherine’s way. She turned 
beet red. And Nicholas, unaccountably, smiled at Sera, his face 
lit with what looked like tender amusement. No, it must only be 
amusement. 
“I shall never take a mistress when I am wed, Sera. I promise 
you that. Stay and finish your tea,” he said to Katherine and 
Andre. “I believe Lady Sera and I have something to discuss.” 
“I see I am no longer a gentle lady in need of chaperones,” 
Sera said. By the gods, he was turning her into a snappish prune. 
“Enough.” Nicholas’s voice was very soft, but dangerous. 
She clamped her mouth shut, but shot him a searing glance. 
Nicholas took her hand firmly in his and pulled her to her feet. 
He planted it on his arm as they walked back to the palace. 
Occasionally, the folds of Sera’s skirt flowed against the 
buckskin of his breeches, and she was terribly conscious of his 
long, muscular legs. He was close enough that she felt his solid 
warmth, even through the fur of her cloak. The shadows 
stretched across the square. One day almost gone. One of the 
last. She fought the sadness, reminded herself that the man 
beside her was a—what did they call these womanizers who 
tempt one woman while betrothed to another? A rake. She pulled 
her hand free of his arm. 
He merely wrapped his fingers round her wrist and carried 
her hand back to his arm, holding it there when she tried to tug 
it away. 
His voice was soft, impersonal. “I hoped today would go 
differently for us.” 
“What did you expect, that I would be like all your other 
mistresses?” She felt absurdly close to tears. 
“You are not like anyone, and there have been precious 
few ‘other mistresses’. I expected to have a happy day showing 
you my favorite places in Montanyard, so you could see why I 
love it, and, I hoped, come to love it yourself someday soon. 
“But what I wished,” he continued, “well, that is a different 

story. I wished to take you to your chamber, rather earlier than 
now. I thought I would close the door behind us. We would be 
alone, of course. That would be when I could tell you that I 
may marry where I wish, rather than where I was promised. 
Then I would kiss you until we both turned blue for want of 
breath.” 
She gasped, a sharp intake of breath. Had he just said what 
she thought he’d said? And why was he telling her? And what 
had he learned in Beaureve? 
Her hand trembled beneath his fingers. They were up the 
palace’s outer stairway, now. Two footmen bowed as they held 
the great double doors open. Nicholas nodded once and 
continued up the stairway, his eyes fixed straight ahead of him. 
“Next, I tormented myself with visions. How I would touch 
you all over,” he continued, his quiet voice beginning to strain. 
“I would tease you with my hands, my mouth, until you begged 
me to give you what you needed. But I didn’t wish to do so 
immediately. I thought I would prefer to start all over again, 
making it last until we’re both mad with it, and then—” 
“Hush.” She didn’t dare look up at him. Her face was 
flaming. She could feel its heat. 
Nicholas slanted a glance at her from beneath thick, dusky 
lashes. “I believe you ought to know that I am suffering mightily 
here. There is something about telling a woman just what one 
wants to do with her, to her, that makes one mad to do it.” 
She was suffering, as well. His sensuous words sent her 
into paroxysms of embarrassment and desire. They stood at the 
door of her chamber. 
Nicholas didn’t give her time to think. He merely opened 
the door, pushed her gently inside before him, and followed, 
shutting the door and turning the key in the lock. 

Ten 
Sera retreated to the window, staring out, looking anywhere 
but at Nicholas as he casually rested his back against the door. 
She didn’t dare look at him. She knew what she’d see. A king, a 
sorcerer of mesmerizing power. Beauty, strength and 
vulnerability, wicked temptation and drugging kisses. All in an 
Outlander who said he was free to choose his bride. 
She and Nicholas were a mistake, a chance meeting of two 
worlds that could never exist together. What an ironic joke. The 
gods must surely be laughing. 
“I knew you would fit in this room,” he said. His voice had 
gone deeper, thicker. “All pink and gold. Your skin, the gold in 
your hair—I’ve pictured you in here for so many nights. I know 
how you’ll look lying in that big bed, with your hair fanning 
out in a halo on the pillow, and your neck arched as I kiss that 
tender little place right behind your ear—the one that makes 
you shiver in my arms. You’ll like that, won’t you, Sera?” 
“No. I should not like it at all.” Sera shut her eyes against 
the images his words created. He was saying all the wrong 
things, calculated words of seduction, and still, to her shame, 
she was growing taut and heated as his voice wove that deep 
enchantment. She barely heard his footsteps on the deep plush 
of the carpet as he came closer to her. His hand brushed down 
her cheek to that spot he had made intensely sensitive merely 
by naming it. 
She kept her eyes tightly shut, but she didn’t move away. 
She stood there, helpless, hating herself. He gave a deep murmur 
of pleasure. She felt his heat as he bent closer, still holding her 
only with a caress of his fingers. The warm, solid wall of his 
chest was only a hair’s breadth away. Blindly, she reached out 
and grabbed his arm, afraid of the weakness in her own legs. 
His strength alone held her up, and his breath played warm 
against her ear, making her shiver with anticipation. 
“See? I told you you’d like it.” His voice was velvet soft as 
his lips found the spot directly beneath her ear. 
“Mmmm.” He nibbled delicately, as though she were a rare 
treat to be savored, and she clutched his arms with both hands, 
making those same sounds she had heard herself make with 

him in a dream. 
“Don’t fight it. Please, just let me—just once let me—” he 
whispered, soothing and inciting her to a hot, empty ache with 
his teasing kisses. 
“This is wrong.” Her voice was as insubstantial as a frayed 
autumn leaf. “You are a king. I am a Hill woman, a slave. We 
can have none of this.” 
He eased himself back, smoothed her hair and tilted her 
chin. “Open your eyes, Sera,” he said, his voice tight and 
controlled, while she trembled, fearful of coming apart 
completely. 
She looked at him, held by his thumb and forefinger, and 
by the spell he managed to weave around her. 
He rubbed his thumb gently down her neck, settling where 
the blood beat heavy and strong. 
“I have fought against this, using that kind of parochial 
logic.” His smile held irony. “It keeps growing, this—need. Fool 
that I was, I thought it madness to want you like this, but if so, 
you share it with me. Both the desire and the fear.” 
She pushed against his chest, staring at the floor, shaking 
her head. He shook her shoulder once, gently. “Look at me,” he 
said through gritted teeth. 
Her eyes sprang open. 
“Don’t bother to deny what you feel. Your face and your 
body give you away. You want me as much as I want you. You 
have a beautiful sensuality, Sera. Your response is honest and 
precious to me. 
“I want to watch you come alive to pleasure, one discovery 
at a time. I want to know every sweet secret of your body. I 
would take a very long time at it. There are so many places 
where you’ll be incredibly responsive.” 
“Let me go,” she said, choking on the words. She was 
shaking with her shame, hating herself for giving him this much. 
“You are free to go any time you wish. I’ll do nothing to 
you that you don’t want, Sera. Indeed, I plan to leave you eager 
for more than I’ll give you,” he said in that deep, velvet voice. 
She whirled about, her back to him, refusing to look at him, 
so beautiful with his dark power. 
“When you’re finally willing to accept the truth, you’ll come 
to me. Look at the walls of the chamber very carefully. There’s 

a door in the wall, just over there.” He pulled her to him and 
pointed over her shoulder. Sera’s back was pressed against the 
solidity of his chest, her hips against the very evident strength 
of his arousal. She gave a start of shock. Nicholas braced his 
legs and pressed forward, holding her tightly against his hard 
heat with the curve of his arm. 
She heard a rumble of frustration and amusement from deep 
in his chest. “You’re not the only one of us burning from a 
simple kiss. Now, pay attention. Do you see the door, there, 
built so cleverly that you wouldn’t normally see it?” 
Sera looked. There, indeed, barely visible in the candlelight 
was the shadow of a door, covered as the rest of the room was 
in wainscoting and wallpaper. 
“When your body is ready for me, push the beak of the 
green bird with the red throat on the wall to the right of it. The 
door to my chamber will always be open. The passageway will 
lead you to me.” 
“I do not wish to become your mistress.” 
His hands grasped her shoulders and then trailed down her 
arms, soothing her as if she were a fractious child, and he rubbed 
his cheek against her hair. 
“Mistress?” There was surprise in his voice. She supposed 
he had not thought beyond today to the consequences of such a 
choice. “This was not a room for a mistress,” he said. “My 
grandfather had it built for my grandmother, a Russian princess. 
Like you, she was a very beautiful woman. Actually, there was 
a vague feeling—within the family only, of course—that she 
had a rather unconventional upbringing. Grandfather was 
smitten with her from the first moment he saw her until the day 
of his death. 
“Tradition decrees that the king and queen occupy separate 
chambers. But grandfather wanted his wife in his bed every 
night, and he wanted easy access to her. Thus the door. Only 
Vanbrugh, the architect, and the workmen knew and every one 
of them kept the secret. He was a very popular king, you see, as 
well as a clever one. 
“I was lucky. He decided to tell me about it when I was but 
a young boy. Obviously, the story stirred my imagination.” 
“I shan’t use it,” said Sera, but her voice sounded weak to 
her. 

He turned her to face him, holding her lightly with both big 
hands on her shoulders. He smiled and gave her a wicked glance 
from beneath the dark fringe of his lashes. She fought the desire 
to put her hands on his wide shoulders and take another kiss. 
“As I said, I was lucky to learn of it. We’ll see if my luck 
holds out.” 
He left her, then, to think and worry over what to do. 
Marriage was impossible. 
Oh, she cared little for what the courtiers or the townspeople 
thought, but she cared about herself, and him, now. She feared 
that Nicholas had the power to possess her until she was a 
helpless child, forgetting what she owed her people as long as 
he held her body in thrall. She thought of her mother, and the 
terrible consequences of the choice she had made. She thought 
of the hatred and avarice of the court, and what it would do to 
Nicholas, as well as her. 
It didn’t matter that he was beautiful and stern in a way that 
moved her soul. It didn’t matter that his need for her, in spite of 
his reluctance to depend upon anybody, had been elemental, 
that at times he seemed to be another person in her presence, 
one who shed his cold remoteness and teased and laughed. He 
was of this place, where enough greed and resentment and self-
hatred lived to taint even the gift of his body. She must leave, 
before she gave him the power to bring them both down. 
Where was the thief? 
*** 
In the cold, dread hour of midnight on All Hallow’s Eve, a 
tall figure, wrapped in black from head to toe, stepped out of 
the fog-swirled light of a street lamp and into the shadows. 
Several other figures, all of them garbed similarly, gathered 
beside the spectral presence in the little town of Barkley, which 
stood between Selonia and Montanyard. 
“You have done well,” said the tall man in a voice that 
carried its own empty echoes. “To have infiltrated so far without 
detection considering the patrols, is proof of our superiority to 
this upstart king and his line.” 
“Our lives and our souls belong to you, Count Laslow,” 
said the man who commanded the rest of the group. 
Laslow looked around him proudly. These were the first to 
enter Laurentia, the ones who were responsible for the victory 

at Selonia. Those of the True Faith would sing of that victory 
for centuries. 
“I am pleased,” he said. “But Galerien grows restless. What 
news of the thief?” 
The commander of the squadron shook his head. “He has 
gone to ground, most assuredly somewhere close. We believe 
he is making his way to Montanyard and will then attempt to 
head north to Russia, losing himself in the confusion of 
Napoleon’s march south. “We surmise that the thief will creep 
into Montanyard within the month. He must sell the ruby before 
he leaves the country, for the Russians are not in the mood to 
buy, and the thief must have enough coin to bribe his way into 
Europe. As he must make his move before the snows begin, he 
will come to roost in Montanyard in approximately fifteen to 
twenty days.” 
“Very good,” the spectre said. “I do not care about this thief, 
myself, but in order to prepare for our final push into Laurentia, 
we need Galerien’s payment. He has promised us enough arms 
and cannon to guarantee victory if we deliver the ruby to him 
before the first of December.” 
The count looked long and hard at each man present. “I 
need your absolute loyalty, your sworn promise that you will 
succeed or perish in this attempt.” 
“You have it, my lord,” said each man in turn, bowing low. 
“Good. One more thing. The princess Catherine Elizabeth. 
Galerien had assumed she was already dead when he met with 
Rostov. After learning of Dawson’s failed abduction attempt, 
he was apoplectic with rage. Now, he wants her death even more 
than he wants the ruby. If we can provide this for him, he will 
pay more. A great deal more. Enough to take Jehanna next.” 
He paused. When he spoke, his voice was just a whisper. 
“Find her. And when you do, kill her, and bring me her head. 
Galerien wants proof. 
“When we have done all this, we shall return to our base 
and amass our legions. Laurentia will be ours, and the Rostovs 
will be but a shameful memory from Satan’s time. Now go, and 
do what you are sworn to do.” 
The figures bowed low and crept into the night. Count 
Laslow departed the empty square, unaware of another figure 
that suddenly stepped into the light amidst the swirling fog. 

A tall, blond, broad shouldered man in a gray cloak lifted 
his hood about his head and disappeared. 
*** 
“So now you see,” Lysander said to the young men and 
women gathered on benches in the colonnade, “if we wish, we 
could defy gravity to such an extent that we could cause a 
machine to rise beyond the earth.” 
Jacob paused to watch his friend instruct the youths, aware 
of the other philosophers and their pupils gathered in small 
groups throughout the area. Lysander was already making a 
name for himself among them, and many fathers in the City 
sent their daughters and sons to him, for when he questioned a 
youth, he opened his eyes to truth, the way Socrates had in the 
long-ago days before the City destroyed him. 
“To what purpose, Lysander?” asked an older man who wore 
his beard like the Spartans, without mustache. Demetrius Thasos 
was a vain man for all his ascetic appearance, a philosopher 
with a small following at best, and a desire to bring Lysander 
down to his own level by slick sophistry. Jacob leaned against a 
pillar and watched, knowing he’d not be necessary as an 
advocate for his friend. Lysander could take care of himself. 
Lysander smiled. “Well you should ask, Demetrius. First, 
one must accept that we are a people to whom armed conflict is 
anathema. But this is what the Outlanders use, and will continue 
to use, until they have destroyed much of this earth. Before that 
happens, we shall leave, to found a new world beyond the stars. 
It is not too soon for our mathematicians and our scientists to 
ponder how we can devise machines in order to depart.” 
“Machines, in which we shall take our statues, our building 
materials, and our people?” 
“We shall not leave our people behind, nor the means to 
feed and house them,” Lysander said. 
“These machines must be huge, indeed, to house people, 
tools, horses, and livestock of all kinds.” 
Lysander smiled. “And the statues sacred to the City.” All 
eyes turned to look up at the Temple Square and the great Athene 
within her open sanctuary. 
“And what will power the machine, Lysander?” the sophist 
asked. 
Lysander’s gaze crossed the Colonnade, to rest upon a group 

of tailors seated cross-legged on the ground. Each one sewed a 
nondescript cloak of gray, woven by the guild of weavers in the 
City. He then motioned to three boys, running along the exercise 
ground beyond the colonnade. Above their heads, beautiful, 
brightly colored kites designed in the Chinese manner, a dragon, 
a lion, and a bluebird, raced in the wind, attached to each boy 
only by the strength of his Gift. Children raced after them 
cheering. 
One of the boys narrowed his eyes, and his kite rose higher 
than the others. Another, not to be outdone, swept his up to the 
same height, where it somersaulted, its tail a glorious, circling 
plume. The children laughed and clapped their hands. His two 
friends laughed as well, naming him the victor. Their 
concentration broke, and the kites drifted down into their hands. 
“We shall carry our own power, Demetrius. Together, all of 
us aboard will lift the starship and sail it.” Dismissing his 
opponent, Lysander turned again to his pupils, who worked now 
with stylus and parchment in the old way of the scribes. 
“We are the beginning,” he said. “We shall not see the 
culmination. But we shall chart the course.” The youths and 
maidens looked at him as though he were a god. 
But Lysander did not have an ounce of hubris, Jacob knew. 
He was a visionary, a brilliant man, a gift to Arkadia. He would 
care for his wife without invoking those turbulent emotions the 
Outlander king invoked in his sister. With a man like Lysander, 
a woman would have the help she needed learning to control 
her Gift. 
He waited until Lysander dismissed his pupils, then joined 
him. “Come,” he said. “Shall we drink together and talk?” 
At these formal words, Lysander looked at him closely, and 
then he slowly smiled. They walked in silence toward the tables 
outside the tavern beside the baths. A servant brought wine and 
water, which Jacob Augustus, as host, mixed. He gave a cup to 
Lysander and raised his own. 
“To Seraphina,” he said quietly. 
The raised cup paused before it reached Lysander’s lips. 
“You will bring her home soon?” he asked, his gaze intent. 
“I will,” Jacob told him. 
And Lysander replied in the age-old words of the marriage 
proposal. “Jacob, I ask you and the Mage permission to tell 

Seraphina that the earth rejoices in her beauty.” 
*** 
After a restless night full of strange dreams, Sera awoke to 
the Princess Katherine’s knock on her chamber door. 
“Your presence is requested at ten o’clock this evening. At 
the ball.” Katherine paused at what must have been Sera’s blank 
look. “Nikki told me he explained it all to you—the opening 
ball, etcetera, et cetera.” 
“Oh,” said Sera, glumly shrugging into a dressing gown. 
“That ball.” 
“Indeed, that ball.” Katherine gave her a half smile of 
sympathy. “Nikki will be in conference until the ball, and you 
are to rest.” 
“Doesn’t your brother ever get tired of telling us what to 
do?” 
“It is a king’s way, to rule.” Katherine gave her a smile. “I 
hope you will take tea with me beforehand. You’ll need 
nourishment to get through the evening.” 
“I should like that,” said Sera. “But afterwards…. I am sure 
that my presence will not be noticed at this ball. Nicholas will 
entertain his friends, and you will be quite busy overseeing the 
chefs and the musicians.” 
She did not want to see Nicholas again so soon, particularly 
when he was dressed in the magnificent formal dress of his 
office, standing with arrogant ease among his friends, every 
inch a monarch. Why couldn’t he wear his linen shirt and the 
fawn colored breeches that hugged his hips all the time? Why 
couldn’t he be what he looked like then—a strong, upright, 
comely male of indeterminate station whom she wished she 
could love and bring home to live with her in Arkadia? 
“Nikki most specifically instructed me to tell you that you 
have the requisite costume, the requisite élan, and the requisite 
command of the king. You are to make your debut tonight, Sera. 
I’m afraid we’re both stuck.” Katherine patted her hand. 
“Your brother oversteps himself.” 
“Nikki only pushes when he honestly feels he must. He 
realizes that I have no confidence. Thus he makes me endure 
these evenings, in the hopes that familiarity with his courtiers 
will at least breed a bit of contempt, and I shall feel that much 
better about myself in the obvious comparison with others. 

However, thus far I have only wished myself back in the peace 
of the convent, where the nuns did not care a whit for my lack 
thereof.” 
“But you have made a joke, Katherine. A play on words, 
no? And I caught it. Perhaps you are not so lacking in wit, and 
I am not so hopelessly hu-morless, after all.” 
Katherine’s smile made her face glow with an incandescence 
that far outdid mere beauty. “Do you know, Sera? I’ve never 
had a friend before. ‘Tis a wondrous lovely feeling to laugh at 
my sorry predicament with a friend.” 
Tea was a hurried affair, which Katherine and Sera ate from 
trays in the princess’s rooms. Maids scurried past them as they 
ate, carrying petticoats and gowns and slippers for Katherine to 
choose from. They tried to talk of silly, everyday things—how 
and when they would ride the next morning, how in spring Sera’s 
garden would bloom with the bulbs she had planted two weeks 
ago. It was only when the footmen appeared with the large 
copper tub that Sera turned to Katherine in a panic. 
“I do not wish to go,” she said, grasping her friend’s hand. 
“We’ll be together,” said Katherine. “It won’t be so terrible. 
After all, what can happen?” 
*** 
Nicholas took the last sip of brandy he was to get for the 
next two hours and crushed out the cigar he shouldn’t have 
been smoking. The weather had been miserably cold recently. 
His chest already felt tight, and his throat had been sore for a 
few days. Any other time, he’d be skulking in his chambers 
with a mustard plaster on his chest. But he was here now, 
indulging in drink and tobacco in order to welcome his old friend 
from England, Lord Robert Grey. 
Nicholas had spent the last days outside exercising with 
the cavalry. For the sake of their morale, the soldiers must see 
him working with them. He’d need to get away very soon to 
hide in some warm dacha until his breathing came easy again. 
The times were too perilous for him to succumb to pneumonia. 
Still, tonight, he must show himself to his court, to reassure the 
nobility and his generals that their king was hale and hearty. 
And now he had to deal with England’s message. Robert 
stood tall and straight-backed, looking out the window of the 
library. It was just like Robert, with his sense of honor, to come 

himself with the bad news rather than send a messenger. 
Nicholas crossed the room to stand beside him. He stared 
down at the torch lit courtyard. Servants in livery milled about, 
opening carriage doors and helping ladies down from them. 
Like the last days, this night was unusually cold for November. 
All of the women entering the palace and most of the men, as 
well, were muffled up to their ears in fur lined cloaks. 
“I hate the cold,” Nicholas said glumly. 
“I am sorrier than I can tell you, my friend. And furious 
with politics and the self-serving attitude of my government,” 
said Robert. 
“It’s no matter, Rob. I knew this would probably be the 
outcome of your petition. Self-interest will guide England just 
as it guides Laurentia. But I’m prodigiously grateful that you 
came yourself to tell me of it.” 
“Nikki, if it’s any consolation, the men and I are ready to 
fight with you.” 
“What? Your old outfit from the Spanish campaign?” 
“We took a vote before I left home. All of us owe you our 
lives, man. ‘Tis the least we can do to help out a bit here.” 
“You are very kind, Rob. Convey my heartfelt thanks to all 
of the men of the forty-seventh,” Nicholas said, knowing full 
well he would never allow the regiment to fight for Laurentia. 
Aside from the obvious cloud of treason looming over Rob’s 
horizon should he and the others fight for a country not allied 
to England, there was the very real concern that Rob’s wife was 
carrying again and close to her confinement. 
Nicholas rubbed his forehead between thumb and finger. 
Napoleon’s troops moved south of Moscow. The march could 
turn into a rout or an organized attack on Laurentia. 
Word of another attack, this one on a small village between 
Selonia and Montanyard, meant that the terrorists had traveled 
west a good hundred miles without detection. Nicholas must 
step up the plans for the raid on the terrorist base. He had to do 
something. His people were in an agony of fear. 
“You did the best you could for us, Rob. Come. We must 
open this damned ball.” 
Nicholas crossed the room to go directly to the ballroom, 
pausing to leave his glass on the desk. “There’s someone I wish 
you to meet. A lady not of the mold you would usually expect 

at a ball such as this one. Her name is Sera.” 
“Sera Who?” 
“This lady will not reveal her family name,” said Nicholas. 
“Actually,” he looked at Rob, waiting to gauge his reaction, 
“there is a good deal the lady will not share with me. I’m having 
the devil of a time convincing her to trust me. Odd, isn’t it, 
when I’m the most trustworthy of fellows?” 
Robert laughed and clapped him on the back. “Perhaps she 
senses a more dangerous side to you than do the rest of us. I 
shall be very happy to meet this Sera. I take it she has not stirred 
your interest because she is a master of dead languages, or a 
philosopher.” 
Nicholas idly turned the pages of an illustrated volume by 
William Blake. “Actually, she is quite fluent in several 
languages, and her grasp of philosophy is rather strong, but no, 
that’s not a fraction of what interests me.” 
Nicholas wondered just how closely he could hold Sera 
tonight in the waltz and still keep her reputation safe from any 
further speculation by his snide courtiers. Certainly not as closely 
as he wished to. He closed the volume of poetry with a thump 
and gave Robert what he hoped passed for a nonchalant smile. 
“You’ll see her tonight, when she makes her debut.” 
*** 
Sera slipped into her room and shook out her cloak. It had 
been a risk, indeed, to sneak out into the night already dressed 
for the ball and comb the inns within the perimeter of 
Montanyard for any word of the thief. She knew by now what 
harm could come to her. But the ball had caused enough 
commotion within the palace to allow a brief escape. This had 
been the first night in ever so long when the guards were too 
busy to notice her. 
No one had heard of the thief yet, and time was running 
out. The first snow was only a day or two away. Although the 
night was clear, she could already scent moisture on the air. 
She must visit Monsieur Carlshonn again quite soon. The draper 
might well have heard news from the inns amidst the shops in 
the city center. 
Sera glanced into the cheval glass, smoothed down her hair 
and fluffed out her gown. Compared to the river wharves and 
the smoky taverns she had visited tonight, the ballroom should 

not hold much terror for her. But she found she was as nervous 
as a child attempting her first examination before the council of 
elders. She took a deep breath and lifted her chin. The sooner 
begun, the sooner done, she told herself as she swept into the 
corridor and down the long stairway toward the noise and gaiety 
at the end of the hallway. 
The huge ballroom glittered. The mirrors along the wall 
and the windows opposite reflected the brilliant light from 
crystal and gilt chandeliers. The noise and the heat were 
overwhelming. Women in brilliant silks and brocades drifted 
past Sera, their throats gleaming with the dazzling light of their 
jeweled necklaces. The gentlemen were as showy in brocaded 
and embroidered waistcoats in every color of the rainbow, and 
bright evening jackets to match. 
Sera stood amidst this gaily bedecked crowd in an ice blue 
silk gown that bared her shoulders indecently, a dance card that 
she did not plan to fill, and a fan she could only use like a novice 
dangling from her gloved wrist. Women glanced coldly at her. 
Men adjusted their quizzing glasses and perused her person. 
Sera pondered the earliest possible moment she could retire to 
the privacy of her room. 
She was Nicholas’ prisoner in flowing silk and kidskin, 
when she could be safe from all the turmoil and the agitation of 
his world. But when he kissed her as he had yesterday, she forgot 
everything else—even the sinking panic that she might never 
see her grandfather again. The only thing she wanted was more 
of his kisses, and his wonderful hands that knew secrets about 
her she hadn’t even guessed. 
“Princess Katherine. You look to be in fine form tonight. 
And your companion, m’dear? Would you be so kind?” An 
outrageously showy male wearing a pink velvet coat and 
peacock blue knee breeches on his skinny frame approached 
them, almost shouting above the murmurs of the crowd. 
Immediately upon reaching Katherine’s side, he raised his 
quizzing glass and stared through it at Sera. The foppish 
gentleman bent over Sera’s hand and actually put his mouth 
against her glove. Sera concentrated on the pale, shining bald 
spot in the middle of his crown. 
“M’dear Lady Sera,” the man, whom Katherine now 
introduced as Lord Effenby, Viscount Berington, intoned. “Such 

beauty, such grace. Might I interest you in a stroll about the 
room before His Majesty opens the ball?” 
She was filled with embarrassed confusion as to how to 
refuse such an offer, but Effenby still held her hand tightly in 
his, and it seemed to her that this was not one of Laurentia’s 
social niceties that she must endure. “I thank you, sir,” she said 
staring at Lord Effenby’s weak chin. “But I shall remain beside 
the princess.” 
“Perhaps you will honor me with the first dance.” Effenby 
lowered his voice so that only Sera could hear him and a hint of 
malice as he continued. “I should enjoy hearing of your travails 
in the summer palace of Iman Hadar, m’dear. Several versions 
of your adventures circulate throughout our set. Perhaps you 
will give me the details, and I shall pass them on to the rest of 
the company assembled here.” 
She raised her eyes and gave Effenby a long, considering 
look. Surprisingly, Effenby paled, then flushed, as though he 
had been caught by a bishop with his hand in the charity box. 
“I do not care to dance with you, my lord. Nor to converse 
with you any further.” 
“Oh, I say. Bit of a purse-lips, aren’t you? Promised to 
actually lead you about, and give you entrée into our set, and 
you’d turn your nose up at it? What a wonder, to set yourself so 
high, when all of us know where you’ve been.” Effenby walked 
off huffing. 
Chinless, balding, self-righteous, bigoted, libertine! Sera 
fought the urge to run after him and give him a sharp tongue-
lashing. Effenby slithered across the room, to pause before a 
group of gaudy ladies. One of them was the old woman covered 
in diamonds from Sera’s other disastrous evening with the court. 
Effanby looked back at her with a smirk, and then returned his 
attention to the circle surrounding him. Whatever bon mots he 
passed along to them must have been quite entertaining, for 
Sera heard their burst of laughter from where she stood. She 
leaned toward Katherine, who was just ending a conversation 
with a rather lovely blonde in silver. The lady curtsied and 
strolled away with barely a glance at Sera. 
“How much longer?” whispered Sera. 
“We’ve been here scarce ten minutes, I think. At least 
another two hours,” hissed Katherine. 

Nicholas stood across the room receiving the last guests. 
His dark blue velvet coat and white silk knee breeches were a 
stark contrast to most of the colorfully dressed men in the room, 
and his comparatively austere costume only served to make him 
look more regal. This was his world, where he both ruled and 
felt entirely at home. She shrank into herself a little. 
She had been so certain that Arkadia would be her home 
forever. She had never prepared herself to deal with this 
opulence, this conscious mixture of cruelty and politesse, unless 
one could call glimpses of this life through a scrying glass 
preparation. Nicholas walked among these people with power 
and grace, his height making him visible above the heads of 
men who surrounded him. He smiled with such ease at those 
who so clearly accepted his right to tell them what to do. 
From somewhere behind a screen came a sweet sound of 
what must be music. She could not tell what the instruments 
were, but from her furtive studies after hours at the academy, 
she thought they might be stringed instruments. They played in 
a rhythmic fashion that seemed to imitate the beating of her 
heart. It rather took her breath away, this strange blending of 
separate tones into a harmonious whole, all lightness and gaiety 
together in that single beat that made one wish to nod along. 
Throughout the ballroom, men bowed to women, who curtsied 
back. 
Sera watched Nicholas lead the ball off with an elderly 
woman with white hair. She wore an emerald gown and walked 
with the upright grace of a queen. A tall, muscular man with a 
kind expression on his face appeared in front of Katherine and, 
with a smile to Sera, took Katherine’s hand with a bow. They 
proceeded down the row at a stately pace, Nicholas and his 
partner first. The lady turned in the dance with Nicholas, broke 
hands, joined together with Katherine and her tall, upright 
partner to form a group of four. Sera could barely take her eyes 
from them all. Even Katherine, who blushed unbecomingly, 
knew all the steps of the dance. They were so graceful. Their 
movements and the music itself made her wish she had accepted 
Monsieur Gallopet’s lessons. 
The dance went on for a very long time. Sera retreated to a 
corner of the ballroom near a large door that led into a room 
with a banquet table holding a large punch bowl and 

refreshments. In the obscurity of her corner, she savored the 
orchestra’s strange, fanciful sounds and watched the couples. 
Several of them had little to do for quite a while, it seemed, and 
used the opportunity to speak to each other. She began to see 
exactly how Monsieur Petit had meant her to use the thing 
hanging so limply from her wrist, for several ladies snapped 
their fans open and fluttered them in front of their faces, laughing 
behind the framed silk and lace. One playfully hit her partner 
upon the shoulder. Had the man done something or said 
something to deserve the little slap, or was the woman engaging 
in some kind of game? 
The music finally ended, and the dancers executed deep 
bows and curtsies to each other. Sera looked for Katherine and 
spotted her halfway across the large ballroom with Andre. For 
once, he had managed to arrange his blonde curls into some 
kind of order. As he bent over Katherine, a look of such naked 
joy filled his face that Sera felt herself grow lighter at the sight. 
She remained in her corner, intent upon not disturbing their 
happiness. 
Surely she must have stood in this ballroom at least two 
hours—the requisite amount of time she was to obey the 
command of the king. Pushing away from her haven, she began 
the careful task of slipping away, only to feel a gentle but firm 
hand on her arm. 
“There you are.” Nicholas was beside her. She had a 
confused desire to break free and at the same time to lean into 
his strength. She took a deep breath of his scent, woodland and 
soap and his own light, musky warmth, as he bent to take her 
hand and raise it to his lips. The crowd about them went silent 
for an instant, and then resumed conversation. She felt much 
like a tortoise rolled onto its back, helpless to move, exposed to 
the pokes and prods of small, cruel boys. She stared at her toes, 
avoiding the avid eyes she felt fixed upon the two of them. 
“May I present Lord Grey, Duke of Ayres?” 
“Lady Sera, I am so very happy to make your acquaintance.” 
Lord Grey bowed over her hand. He was the same man who 
had danced with Katherine. 
Sera accomplished a passable curtsey and studied Lord 
Grey. He had strong, patrician features, dark hair, and a kind 
smile. 

Lord Grey suffered her scrutiny for a moment or two. The 
smile never left his face. “I wonder, my lady, if you realize that 
your eyes are rather frightening. They seem to see straight 
through a person and calmly judge the soul that lies within. I 
would think that, if you wished to, you could make this entire 
ballroom quail before you.” 
“I do not much wish to look at any of them,” said Sera in a 
voice that sounded thin and whispery to her ears. “I have never 
known any people such as these before.” 
“I understand perfectly,” said Lord Grey. “But beneath all 
the feathers and gilt, they are really very much like any others— 
most of them frightened to death of being found out for frauds.” 
He perused a group of courtiers ahead of them and slightly to 
the left. 
She heard Nicholas’ smothered laugh. 
“You think they are all as uncomfortable as I?” Sera stifled 
a sigh. “At least they all seem to know the correct steps of the 
dances, whereas I—” 
Nicholas’ voice held amusement. “Rob’s right, you know. 
Appearances are all in this crush. Simply assume a bored 
manner, and the world will scurry about attempting to engage 
your interest.” 
She broke off at the sound of what must be the highest 
stringed instruments—what were they? The violins or the violas, 
she wondered irritably. Again, she felt like groaning inwardly— 
frustration and regret at the years she had wasted fearing this 
world too much to learn about it. And why, oh why, had she 
refused dancing lessons when they had been offered? 
Nicholas gave her such a look—intensity mingled with a 
kind of reckless happiness. He executed a bow and took her 
hand. All Sera heard over the music were his last words. 
“…the pleasure of this waltz, my lady?” 
She realized with dread that Nicholas was pulling her 
steadily to the center of the polished floor. “No, no,” she said, 
but the music was too loud. She shook her head, trying to dig in 
her heels, but his strength was more than she could withstand 
and the floor was slippery. She could only follow quickly or 
fall. 
As they walked to the center of the ballroom, Sera noticed 
Lord Effenby and the old woman with all the diamonds scowling 

in her direction. They made a rather ridiculous couple, for 
Effenby was so spindly and the old woman so stout. 
“La! I’ll not dance, Effenby. Not while that Hill person is 
upon the floor. ‘Tis a travesty,” she heard the woman say. 
“Don’t fret, dear lady Tranevale. I’ll have that man bring 
us a treat. Ho, you there!” Effenby called to a footman passing 
by. “Some claret and blanc-mange. Bring it at once.” Effanby 
offered his arm to Lady Tranevale and followed behind Sera 
and Nicholas. 
“Let’s dance in close proximity to the woman until our repast 
arrives. Doubtless, she’ll disgrace herself in some manner, and 
I shall want a good view of the show.” 
Knowing Effenby’s prediction was about to come true, Sera 
blanched. 
Nicholas must have overheard. His frown was as dark as a 
thundercloud. But Effanby was too busy settling Lady Tranevale 
before him, and the matron was too filled with her own self-
importance to realize she’d been overheard. 
He pulled her into his arms, and she felt his hand, steady 
and warm, on the small of her back. “My great-great grandfather 
would have stripped them both of their land and titles. I’ve half 
a mind to do so, myself.” 
Sera did not know where to place her hands. She glanced at 
other couples with her heart in her clumsy feet and shook her 
head with a kind of wordless misery. They were all looking at 
her and the king. The buzz of conjecture and speculation rose 
as the orchestra struck up the waltz and, because she and 
Nicholas just stood there, drifted into silence. 
“I can’t, I can’t,” she finally whispered, her cheeks flaming, 
feeling the disapproval that filled the room. 
Nicholas pulled her closer. “Of course you can, love. Just 
feel the beat of the music and follow me.” 
“You don’t understand. Those lessons you assigned me—I 
never had them.” 
Nicholas froze for the passing of one slow breath. Then he 
smiled, and with such tender humor. She wondered confusedly 
why it didn’t seem to matter to him that beneath the scrutiny of 
his whole court, her body had turned to lead. 
“Didn’t like M. Gallopet, did you? Want to learn from me?” 
“I’ll disgrace you,” she said to the top button of his 

waistcoat. 
“No. You’ll like it, I promise. Now, look at me and don’t 
stop. The first thing we’re going to do is think of a lovely revenge 
for Lord Effenby and Lady Tranevale. What will it be?” 
Sera looked into Nicholas’s eyes. At the twinkle of humor 
in them, her lips curved upward. “I wish to see them both with 
blanc-mange and claret—on their heads.” 
“Excellent! Keep that picture in your mind, and your eyes 
on mine, and follow.” Nicholas nodded to the musicians, and 
they began to play again. 
The music filled Sera and made her want to move with him. 
“One, two, three,” whispered Nicholas, and they were off, 
at first simply gliding forward and then backward to the beat of 
the music, and Sera had a delightful sense of flight and freedom 
within the rhythm of the waltz. Nicholas felt so warm and solid. 
She wanted to dance forever in the intimate hold of his strong 
arms. 
“See? I knew you’d like it. Now for a few spins.” And she 
was whirling, giddy and filled with music beneath the brilliantly 
glowing candelabra. She laughed and threw her head back. But 
suddenly, her foot caught on the hem of her dress. 
Sera tripped, first over her own feet, and next on the long, 
trailing skirt. Nicholas caught her as she fell forward almost to 
her knees, clutching at his sleeves. 
A few of the couples noticed and began to stare. At that 
moment, a footman made his way through the dancers carrying 
a tray of blanc-mange and claret. Aware of the sudden interest 
among the dancers in a particular spot, he stared straight at what 
they were looking at—Sera and the king. In doing so, he bumped 
into one whirling couple, stumbled, and lurched forward just as 
Lady Tranevale and Lord Effenby danced into his path. 
Lady Tranevale clutched at Lord Effenby for balance and, 
straining against a force too powerful for his meager frame, 
Lord Effenby tottered. Lady Tranevale went down in a heap, 
Effenby followed, and the unlucky footman lost the tray. The 
entire ballroom, including the orchestra, froze, fascinated, as 
crystal goblets of claret and Limoges plates of blanc-mange 
sailed through the air, landing directly on Effenby’s and Lady 
Tranevale’s heads. A sticky trail of custard and sweet wine ran 
down their hair and into their faces like lava. 

As footmen hurried to help them up, Nicholas stared 
speculatively. Then his lips quivered with repressed mirth. 
“Bull’s eye,” he whispered, escorting Sera off the floor. 
Sera was horrified, and far more frightened than she had 
been that day she’d made fire, or when she’d caused a long 
gallery to tremble. Then, fury and hurt had roiled through her, 
and helpless against them, she’d let them loose on the world. 
She’d learned to control that force by calming herself, or calling 
forth her beloved Grandfather’s image, to speak aloud her 
misery. 
But now, merely a thoughtless wish had slipped out of her 
mouth, and the result was a cruel revenge because she still knew 
next to nothing about the power of the Gift bubbling through 
her blood! Be careful what you wish for, people said. Too late, 
she realized that an Aestron must never lightly wish for anything. 
“Might I be excused?” she asked him, trying in vain to keep the 
childish quaver from her voice. 
“What is it, love? Surely you’re not upset because two nasty 
idiots got what they deserved? Only their pride got hurt.” 
She couldn’t think with Nicholas near. The half-conscious 
salute he gave her with his ironically raised brow indicated that 
he surmised she was responsible for this terrible accident. How 
could he still treat her so kindly? 
“Let me escort you, my lady,” said Nicholas. His voice was 
filled with concern, and it pierced her like a lance, to her very 
heart. He should be angry with her, furious, actually. If, for a 
moment, anyone else supposed the incident of the blanc-mange 
was anything but coincidence, she would be burned at the stake. 
“Please, Nicholas, give me leave to retire,” she said looking 
at his snowy cravat. 
“You have my leave,” he said on a helpless note. 
Sera turned and walked from the ballroom floor, not looking 
about her at the murmuring courtiers. Once out the large double 
doors, she fled, her steps echoing all the way down the corridor 
and up the stairs, until she slammed the door of her own room 
behind her. 
She knew Effenby and Lady Tranevale were not alone in 
their opinion of her. Many called her a slave, a harlot, and an 
ignorant Hill woman. And their king had brought her to his 
palace, had given her an empty title, had heaped gowns and 

slippers upon her, and bade her come to the ball. 
She had disgraced him and lowered him in the estimation 
of his people. She could hear the rumors beginning now. 
“Clumsy, stupid Hill slave,” they’d say. 
“The king’s witch,” they’d eventually whisper, as the unruly 
Gift continued to evidence itself at embarrassing moments. 
She needed help. She couldn’t wait much longer for the 
thief. She had to go home. 
*** 
After the waltz, it was necessary for Nicholas to remain in 
the ballroom, pretending that it was a perfectly ordinary event 
for a young lady to begin her dancing lessons at her first ball. 
He should be grateful to Effenby and Lady Tranevale for 
providing a spectacular distraction. 
Had Sera’s wish brought about their humiliation? 
Astounding if it were true. No, she couldn’t have done it. Then 
he remembered the vase outside the family dining room that 
cracked the night she’d thrown his jacket in his face, and the 
way her horse had jumped that hedge. But again, he had the 
distinct feeling that she was shocked when the claret and blancmange 
began to fly. Silently, he cursed. Neither science nor 
logic could help him with this mystery. 
How much magic did she have inside her? Would he ever 
understand the half of her? He realized with a start that he was 
far more concerned by the stark look of shame on her face after 
she had tripped than he was about what powers she actually 
had, and how they could help Laurentia. 
Nicholas plastered an easy smile upon his face until he felt 
he could slip off to Sera without arousing undue speculation. 
He had been a fool to put her into a situation that caused 
her pain. He vaguely remembered Sera saying that she had never 
heard opera or classical music. He had not once thought that 
there was some odd philosophical or religious aversion to music 
and dance among her people. He should have checked her 
progress with Gallopet before exposing her to ridicule. 
After an hour of idle pleasantries, Nicholas went in search 
of Sera. Her room was empty. A rush of terror came over him. 
He looked out the window at the darkened park and saw the 
hard sheen of frost reflected in the full moon’s light. Flinging 
the wardrobe open, he went slack with relief. Her gowns were 

still folded neatly on the wide shelves. Her ball gown was 
nowhere to be seen, which meant that she had not yet changed 
from it. Even in her present state of misery, Sera would have 
had the presence of mind to find a more suitable traveling 
costume before trying to escape. 
But where to find her? He took the stairs to the wing opening 
out into the park. At the open doorway, he paused, examining 
the grass. The moon was bright enough to show the little 
indentations where small feet in satin slippers had crushed it 
down. He followed the footprints. It soon became clear that 
they were headed for the mews. 
Nicholas opened the stable door and slipped inside. A lantern 
hung from a hook on the wall outside Wind Rider’s stall, bathing 
the oaken walls in gold. He peeked into the stall. Sera sat in the 
straw between the chestnut’s legs, her ball gown flowing about 
his feet. A bundle was propped against one corner, and she wore 
her blue woolen cloak. Her head was bowed, her forehead 
resting against Wind Rider’s forelegs. The horse stood still as a 
statue. She was talking to Wind Rider, sad little words in the 
Hill tongue. Nicholas made out some the phrases: “hate me”, 
and “want to go home”, and “not safe” seemed to be her 
favorites. 
He sank down beside her, his back against the wall and 
rested his arm on his knee. “Thinking of taking a little trip?” He 
tried to keep his voice as casual as he could, under the 
circumstances. 
She kept her head bowed, presenting the definitive picture 
of dejection. “I don’t have a cloak,” she said in a small voice. 
He was wise enough not to remind her that she was, in fact, 
wearing quite a warm cloak, hooded and lined with sable. One 
that he envied on this godforsaken cold night, when even in a 
stable warmed by the horses’ huge bodies, a man’s breath almost 
froze in the air. He shivered, looked about for a horse blanket 
and grabbed one from a rack outside the stall. He wrapped it 
around his shoulders. Sera still had her head bent. Restless 
fingers pleated her cloak. 
He decided to take the initiative. He didn’t relish sitting 
here till morning waiting for Sera to tell him what was making 
her so miserable. 
“Do you hate music? Is that why you can’t dance?” he asked 

her. 
“We aren’t allowed to have music like yours,” she said, 
and he realized she must be shaken, indeed, to give him this 
much of an answer. 
He took advantage while he could. “Why not?” 
“It encourages the emotions to… wreak havoc upon the 
soul. We have bards who sing their stories, but only with certain 
harmonics and certain rhythms.” 
“Are you allowed to attend the theatre?” he asked carefully. 
“I read about this theatre. The place where people pretend 
to be what they are not?” 
“Sounds more like a description of my court,” said Nicholas. 
“But yes, that is the theatre.” 
“Well, then, no. Long ago, actors and dramatic composers 
were not permitted at home. Now, at the festivals, we may watch 
the great tragedians, because they speak truth to the soul.” 
Nicholas tamped down his excitement. He’d have to tread 
carefully so he didn’t frighten her into silence. “Who decides 
what is permitted?” 
She gave a shrug. “Oh, the rules were decided eons ago, 
but if there is a problem, the Guardians and the Mage reach a 
decision.” 
He kept his tone nonchalant. “Through dialogue?” 
She nodded, glanced sideways at him with forlorn hope in 
her eyes. “Nicholas, could you spare just a few men? To take 
me as far as the Arkadian mountains? I should be perfectly safe 
from there.” 
He put his arm about her, aware that he was holding her 
against him very hard. “I’m afraid not, sweetheart. After this is 
all over, I’ll take you, myself. I should like to meet your 
grandfather. I want to tell him how much I honor and respect 
you. Do you think he would accept a meeting?” 
She shrugged. “I want to go home, Nicholas,” she said in a 
woebegone voice. 
“I would miss you, Sera. Very much. Do you think you 
might miss me a little?” He turned her to face him and stroked 
her cheek. 
Without seeming conscious of it, she leaned her face into 
his hand, rubbing against it like a kitten. “Yes, but I still want to 
go.” 

“Then I’ll take you. Once the war is over.” 
“By then it will be too late,” she said. 
“Why?” 
She leaned her head on his shoulder and gave a long, empty 
sigh. “I cannot tell you.” 
Nicholas pulled Sera closer still, rubbing his hand up and 
down her back in soothing repetition. But part of him was stung 
by her silence upon a matter of utmost importance to her, a 
matter that worried her, and one he could doubtless help her 
solve. It felt too much like rejection. 
“Foolish woman,” he whispered, rocking her gently. 
“Someday you’ll let me take care of you.” 
Nicholas managed to get Sera back to her room without a 
rebellion. That was a good thing, for his mind was far too filled 
with questions and possible answers to manage the clever 
opponent Sera could be if she chose to oppose him. 
He immediately went to his library to search out a dog-
eared copy of Plato’s Republic, which he had read as a boy of 
thirteen. Good God! It was all there—the exhortations against 
music that did not accompany poetry, the definition of 
permissible poetry as that which must describe only high 
character. And the description of the perfect state—one ruled 
by the intellectual elite and the philosopher king. 
Nicholas wanted to shout with elation. The Hill people, 
whom Europe scorned as barbarians, were members of a secret, 
neo-Platonic society, based on reason and order and the search 
for truth. Hiding in plain view from the rest of the world. 
Untainted by greed, brutality, war. And, he would wager against 
any odds after matching wits with Sera, a society that upheld 
the equality of women in all matters. 
*** 
The following afternoon, Sera was just changing into 
another of the confusing number of Outlander gowns she had 
to wear daily when she heard an impatient rap on her door. 
Nicholas flung himself into the room before she could even 
call out. She clutched the top of the tea gown together at the 
neck—at least she thought, given that the time was half past 
four, that this one was called a tea gown. 
“Go away before somebody sees us,” she hissed, pointing 
to the open door behind him. 

Nicholas shut the door with a decided bang. “Not now, they 
won’t.” He sounded a bit hoarse, and his face was ruddy with 
cold and excitement as he crossed the room in his powerful 
stride. 
“Here, let me do that,” he said impatiently. His fingers 
brushed her skin as he fastened the tiny buttons with 
knowledgeable skill. 
“Ooh, you are freezing cold.” Sera shivered, half from the 
feel of his chilled fingers on her flesh, half from something 
else. 
“It’s bloody winter outside, or haven’t you noticed?” he 
said, grinning. “Here, put on your cloak, and a bonnet, as well.” 
He pulled the Russian sable down over her ears. 
“The mercury’s dipped so low, we’ve hit a record for 
November.” He pulled her gloves over her hands as though she 
were a sluggish three-year-old, and shoved a muff into her arms. 
“Hurry up, now. We can’t be late.” 
“But where are we going?” she asked, breathless from 
running across the great hall in an attempt to catch up with him. 
“To the Abbey. Come on. We’ll take the carriage.” 
She ran the last bit across the stones of the courtyard, and a 
groom helped her up into the great black carriage with the royal 
crest shining upon it. As it began to roll away from the palace, 
she said, “But Nicholas, what is it?” 
“A surprise, and one I sincerely hope you’ll like. You did 
imply last night that you don’t hate music?” 
“I like your music—the little I’ve heard.” 
“Good. I should hate to think I’ve made two damnably 
foolish blunders in less than twenty-four hours.” Nicholas 
grinned, and Sera lost herself in thinking about how warm his 
eyes had become, and how young and handsome he looked. 
“Here we are.” The coach swayed to a stop. Nicholas had 
the door open before the groom could open it for them. He waved 
the groom away, jumped down and held his hand out for Sera. 
Low in a cloudless blue sky, the sun blazed coldly through air 
sparkling with the promise of another frosty night. Sera put out 
her gloved hand. Nicholas ignored it and clasped her waist, 
lifting her down. When he had her on the ground, he tugged her 
along through the high arched wooden doors of Montanyard 
Abbey. 

“Ah, we’re in time,” Nicholas said. The abbey’s empty rows 
of chairs formed a silent guard. Millions of candles glowed 
beneath the vaulted ceilings. Sera walked down the rows of 
empty seats, trying to push her fur hat up farther from where it 
sat over her left eye, a result of Nicholas’s enthusiasm and 
impatience. Nicholas stopped her in the center of the front row 
and motioned to a chair. When she was seated, he took the seat 
beside her. 
“Music,” he whispered to her. “For a prayer house.” 
Nicholas nodded to a man who stood a distance from them 
in the chantry. The man bowed low and tapped a stick on a 
podium in front of him. 
He raised his hands and held them still in the silence. With 
one downbeat, then up, she heard it. Strings, again, but not the 
light, airy strings of last night’s orchestra. These were somber, 
dark, solemn, rising in a four beat cadence to the steady thrum 
of her pulse as she was held, transfixed, upon the music. 
Then suddenly women’s voices, rising step by step along a 
scale, followed and darkened by the men’s voices beneath them. 
Kyrie eleison. Lord, have mercy upon us. The voices rose, 
filling the abbey, repeating the cry. She was wrapped in the 
music, rocked inside it, helpless against its power. 
The strings changed, softened their minor tone. A single 
voice soared above the rest. The modulation of pure, sweet sound 
filled her with ineffable longing. The voice went low—the range 
between its upper and lower notes seemed impossibly broad, 
even to Sera’s untrained ear. Then it soared high again, bright, 
clear, against the very vaults of heaven. Christe eleison. Christ 
have mercy upon us. The women took up the chorus again, the 
men beneath them, flowing like timeless waters through a silent 
valley. 
A short silence, and the voices rose in an exultant Gloria, 
thrusting her spirit against the barriers of the prayer house. She 
was bursting with it—the music, the candle flame, Nicholas 
beside her. It was too much. She wanted to cover her ears. She 
wanted to listen forever. 
That sweet, strong voice burst into song again, playfully 
rising in a Laudamus Te, warbling, then deepening on those 
impossibly low tones, then rising upward again in clarion trills. 
Sera had never heard anything so beautiful in her life than this 

voice that dipped then soared higher than her soul had ever 
hoped to fly. We praise Thee, we bless Thee, we worship Thee, 
we glorify Thee. Such rapture, such exultant force. 
Nicholas was looking at her. She could vaguely feel his 
eyes. He might have tapped her on the arm—she wasn’t certain. 
Suddenly, his hands were on each side of her head, turning it 
toward the huge stained glass windows. Light blazed through 
them from the setting sun, filling them with piercing radiance. 
She rose and went toward the light, standing inside a rainbow 
of color. 
The celestial music flowed over her. She raised her arms in 
her own silent hymn of praise. She might die of joy. The poets 
at home would understand just what this music, this blazing, 
sun pierced art, gave to the words of the mass. We give thanks 
to Thee for Thy great glory. 
Time slowed, became as nothing. Had she been listening 
for a moment or a day? I believe in one God, the Father 
Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, and of all things visible 
and invisible. 
And finally, the choir filling her with the beautiful Hosannas. 
The windows gave a last, brilliant blaze of color and slowly 
faded. The candles were a soft glow against the abbey’s darkness. 
As she came to herself, she saw Nicholas slowly rise. 
Nicholas felt as though everything was happening in slow 
motion, but in reality, he was at Sera’s side only an instant after 
the last chord faded against the vaulted ceiling. His gaze centered 
on the play of emotions so clearly visible on her face. He pulled 
his handkerchief from his sleeve and mopped her cheeks. 
Strange, he had never seen her cry before, but now, the tears 
streamed unchecked and unnoticed. 
The silence of the abbey stole over them. He felt a great 
satisfaction. She liked it—there was no doubt he had finally 
given her something she liked. He handed her the handkerchief. 
She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose, and made all sorts of 
adjustments on her person, straightening her skirts, patting her 
hair into place beneath the Russian fur. She looked longingly at 
the chantry. 
“Could we speak to them?” she asked. 
“They would be delighted. Come.” He felt himself expand 
like a balloon with pride. Sera’s instincts were impeccable. He 

had chosen wisely, indeed. 
She won over the choirmaster immediately, and the 
members of the choir were grinning from ear to ear. 
Sera curtsied low before them. “To create such beauty is to 
achieve perfection. There is no greater goal on earth, and you 
have reached it.” 
“It is Mozart who created such perfection, Lady Sera,” said 
the choirmaster. His eyes went very bright. 
Nicholas took Sera’s hand, resting it upon his arm. He gave 
his thanks to the flushed and beaming choirmaster. “It has been 
a long night and day,” he told Sera. “Time for you to be home.” 
She walked beside him, her head bent, down candle lit aisles, 
past the statues of Saints and Madonnas, and through the high 
doors into the cold, clear evening air. Stars hung in the 
firmament, benevolent little lanterns in the dark dome of the 
sky. Sera climbed into the carriage and sat opposite Nicholas, 
her gloved hands clasping and unclasping upon her lap. Just as 
she lifted her face to look at him, the carriage rolled past a street 
lamp. She was incandescent as flame, her eyes the color of 
midnight. She stared at him with those huge eyes, her lips 
trembling on a smile, and then, abruptly, she flung herself across 
the carriage. 
His arms caught her and held her close. His hands clasped 
the small of her back and the nape of her neck, where her hair 
hung in truant curls below the Russian fur hat. She kissed him 
madly, his eyes, his cheeks, the spot at the corner of his mouth 
that curved upward in what he knew must be a very foolish 
smile. 
“Thank you, thank you. I wish I could think of a way to 
thank you properly. That you would give me such a gift! I shall 
never forget it, no matter where I am, or what happens.” 
He pushed down the shiver of apprehension her words 
engendered. “Nothing’s going to happen,” he said in a voice 
that sounded rough to his own ears. “We shall be together 
forever, that’s all.” He held her cradled against his shoulder and 
looked into her face. The passing lantern light shot through the 
window, limning her lips, the soft contours of her cheeks, but 
her eyes were in shadow and unreadable. “It’s fate, Sera,” he 
said more fiercely than he had intended in his sudden 
apprehension. “Get used to it.” 

She raised her hand and laid it along the line of his jaw, and 
he tried very hard to unclench his teeth. “You are a romantic 
after all, Nicholas Rostov,” she said. But her voice was sad. 
He forced himself to smile, to lighten his tone. “If you wish 
to thank me, ride with me tomorrow. The day promises fine, 
and we shan’t have many more like it.” 
“All right,” she said and laid her head on his shoulder. 
Good, thought Nicholas. He’d planned to get away, to rest 
and heal inside a warm, cozy place. 
Like a bed, with a fine down quilt and Sera naked beside 
him. 
He knew just where he would take her—to his hunting box 
a few hours outside Montanyard. And just how long he would 
keep her there. Sera might think that she was going to leave 
him, but he knew otherwise. And when she had been in his bed 
for at least a week, when she was limp from his lovemaking 
and completely tuned to his will, he would bring her back and 
call the Bishop into the palace for a wedding ceremony. With 
the world going to hell in a hand basket, he was justified in 
taking what he could. 
Hell, if the generals found out where they’d been before 
the wedding, they’d applaud him. War was coming. The sooner 
he got her with an heir, the better for Laurentia. 
He would notify the servants to provision the lodge tonight. 
And he would inform Andre of his plans, in case he was needed 
before he wished to return. When the carriage rolled to a stop 
before the palace, he sent Sera directly to her chambers where 
she would, he hoped, have a nourishing dinner and fall asleep 
immediately. If he had anything to do with it, she’d need every 
bit of rest she could get in preparation for the days to come. 

Eleven
“What a glorious day,” Sera said. She sat Wind Rider’s easy 
canter alongside Nicholas’s bay as they rode northeast from 
Montanyard. They had been out in the wind for two hours, but 
the sun was bright and warm. Nicholas said they’d reach their 
destination in another hour. 
“Where are we going?” she asked. 
Nicholas simply gave her a mysterious smile. “Someplace 
where we don’t have to deal with the court. Good enough?” 
“Better than good,” she said. Only a few clouds laced the 
sky. Sera felt just like Wind Rider, who every once in a while 
kicked up his heels in a happy buck. 
“This wind is making me hungry. Let’s stop for tea,” 
Nicholas said. He pushed an unruly lock of hair back from his 
forehead and glanced at her sidelong. In his warm houndstooth 
jacket cut in the English style and his simple brown woolen 
stock tie, he looked every inch the carefree, youthful aristocrat 
out for a country hack. He had tied his cloak behind his saddle, 
and he had insisted that Sera take one, as well. 
Sera glanced up. Even as they spoke, more clouds had 
appeared in the sky. The wind gusted, and a cloud covered the 
sun. She shivered, looking forward to warming herself with food 
and her cloak. 
“Is there a full English tea in the mysterious package you 
have in your saddlebag? How clever of you, especially when I 
could roast your lovely bay right now and eat him whole.” 
“A woman with an appetite—what a pleasure. And no, my 
dear Sera, this is not horseflesh, but the ambrosia of the gods,” 
said Nicholas. 
“Madame Torvell’s wonderful tarts? Oh, bliss.” Sera 
immediately squeezed Wind Rider into a halt. “This looks just 
the place, do you not think?” 
“Glutton! This spot is completely open to the wind. If we 
stop here, any ploughboy coming home from the fields would 
see us. I could never steal a kiss from such a location.” 
Sera slanted him a look from beneath her lashes. 
Nicholas was looking at her with a dark intensity that made 
her stomach go fluttery. He looked as though he were hungry 

enough to eat her. 
Playing at love was a heady thing. Those stolen kisses in 
the carriage had made her feel as though she had just taken a 
leap off a mountainside. She tried to remember caution, but it 
was too late for that. Whenever she was near Nicholas, a thrum 
of excitement vibrated through her blood. She squeezed Wind 
Rider into a gallop and threw her head back, drinking in the 
cold wind. 
Nicholas gave chase. She could hear his deep laughter 
behind her. And then a sharp crack through the air, beneath the 
sound of hoof beat and wind. Another report, and then another, 
and the acrid smell of gunpowder came to her from behind. 
Nicholas had pulled even with her. “Run!” he shouted over the 
wind. 
And she did, bent over Wind Rider’s neck, his mane 
whipping against her face, the wind and her own fear spurring 
her on. Nicholas was beside her, pointing to the left, and Wind 
Rider swerved, narrowly missing a tree as they raced up the 
hillside, behind a cover of dull gray and evergreen brush. 
The bitter wind buffeted her body with brutal force, and ice 
stung her cheeks. She looked up past the windblown branches 
at a lowering sky. Clouds coiled and roiled like sea serpents 
ready to strike. The sleet began in earnest, 
Sera glanced over her shoulder once. She saw the haunts of 
her nightmares, black garbed from head to toe, gaining on 
Nicholas and her as they climbed the hill. She could hear the 
labored breath of Nicholas’s horse behind her. 
“Leave me and make for the top,” shouted Nicholas. 
“Beyond is a road that will take you to a hunting box. Stay 
there. Somebody will come within a week.” 
Sera shook her head and kept going at Nicholas’s slower 
pace. 
“Damn it, woman. Leave me. That horse of yours is good 
for hours.” 
“I’m staying with you. I like the odds better,” said Sera, 
controlling the tremor that shook her inside and threatened to 
spread to her lips. She gave him what she hoped was a brave 
smile. 
Nicholas gave a growl of frustration. “Little fool! Stop 
being a damned heroine.” 

“You’re stuck with me,” said Sera. “So decide how to save 
us.” 
“Over there.” Nicholas pointed to the left. “There’s a deer 
blind behind those oaks. Hurry!” 
She raced Wind Rider ahead. The blind appeared. She rode 
Wind Rider past it and found a post behind some trees and brush, 
but she didn’t tie him to it. Instead, she slipped the saddle and 
bridle from the horse. If something happened to her, those snakes 
wouldn’t be able to catch him. But they were following. They 
would find them. 
They would kill Nicholas. Her heart almost cracked at the 
thought of all that beauty of mind and body, all that exuberant 
energy, draining with the bright flow of his blood into the 
ground. Her breath hitched in a sob as she realized what a 
precious place this alien world was because Nicholas was a part 
of it. Dear gods, she couldn’t let him die. 
She had to do something. She had to hide him. 
Her soul opened, with an outpouring so great, she felt she 
must shout with the power of it. From deep within, from a lore 
passed down through generations—a lore she hadn’t known 
existed, the words welled up inside her. She raised her arms 
high to the sky. In the ancient, formal language known only by 
the Mages, she cried out. “Boreas of the North Wind, I charge 
you, in the secret name granted you by the gods! Anaisis, 
master of the storm! I charge you by the Gift surging in my 
blood! Come to me. Unsheathe your power. Give all unto my 
hand to work my will upon this place.” 
The sleet fell harder, needles of ice that froze her cheeks. 
She wished snow, a blizzard of it, and the sleet grew light and 
softened into great flakes. The wind whipped them, swirling 
about her in a blinding haze of white. 
Then Nicholas’s strong hand was on her arm, pulling her 
back into the blind. As she checked the road below them for 
signs of the villains, he handed her something cold and heavy. 
She smelled oil and gunpowder. She didn’t need to look down 
to know what she held. 
Death. 
Nicholas grabbed her hand. “This is no time for debate. 
And don’t even think of having a fit of vapors. You’ll shoot the 
damned thing, if you must, to save your life. Do you hear me?” 

She nodded once. Her stomach made a queasy turn. If the 
time comes, she tried to reassure herself. Not when. 
“Load this one while I shoot the other.” Nicholas arranged 
the killing tools on the rock beside her. Powder, shot, rod. She 
despaired that she would forget, would kill them both simply 
because she was too much of a goose to remember correctly 
when it counted. The vermin were climbing now, their own 
horses stumbling on the uneven rock. 
Nicholas grabbed her shoulder with his free hand and pulled 
her to him. She stared up into his eyes, slate-dark and intense, 
and he gave her a ferocious grin. Surprisingly, it gave her a 
shred of hope. 
“You can do it,” he whispered, and his lips covered hers in 
a fierce, hot kiss. 
Sera heard the Brotherhood bastards curse as they climbed 
closer to the hiding place. There were too many of them. 
“Hold this one until I ask for it,” said Nicholas softly. 
“There’s a good girl.” He was kneeling on one knee, his pistol 
propped on his free arm. Except for the grim set of his mouth, 
he looked as calm as he had two nights ago in his ballroom. 
The shot exploded with an ear-splitting reverberation. One 
of the men below slumped and fell. A horse reared on the steep 
mountain road and fell backwards, taking the rider down with 
him. Sera heard the crazed fear in the man’s shout and then the 
snap of bone as the horse landed. The horse’s body twitched, 
and she heard a moaning from beneath it. The others dismounted 
and fanned out, looking for places to hide. They skittered, black 
robed vermin slipping through the swirling white. 
“Now,” said Nicholas, his voice as calm as a summer sky. 
He handed her the pistol, still smoking. As she worked feverishly 
to load it, he aimed the other and fired again, and another man 
dropped from his horse, crying out in pain. 
Powder, rod, shot, rod, thought Sera, working over the 
pistols as they were handed to her, handing them back again. 
She could not count the dead and dying. Even with animals 
like these, she couldn’t think about their deaths. But Nicholas 
had fired several times, and he had given a satisfied grunt every 
time but one. 
She could still see blurred movement through the slanting 
white curtain of snow. For once, that awful, unremitting black 

of the Brotherhood served to their disadvantage, for against the 
snow, they made easier targets for Nicholas. But one ran up to 
the blind, so close she could see the battle madness in his eyes. 
He gave a victorious shout and raised his pistol. Nicholas shot 
again. Sera watched in horror at the blood blossoming on the 
man’s chest. With a groan, he dropped to his knees and then lay 
bleeding on the snow. 
She bent to her work, choking back the nausea. Load, pack, 
load, pack. She could do it. Nicholas took careful aim at another 
fanatic who raced for the blind, screaming imprecations. 
Sera caught a furtive movement to her left. Another was 
coming on Nicholas’s blind side. His eyes—oh, his eyes— 
glittered with that madness that haunted her dreams. 
It happened too fast for Sera to shout a warning. The terrorist 
raised his arm and aimed at Nicholas’s back. Sera shoved 
Nicholas aside and aimed, squeezing the trigger. The malevolent 
gleam drained from the man’s eyes, replaced by a look of 
surprise. He slumped and fell backwards in the snow. 
“Oh, gods.” Sera dropped the pistol. 
Nicholas turned. “They’re on the run.” 
Sera crept on hands and knees to the still body. A red stain 
spread from beneath it and tainted the snow’s purity. His eyes 
were still open. 
She stared, unable to turn away from his final question. 
“Why did you kill me?” his eyes asked. With shaking hands, 
she pulled the black mask down to his chin. 
He was a boy, perhaps sixteen, with just enough blonde 
down on his cheeks to make an acceptable beard. He had a 
mother and a father somewhere, waiting for him to come home. 
“Oh, gods, why wasn’t I strong enough to hold him back?” 
She couldn’t stop shaking. “What have I done? What have I 
done?” 
“Sera.” Nicholas’s hands gripped her shoulders hard, 
making her rise. Hastily, he re-saddled and bridled Wind Rider. 
“We have to get out of here. They’ll come back any minute and 
take us if we don’t. All right? That’s it, up on your horse, now. 
Here. Take my cloak. Put it over your own. You’ve had quite a 
shock. No, don’t give it back to me. I don’t need it.” 
Nicholas led her out of the blind, past the dead bodies littered 
in the snow. Sera gagged and clutched at Wind Rider’s mane 

like a novice rider. The snow fell faster, almost a blizzard against 
a pewter sky. She followed Nicholas blindly, numb and cold in 
spite of the protective cloaks. 
*** 
Jacob Augustus stared at his grandfather across the swirling 
surface of the scrying glass. 
“They’re safe for now,” said Emmanuel. “The blizzard will 
shield them from the remainder of those beasts.” 
Jacob shook his head in frustration. “But she didn’t know 
how to hide them forever. Untutored, she can’t hope to use her 
power to its full extent.” He was sick with regret that he’d left 
Sera alone to deal with all the changes inside her and all the 
terror around her. “Changing the elements didn’t keep her safe 
from killing, Grandfather. She’ll bear a heavy burden for that. 
And now, he’ll get her lost in the snow.” 
“Not Rostov. He’ll sniff his way to safety, even through a 
blizzard.” Emmanuel lowered his head. “I had hoped that she 
would find what she needed out there. But I refused to ponder 
the horrors they work upon each other.” 
Jacob took a deep breath and calmed his mind. He thought 
past the last terrifying moments but came to the same conclusion 
he always had. “By all that’s holy,” he said. “Let me go to her 
now, before they destroy her entirely.” 
*** 
Sera held on as Wind Rider followed Nicholas through the 
blinding snow. The wind howled about her, sniggering and 
pulling at the heavy folds of the cloaks. Nicholas said nothing. 
Occasionally she heard him cough, a dry, hollow sound against 
the wind and the blowing snow. She had no idea how long they 
rode, only that she felt as though she were in Hades, wandering 
forever in the dim half night, never to be allowed to reach the 
isle of the blessed. 
What have I done? If she shut her eyes, she could see that 
boy’s face. 
She was only half-aware when Nicholas halted his horse 
and helped her down. 
“Go inside. I’ll see to the horses. He gently pushed her 
toward a door. 
There was light beyond the door, and a dying warmth. 
Nicholas would be cold when he returned, she realized dully. 

There was a great deal of wood stacked by a large fireplace at 
the end of the room. She piled logs upon the dying coals, glad 
that someone had started this fire. The Gift had exhausted her 
too much to start it as she had that day in her chamber. 
Her cloaks grew heavy and sodden as the snow on them 
melted. She hung them to dry on chairs before the fire. 
He came into the room several moments later. “Are you all 
right?” he asked, and then coughed again. “I’ll do,” she said, 
rising from her knees slowly. Her limbs trembled from the strain. 
“You’re shivering,” she said, coming close and laying a 
hand on his forehead. “And hot. Is there a bedchamber in this 
place?” 
“Several.” He sounded slightly breathless. “Let’s get you 
into the most comfortable one.” 
She followed him up the stairs, grabbing hold of the banister, 
like an old woman with arthritic legs. The gift had drained her, 
taking her strength with it. He led her into a beautifully furnished 
chamber where another fire was dying on the grate. As she added 
wood from the basket beside the mantle, Sera heard a loud 
thump. 
Nicholas lay on the Turkish carpet, looking stunned. 
“Damn,” he said hoarsely. “Damn, damn, damn.” 
“What happened? What is it?” She moved to his side, using 
her depleted strength to help him up. 
“Oh, Christus,” he said with a weak laugh, “of all the 
times….” 
“Get out of these clothes,” she said. Fear spurred her as she 
caught up a towel hung on a shaving stand and began rubbing 
his wet hair. Nicholas sat slumped on the side of the bed 
fumbling with the knot in his cravat. She lightly slapped his 
hands away and slipped the knot loose. His jacket and shirt 
were soaked through. So were his breeches from thigh to knee. 
By the time she got his clothes off and began to rub him down, 
he was shuddering. 
“God, I’m cold,” he whispered through chattering teeth. 
“You’ve caught a chill,” she said. 
“Brandy.” He coughed again, a racking, loose sound that 
seemed to tear at his insides. 
“Absolutely not. Some soup, anything liquid. But no 
spirits.” 

“Damnit, woman, I’m cold. Get the brandy or I’ll get it 
myself.” He struggled to his feet and stood swaying like a 
drunkard. He seemed completely unaware that he was naked. 
“The floor’s cold. Where are my boots?” Nicholas looked 
down to find them and suddenly stumbled. “Oh, God,” he 
groaned and sank back onto the bed. He struggled with the quilt. 
Sera pulled it up to his chin and sat beside him on the bed. 
“Go away,” he said. 
“No. You have a nasty cough, and you’re warm. I think 
you have a fever.” 
Nicholas turned his head away. In the firelight, she could 
still make out the pain on his face. “For God’s sake, go away, 
Sera.” 
“Why?” 
A tremor wracked him. “I can’t bear for you to see me like 
this.” 
The shame in his voice made her want to take him in her 
arms and tell him he was quite brave and strong enough, but he 
would never believe her, not now. Instead, she busied herself 
about the room, dipping a cloth into the bowl and bathing him 
limb by limb, finding supplies in the kitchen and bringing tea 
and soup, and making him drink. 
But these were things any Outlander could do. If only she 
could summon it, the Gift might heal him now. What if he got 
worse? She couldn’t think about it. She sat in the wingback 
chair beside the fire, watching him, and praying. Soon, she 
couldn’t even do that. In spite of her will, her eyelids drooped, 
and fell, and she slid into oblivion. 
In the silent hour past midnight Nicholas slept fitfully. In 
late morning, he woke again, his breath hitching. Sera, awake 
for only a little time, brought him a posset she’d heated by the 
fire. 
“Drink,” she said. 
He took a sip, then a long swallow. “That’s good on my 
throat. What’s in it?” 
“Tea with honey, brandy, and a bit of laudanum.” 
“Drugging me, are you? Planning to have your way with 
me?” His smile faded. “Sorry. I had no right, even joking. Not 
now.” 
She didn’t know what to do, what to say, when this black 

mood came on him. She had barely the strength to hold the 
drink. She had never felt this weary after using the Gift. When 
would it return? she asked herself in desperation. 
He looked at her through fever heavy eyes. “How long have 
you been taking care of my needs?” 
“Just through the one night.” She had awakened several 
times during the night and seen to him, then collapsed back 
onto the chair, to sleep again. 
“How much have you. . . had to do? Don’t tell me. All of it, 
right?” 
She knew he was thinking of the chamber pot. “You’d do 
the same for me,” she said. “Stop being so silly. Even kings are 
human.” She closed her eyes, felt for the power within her and 
found nothing. 
Nicholas woke four hours later, fitfully tossing and moaning. 
Sera gave him more to drink and bathed his body again. He 
muttered and groaned as she lifted him to bathe his chest. He 
was barely able to lift his head. She sat down beside him and 
took his hand. It was frightening to see he didn’t even have 
energy for pride any more. 
“Shh,” she said, smoothing his hair from his brow. She gave 
him a bit of the drug-laced tea. “I’ll tell you a story from the 
Hills if you’ll lie very still and try to sleep.” 
“All right,” he rasped, tearing her heart. 
“Once upon a time, a brave, handsome king rode into the 
Hills in midwinter and got lost there. He wandered through snow 
and sleet until he came to a waterfall that had frozen solid, a 
filigree of spume and ice. He was too cold, too weary to go any 
farther. He slipped from his horse, slapped it on the croup with 
his last strength, and lay down to die. 
“But luck was with him, for a beautiful woman, the princess 
of a hidden world saw him through a magical glass in her study, 
and she called her father to her side. 
“‘See the Outlander, Father. He is a fine, handsome man, 
and I pity him. Bring him inside. Make him warm.’ 
“So her father took pity on the Outlander, for his daughter’s 
sake, and brought him into the hidden land, where it was warm 
and the air smelled of blossoms, and they healed him. The first 
thing the king saw when he awoke was the beautiful princess, 
and he fell in love with her immediately. 

“He began to court her, telling her of his fine palace and 
the wonders of his country. She was wary, not of the king, but 
of the Outlanders he ruled. But he spoke of his people with 
such love that she knew she would rather risk the dangers of his 
world to remain at his side than live in the safety of her home 
without him. So when spring came to the world outside the 
hidden kingdom, the king mounted a great stallion—a wedding 
gift from the princess’s father. The princess mounted before 
him and they traveled down the mountains into the king’s 
country. And all the people rejoiced that their king, whom they 
had thought dead, was home again.” 
“Then what happened?” asked Nicholas. 
“Reality,” said Sera. There was no need to tell him more. 
“Now go to sleep.” She laid her head on the bed and closed her 
eyes, trying to find the Gift. It hid still from her, somewhere so 
deep within, she couldn’t reach it. The fear became a palpable 
thing, clawing at her, mocking her impotence. She reached out 
for Nicholas, as though touching him would keep him from 
leaving her and crossing over to the Land of the Dead. 
By midmorning the next day, Nicholas’s fever still raged. 
Sera stared down at his face. There were gaunt hollows beneath 
his eyes. His cheekbones showed prominently above the black 
stubble of his beard. She put her ear to his chest and heard the 
sounds she dreaded. His lungs made fine, crackling noises. When 
she tapped his chest, it gave back dull thuds. 
“Nicholas, it’s the pneumonia,” she said to him. Nicholas 
didn’t answer. He was unconscious. 
“What am I to do? What am I to do?” Sera whispered. Oh, 
she couldn’t bear it if he died. She searched deep inside, 
desperation adding some strength to that illusive essence men 
call the soul. 
Fear shook her. She wasn’t good at this yet. With great effort, 
she could mend an artery and slashed skin. But to heal a man so 
compromised! 
She set her will and sent it deeper. The Gift responded, but 
it was weakened still from the battle with the Brotherhood. She 
wasn’t Grandfather. She didn’t have the power of all the elders 
working in tandem. There was only her. 
What would life be if Nicholas was gone from her? What 
foolish fear held her back from giving everything to save him? 

That she wouldn’t succeed? If it cost her own life, she couldn’t 
give him up without a struggle. 
“At least we’re alone,” she told him, listening to his harsh 
breathing. “Nobody can accuse me of witchcraft here, can they?” 
She disrobed until only her fine linen shift remained. The 
fire would blaze for a long time, she thought. She did not know 
how long it would take, or what the outcome would be. Her 
heart pounded in her chest so hard it hurt to swallow and to 
breathe. It didn’t matter what happened. She couldn’t let him 
die without a fight. 
She slipped into bed beside Nicholas and took him into her 
arms. Gathering him as close as she could, she shut her eyes 
and put her arms around him. Downward she journeyed, through 
the bronchial tubes, into the lungs themselves. The infection 
pulsed and throbbed. Sera put her hands against his back, right 
above it, and let the peace possess her, maybe for an instant, 
maybe for an eternity. 
The warmth welled up inside her, all golden and flowing 
into her hands. She pressed gently and let the light flow from 
her, along the path she directed past burning skin and lax muscle. 
Into the virulent mass it speared. She held on, sending the light 
sailing outward and into him on the current of her will, and saw 
beneath her closed lids the last of the fluid drain and the lungs 
heave and take their first easy breath. 
After what seemed like eons, the glow dimmed and she felt 
again, this time the cool skin, the quiet rise and fall of Nicholas’s 
back. He was sleeping, a healthful, healing sleep. Her limbs 
were heavy, almost paralyzed with the weariness of centuries. 
Beneath her heavy lids, color played, light red reflecting the 
fire. She snuggled closer to Nicholas. It took almost more energy 
than she possessed just to smile. 
“I love you,” she whispered and let the darkness take her. 
*** 
Nicholas didn’t want to open his eyes. He was so 
comfortable. There was only a bit of chill on the tip of his nose, 
but everything else was deliciously warm. His lungs felt better 
than they had these three weeks. He took a deep, satisfied breath 
and buried his nose against warm, scented hair. Sera. He felt 
Sera’s arms wrapped tightly around him. Even in her sleep, she 
held him here with her. 

He opened one eye. It was growing dark outside the window. 
The blizzard still raged, thank God, sheltering them from the 
Brotherhood fiends. The chill he felt on his nose was the room 
cooling rapidly. He glanced at the fireplace; it held only dying 
coals. 
He slid from beneath the covers and threw on a robe hanging 
in the armoire in the opposite corner. Hastily, he made up the 
fire until it was a cheerful blaze, warming the room. Sera lay 
still in the great bed, her breath the even inhalation of deep 
sleep. 
She must be exhausted after all she’d been through. . . when? 
Yesterday? Whereas he felt fit enough to traipse through the 
woods, hunting bear and pheasant to bring her for dinner. He 
walked to the bed and stroked Sera’s shoulder through the thick, 
warm fall of her hair. 
“What the devil did you do to me?” he asked her dreaming 
form, not really expecting an answer. Yet. 
Nicholas bathed. He frowned at the sight he saw in the 
mirror, all wild hair and long, dark stubble. Hastily, he got out 
his razor. At least when Sera awoke she would see the old 
Nicholas, clean and groomed. A little too late for all this now, 
he thought, and cringed at the realization that she must have 
nursed him and cleaned up after him when he lay helpless as a 
babe. 
Sera stirred in the big bed, rubbed her eyes and rolled over 
on her side, promptly burrowing deeper to go to sleep again. 
Nicholas wasn’t having any of it. He wanted answers, and he 
wanted her too sleepy to be clever about the truth. He crawled 
into bed and rolled her over to face him. Then he shook her 
shoulder lightly. 
“Wake up, Sera.” 
“Mm-mm. Too tired.” 
“Just a few questions and then you can sleep again.” 
“What?” She opened her eyes and stared at him owlishly, 
but the lids slipped shut again almost immediately. 
He shook her shoulder again. “What did you do to me?” 
“When you were sick?” she mumbled. 
“Uh-huh. What did you do?” 
She opened her eyes again, like a drunk trying to focus. 
“Set you to rights.” 

“What?” His bark of laughter seemed to jar her awake a 
little more. 
“I set you to rights, Nicholas. Now let me sleep.” She tried 
to roll away, but he wouldn’t let her. 
“How?” 
“I put my hands on you.” 
“You healed me with your hands,” he said flatly. He couldn’t 
believe it. 
“You were dying, Nicholas. I couldn’t have that, could I?” 
She gave a yawn. “I’m so tired.” 
“All right, love. Go back to sleep.” 
Sera rolled over and tucked her hand beneath her cheek. 
She fell asleep in an instant. Nicholas kissed her forehead and 
tucked the quilt around her. “Little magician,” he whispered. 
“I’m not done with you yet.” 
Nicholas descended the stairs and went straight to the stable. 
The snow was beginning to let up a bit as he trod a path to the 
stable and saw to the horses’ care. When he returned, he 
deposited his saddlebags inside the front door and then carried 
wood in from the neat stack beside the outer wall of the hunting 
box. 
His stomach chose that moment to make itself heard— 
loudly. He was ravenous. It took little time to prepare a tray of 
salted ham, cheese, and rich brown bread from the pantry. As 
he pulled the cork on a fine Pinot Noir, he remembered Mrs. 
Torville’s sweets and added one to the tray. Slinging a saddlebag 
over his shoulder, he carried the picnic upstairs to the master 
bedroom, where he could watch over Sera until she awoke. 
After lighting a brace of candles, he settled into a 
comfortable library chair and opened one of the books he had 
brought in his saddlebag, the old, battered copy of Plato’s 
Republic. He munched a sandwich and read with a great deal 
of interest what had bored him silly in the classroom. 
He read for hours in the cozy room, waiting eagerly for 
Sera to awaken. Night wore on. Sera stirred, shifted and sat up. 
Her eyes were large in a pale, drawn face. Whatever she had 
done to him last night had taken a toll. 
“Hullo.” Nicholas smiled at her and put down the book. He 
had looked at her dozens of times while she slept, trying to still 
the heat that surged in his blood for her. Now that she was awake, 

he had a difficult time meeting her eyes. 
“I’ve been thinking you might like some privacy. There are 
gowns and those frilly things women wear in the armoire and 
warm water for bathing in the pitcher. Take your time. I’ll wait 
for you downstairs. Dinner’s not very elegant, but hearty, 
nonetheless.” 
He took the tray and the books downstairs with him. He 
waited nervously for her below, wondering which inevitable 
change in Sera’s attitude would destroy him more— 
embarrassment at having seen him at his worst, or pity for his 
frailty. 
She evidently made a quick toilette, for she appeared on 
the stairway twenty minutes later. “What is this place?” she 
asked him, taking in the fine furnishings, the elegant paneled 
walls, the tiled Russian stove warming the room even more than 
did the fireplace. 
“My hunting box. 
“She cast him a wary look. “Why are my gowns in the 
armoire?” 
There was no way out of it, now. He looked at her, rosy and 
scrubbed like an innocent schoolgirl, her hair giving off a halo 
of warm light against the candle glow. He thought of the mess 
he must have been for—what was it, two long days and nights? 
She knew it all now, everything about his wretched body—his 
terrible, flawed lungs, the weakness that betrayed him and her 
in a situation fraught with danger. 
“I… um… I’m afraid I wanted you all to myself for a few 
days. I had the place stocked and our clothing brought here. 
Aren’t you glad to have them?” he asked as smoothly as he 
could. 
She refused to be turned from the immediate subject. “Do 
you mean that you wished to take me to your bed, Nicholas?” 
Direct, as always. Hell. 
“Yes. But of course, I would not expect such a thing now. 
Not after you saw me succumb.” 
She came so close he could catch the scent of her, the 
damnably arousing perfume of flowers in a spring meadow. 
“Succumb? You speak of pneumonia as if it were drink or 
gambling. ‘Tis not a vice.” 
“Isn’t it?” He turned away from her, filled with shame and 

a sense of loss. His voice sounded loud in his own ears. “To be 
so puny that one cannot even take care of his own needs? If I 
had been vigilant, given it enough time and rest before I brought 
you here, it never would have overcome me. But I was an 
impatient fool. You needn’t worry. After what you’ve seen of 
me, I’ll not ask you to share my bed, nor—“ 
Her light slap between his shoulder blades brought him up 
short. “I swear I shall go mad from your absurd self-flagellation,” 
Sera muttered. 
“Sera, how do you think I feel?” he ground out, turning 
and taking her shoulders, shaking them a little. “If they had 
come last night or the night before, I would have lain there like 
a slug while they took you. You think I can look at myself in the 
mirror knowing I was worthless? God! I resembled an 
overgrown infant more than a man, and you saw it all.” 
Her eyes flared with hot anger, surprising him. “Fool! Fool, 
to think I would care about any of that. What would you have 
had me do? Let you die because you’re not fit? What is ‘fit’? To 
be a man like your father, who would not even speak to his 
daughter? Who must have tormented you so that you feel you 
must be perfect always?” 
She broke away from him and walked to the fire, hugging 
herself, a forlorn, stiff silhouette against the glow. “I don’t think 
I can bear this nonsense,” she whispered, more to herself than 
to him. 
Suddenly, she whirled on him. “Nicholas, do you think that 
only you are allowed to feel shame? I couldn’t keep you safe. I 
couldn’t hide us well enough. And so they got through.” 
She took a shaky breath. “I killed a man,” she said in a low 
voice. “Had he been aiming at me, I would not have done it. 
But he was about to shoot you. Nicholas, do you have any idea 
what you mean to me? That I would kill for you? So don’t tell 
me how you’re not ‘fit’. Don’t think me so stupid as to want 
you strong and beautiful every minute of your life. Just take me 
in your arms and help me get through the night.” 
Sera hid her face in her hands and sobbed as though her 
world had blown up about her. 
He shuddered at the sounds, holding tightly to his own 
control. “You’ll regret it in the morning,” he said shutting his 
eyes. But her sobs battered at him. 

“By all the gods, stop being so damned noble!” 
Pride and shame were no match against Sera’s need. He 
came to her and opened his arms. She flung herself against him, 
clinging while he covered her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth with 
kisses. “Hush now. It’s over. Sera, don’t cry. I can make you 
forget. We’ll help each other forget.” 
He lifted her in his arms. She leaned her head on his 
shoulder, giving herself up to him, accepting him. She was light 
as he carried her up the stairway and into the bedroom. Small 
and precious in the middle of the big bed when he laid her down. 
He slipped off her shoes, pausing to stroke his hand up the 
arch of her foot, hearing her swift, indrawn breath. And then he 
sank into the mattress beside her. Her blue eyes, dark and fearless 
in the light of the candelabrum, looked straight at him and into 
him. No darkness could dim the radiance of her hair. He pulled 
the pins from it and spread it in a golden cloud on the pillow. 
Combing his fingers through the silken veil, he tamped 
down the surge of heat in his groin. “I’ve imagined you this 
way for so long—from the first, I think. Just like this.” 
She said not a word, just lay there waiting for him, breaking 
his heart with the trust in her eyes. There was no sound but the 
hiss of the logs on the fire. The world, with all its condemnation, 
lay outside this room, outside this bed. But here, there was a 
haven, where there was no weakness that couldn’t be forgiven, 
no need that couldn’t be fulfilled. 
He reminded himself to go slowly, but he had wanted her 
for so long. He feared to lose control. Direct as always, Sera 
unbuttoned his shirt and began to stroke his chest, learning him. 
Her touch was like a brand, searing his skin. He had to push her 
hands away and imprison them both with one of his. It had to 
be special for her. 
“No. This is going to last,” he said. He rose on one elbow 
and stroked the fall of gold on the pillow. “I want to see you. I 
want to make you feel everything.” 
“Yes,” she told him. 
Yes. To her it was all so simple. She cared about him. Him. 
Not his wealth, not his power, not his failings. 
Outside the window, the blizzard ruled. He had all night to 
make her forget everything but this room, and him. 
Sera looked up into Nicholas’s face as he leaned over her 

in the bed. His eyes, dear gods, his gray eyes, beneath the straight 
brows, had deepened to the color of slate. His lids were heavy, 
the dark, fringed lashes hiding his thoughts when she wanted to 
know everything. Then he gave her a look so heated her heart 
skittered into a faster beat. She pushed, and the soft linen of his 
shirt fell open, revealing a strong throat and broad chest, both 
darker than the white cloth and lightly furred with hair. His skin 
gleamed gold in the light of the fire. How could he not see how 
strong he was, how beautiful? She lifted her face to his neck 
and kissed the hollow of his throat. He gasped as her tongue 
found heat and soap and clean male—Nicholas’s taste filled 
her, and she found it delicious. 
“Let me pleasure you,” he whispered, a deep rumble that 
made her catch her breath. “Let me show you how it can feel, 
how you can feel.” His hand supported the back of her neck. 
He planted teasing kisses on her cheek, her chin, tasting the 
corner of her mouth with his tongue, his kisses light and sweet, 
a wicked, knowing seduction below her ear. His mouth covered 
hers in a searing kiss, and her lips parted helplessly beneath a 
deep exploration that left her mindless of anything but his 
strength, his mastery. After a long time, he broke the kiss. She 
gave a soft cry of disappointment. And felt his breath, the warmth 
of it. 
“Take off your gown, sweetheart. I have to see you.” 
“All right.” His hands helped her with the tiny buttons she 
couldn’t open because she was trembling, torn between desire 
and a sudden, wrenching self-consciousness. In the harem, he 
had thrown his cloak at her and ordered her to cover herself. 
Did he find her ugly then? Would he find her ugly now? 
She sat up and slowly lowered the bodice of her gown. He 
had risen to his knees, and his hands closed beneath her elbows, 
lifting her higher, until she, too was kneeling facing him on the 
bed. When he tugged at the gown, it slid down her torso and 
gathered about her hips in folds of soft wool. Sera shut her eyes 
against the possibility of his disappointment. Nicholas said 
nothing. He only slipped his hands down her shoulders, easing 
off the sleeves of the thin linen shift to follow the gown. She 
knelt there, exposed, hot with blushes in the fire lit room. She 
peeked at him, trying to determine his reaction. Pride alone kept 
her back straight as his eyes slowly perused her body with 

intense concentration. His eyes closed as he took a deep, 
shuddering breath. 
Sera gave a whimper of defeat and grabbed the gown up 
again. Nicholas’s eyes sprang open. “No,” he said, pulling the 
dress down and then sliding his hands down the outline of her 
body. 
“Why did you shut your eyes?” No more lies, even if it hurt 
to hear the truth. 
“I had to stop wanting—Sera, it’ll scare you.” 
Curiosity and fear warred as she took in the heat in his eyes. 
“What?” 
He touched her then, a slow stroke of his forefinger from 
shoulder to collarbone and down, over the swell of her breast, 
circling once, and then rubbing with his thumb, and not once 
did he look away. His gaze locked upon her as though she were 
the only precious thing left in the world. And she—she couldn’t 
hide what that soft abrasion did to her. Her body thrust forward 
against his hands. Her face, no doubt, reflected her every wanton 
response. 
Slate darkness in candlelight, his gaze held her captive while 
he rubbed the nipple between thumb and forefinger. Sparks of 
heat shot to her belly, and farther down. She had a difficult time 
holding on to thought. 
He watched her with a fearsome stillness. How could she 
reveal how wild, how lost she was to the heat he engendered 
with his clever hands? He would be appalled. Certainly, any 
Hillman would expect more dignity from his mate. 
But desire overwhelmed her. She turned her head away, 
losing herself in fiery spurts of pleasure from that lascivious 
stroking. 
“Look at me.” His voice was a warm whisper against her 
ear, carrying her up on a spiral of urgency. She dared a glance 
into his eyes. Burning, intent, they left her helpless and 
imprisoned. His beautiful lips curved in a smile that knew all 
about her. 
Oh, yes, he knew. Knew he had enslaved her at last. Knew 
she had no thought of making him stop—that she could not 
bear it if he stopped. 
“We were discussing what I want to do,” Nicholas reminded 
her, lifting her breasts with his hands, staring intently at the 

tight buds of her nipples. 
“Yes,” she said again, grasping at the spider web threads of 
his words. 
“The same thing I wanted when I saw you for the first time 
at Iman Hadar’s palace.” He cleared his throat. “To come into 
you, as deep and hard as I could.” The words came out in a low 
growl. His face looked different, leaner, strained, as though he 
were in pain. His gray gaze held her, a brigand’s gleam in 
shadow. 
“Oh.” She raised her hand to his chest, to the springy hair 
and the solid muscle there, so different from her softness. 
“No. Don’t touch me… yet.” He covered her hand with his 
own and brought it back to her lap, lingering there with his own 
hand, brushing through the wool, against the juncture of thigh 
and that private place, igniting hot fire where all the feeling 
centered. 
“Just ‘oh’?” His lips quirked. “Where’s the bold Sera who 
challenged me?” 
“Trying to touch you. I don’t understand. What is this ‘no’?” 
“If you touch me, it’ll be over before it begins.” He gave a 
low laugh that turned into a groan and took her face in his hands. 
“One time, Sera, just once, trust me to do something without 
your help.” 
So soft were his lips as they molded her mouth. His body 
bent over her, finally close enough to touch, but he wouldn’t let 
her touch him. He held on to her hands, pressing them to her 
sides while his tongue tasted and his teeth nibbled at her lower 
lip. 
Sera arched her body and rubbed her breasts against his 
chest, feeling the soft tickle of his hair against her nipples. She 
was aching for more where he had touched her so lightly. He 
tumbled her back on the sheets, tasting her mouth, groaning 
when her lips parted for him. 
Following her down, he covered her body with his, and she 
felt his thigh, long and muscled between her legs, and him, full 
and hard against her. No more teasing kisses now. His tongue 
plunged into her mouth in the rhythm his body took, pushing 
against her, urging her to move against him in the same beat. It 
was heavy, his body’s demand, and sweet, too, the way he 
cupped her breast, stroking with his fingers, following with his 

mouth. His tongue curled around the nipple, and she cried out, 
rising up to him. 
He’d freed her arms. She threaded her fingers through his 
hair. Oh, it was soft and thick and warm with life. The very 
bone of his skull felt smooth, finely wrought and solid beneath 
her fingers. She couldn’t think, she could only feel the tug of 
his mouth as he suckled at her nipple, his heat pumping against 
her, so strong and eager and alive that she felt only joyous desire. 
Alive, she thought dimly. They were both of them alive. 
Her hands fluttered from his hair down the strong, corded 
neck. She fumbled with his shirt and tried to tug it off over his 
wide shoulders. 
Nicholas felt Sera’s haste, and he wanted it, wanted her 
eager, and no more barriers between them. Rolling to the side 
of the bed, he sat up and pulled the shirt over his head, ripping 
stitches in his haste. He was so hard and swollen, he feared 
he’d never peel his breeches from his hips. He rose and made 
the mistake of facing Sera. She stared at him with wide eyes. 
God—he had to get them off before her eagerness gave 
way to virginal fear. He turned his back to her, ripped a seam at 
the ankle and shoved with his feet. He lunged back into bed, 
hiking the sheet over his nakedness before he rolled to face her. 
Don’t stop, don’t stop he thought. 
She was biting her lip. “You are… rather larger than the 
statues,” she said in a voice that trembled just a little. 
“Sweetheart, I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” 
he whispered just before he kissed her. And prayed he wouldn’t 
be damned as a liar. 
Miraculously, she relaxed against him with a sigh, and his 
tongue swept in to taste her sweetness. She moved restlessly 
beneath him, and he knew she wanted his hands on her, thank 
God. He stroked the soft swell of her breasts and studied her 
face. His touch—his kiss—brought the haze of passion back to 
her eyes. 
“Your skin—it’s softer than velvet.” He traced the perfectly 
rounded contours of her breasts with his fingers, saw the flush 
cover them—pink on gold, like the opening petals of a blushing 
rose. He tasted her and drove her with lips, teeth and tongue, 
pushing her up into the vortex. He wanted her need to match 
his own. 

He had begun this thinking he could redeem himself a little. 
To help her forget. That had lasted for about a minute. Now, he 
couldn’t stop, even if the world ended. In the worst way, he 
wanted to postpone the act until she writhed beneath him, 
screaming with pleasure. And in the worst way, he wanted to 
spread her wide and seat himself to the hilt inside her tight heat. 
“Off,” he said, grabbing gown and shift at her waist as he 
nipped kisses at the underswell of her breast. With one quick 
tug, he had it at her knees, and with another, completely off and 
onto the floor. Nothing impeded his view of long, slender legs, 
tiny waist, and rounded hips. 
“Beautiful,” he breathed. His hand cupped her, stroked 
through the curls between her legs. She shut her eyes and rolled 
her head away from him, moaning and trying to hide from his 
gaze at the same time. Not enough—it was imperative that she 
recognize him. 
“Look at me,” he demanded again, and she opened her eyes, 
her vision focusing on the intensity of his gaze. “Watch what I 
do to you. I am the one making you feel this, Sera. I am your 
first lover. Your only.” He lowered his head, tracing his tongue 
down to her belly. The warmth in the room and her own heat 
gave off her secret scent. He breathed it deeply and rubbed his 
face against her belly, feeling the smooth satin of her skin against 
his cheek. 
She didn’t fight his progress. No, she helped him, lifting 
against his mouth, her hands on his shoulders, kneading, making 
small, helpless cries. He settled between her legs, brushing his 
mouth against the soft curls. 
“Gold here, too,” he said. “Such a beautiful part of you.” 
Sera entered a place where every feeling was magnified 
until it was almost too strong to bear. Oh, the sound of his deep 
sigh, and then the tickle of his fingers as he parted her, stroking 
once up the cleft, showing her the pearly drop of moisture on 
the tip of his finger, outlining her lips with it, and then rising to 
kiss her, his tongue tasting. Oh, the way he lowered his head 
again to that heated core and used his tongue, holding her still 
with his strong hands, commanding her on a rasp of breath not 
to move when she was mad to thrust up against him, to demand 
more. 
And how he entered her—one finger, then two, burning 

and pressure, his fingers thrusting, his thumb circling where 
his mouth had been, his lips covering her nipple and suckling 
in rhythm. She cried out in ecstasy. He made a deep, hungry 
sound, as though he wanted to possess her, to know her so 
intimately, that surely this was more than simple lust. His head 
lowered to her breasts and burrowed in the valley between, and 
she heard his smothered groan, felt his breath, his warm weight, 
and all the while, his fingers stole reason from her. She could 
hear herself coming apart, sobbing to him to give her release 
from this wonderful, maddening pleasure. 
He lifted his head from her breasts. His eyes snapped open, 
riveting her with his gaze. “Let it happen,” he ground out. “Let 
it come.” 
Frightened by the enormity of the urgent spiral building 
and building, she reached out helplessly for him, her anchor in 
the storm that buffeted her body. She rolled her hips, lifting to 
take his fingers deeper, and he stroked her until her legs 
trembled. 
“Now,” he said, and the lightning burst through her, again 
and again, throwing her into space with its force. 
Suddenly, he reared over her. She hung on a pinnacle of 
sensation and felt his hard heat at the juncture of her thighs, felt 
him thrust slowly, inexorably, into her, felt the pain mixing with 
the pleasure. She hurt, but she wanted this entry, this hot, 
complete possession. 
His lips nibbled at her, soft kisses on her lids, her face, her 
mouth. And all the while he pressed into her, past a place of 
pain where she cried out. When he was deep inside her, filling 
her completely, he held himself still above her, taking his weight 
on his elbows with a tensing of his biceps and a grimace, as 
though he felt the same pain. She waited, caught in that net of 
feeling, wishing he would tell her what to do. And he lowered 
his face and kissed her hard, almost bruising her mouth. He 
lifted his head and held her gaze with his. Finality and a joyous 
triumph leaped into his eyes. 
“You’re mine, now. You belong to me.” 
She looked at him, helpless, but his dusky lashes swept 
down to hide his eyes, and he lowered his head to her shoulder, 
biting her lightly, stallion to her mare. She gave to him, raised 
her arms and put them around his shoulders as far as she could 

reach. That motion released him. He began to move inside her, 
thrust and retreat. There wasn’t much pain, now, but an ache, a 
tension, and she moved restlessly against him, trying to help 
him, to keep him deep at the height of his thrust. 
He must have sensed it, this new emptiness she wanted 
filled. Perhaps he was beyond anything but the demand of his 
body, because he put his hands beneath the small of her back 
and pulled her up against him with every thrust, quickening the 
rhythm, his breathing harsh in her ear. His hands slid lower, 
kneading and lifting her buttocks. She wanted release from this 
overwhelming lust. She could hear his rasping breath, her own 
sobs. He raised himself away from her just a little, still moving 
inside her. He watched her reactions with such an expression 
on his beautiful face. She felt completely naked, far beyond 
shame or self-protection. 
She trusted him. She did. And in that instant of recognition, 
she gave him what he wanted. With a cry of surrender, never 
shutting her eyes, she let him see the earthquake burst free and 
lift her out of herself. He groaned deep in his throat and thrust 
one last time, his back arched, his face drawn in pain or ecstasy, 
she could not tell. He held there above her, and a shudder 
wracked his body. He was as high and deep as he could go 
inside her. She shut her eyes, sighing, and felt his gift, the vital, 
surging warmth of his seed. 
Nicholas gave a ragged sigh and lowered himself until his 
body covered her from head to toe. Still joined, he rolled to his 
back, taking her with him. She could feel heat, the beaded 
moisture where her cheek lay against his chest, and lower, where 
she was slick from lovemaking and him. He said not a word, 
but lay with his limbs relaxed, his heartbeat slower now, and 
steady against her ear. She stared at the fire shadows dancing 
on the wall and despaired. 
Everything was changed. She was no longer Sera, the 
Mage’s granddaughter, or Sera the captive, or Sera, the 
combative friend of a king. All of those Seras had wanted one 
thing above all—to go home. But dear gods, how could she 
ever leave him now? 

Twelve 
Nicholas awoke to the sounds of muffled hoofbeats. “Sera!” 
he said as he leaped from the bed and grabbed the pistol he’d 
placed on the bedside table the night before. But she only 
muttered and pulled a pillow over her head. 
Nicholas peered through the window. The snow had abated, 
giving him a good view of the riders who rounded the corner of 
the barn. They wore the resplendent red tunics and navy breeches 
of Laurentia’s cavalry. Andre rode at the head of the full troop, 
his face drawn and pale with worry. Dismounting with a few of 
the officers, he tried the front door, which Nicholas had locked. 
Andre produced a key and slipped it into the lock. 
Nicholas grabbed his trousers. As he lifted a leg to put them 
on, he saw that his thighs were stained with Sera’s blood. He 
looked at the bed. Sera still slept beneath the quilts. What with 
his illness, and last night…well, he must have worn her out. 
Nicholas knew he ought to waylay the men at the foot of the 
stairs. But an idea occurred to him that would get him exactly 
what he wanted. His Rostov mind seized upon it, quickly turned 
it this way and that to look for flaws, and found none. 
Sera was the most stubborn woman he’d ever known. He 
needed an incident that would clearly illustrate their situation 
to her and the obvious solution to it. And here it was, climbing 
the stairs. 
He tried to keep the grin from his face as he tumbled back 
into bed and took Sera in his arms, slipping the quilt down just 
enough for the men bursting into the room to have an excellent 
view of one pink, naked little shoulder. 
The noise of the door almost flying off its hinges brought 
Sera awake in his arms with a jerk. She struggled to sit up, but 
Nicholas held her fast against him, keeping the quilt well over 
her breasts. 
“What is the meaning of this invasion?” he thundered at 
the gape-jawed men who stood around the bed. 
“Sire, our apologies,” stuttered Captain Oblomov, the 
soldier who had followed Sera about in Selonia. His face wore 
the look of a man who wanted to cry. He bowed stiffly, first to 
Nicholas and then to Sera, who finally grasped her situation 

and burrowed deeper beneath the quilts. The men followed 
Oblomov’s example and retreated from the room, almost falling 
over themselves in their hurry. 
Andre, giving Nicholas a fierce look, was the last to leave. 
“They’re gone,” said Nicholas as he went in search of Sera. 
He found her halfway down the great bed. “Come out,” he 
coaxed, gently tugging her up against him. “You’ll suffocate 
under there.” 
She batted his hands away, but he was insistent and stronger 
than she. When she finally surfaced, he took her into his arms 
and held her there for a long moment. 
“I’ve ruined you,” she said dully. 
He did grin, then. “I think it’s the other way around, love.” 
She shook her head against his chest. “Not with your court, 
it isn’t.” He hated the bleakness in her voice. She actually 
believed that nonsense. 
“Most members of my court are full of praise for you. 
However, it’s also true that I’ve ruined your reputation, not mine. 
I’m afraid there’s only one solution, Sera.” 
She looked so trusting, worrying her lower lip and staring 
up at him, that he had a real pang of conscience—for 
approximately an instant. 
“You’ll have to marry me, sweetheart. I believe it will take 
a few days to make all the arrangements. Obviously, we cannot 
wait much longer. The gossips will have quite enough on their 
plates when this gets out.” 
“Couldn’t we simply ask the men who entered the room 
not to speak of this?” She sat up in the bed, not even aware in 
her agitation that the quilt had dropped to her waist. Her nipples 
tightened in the room’s cold air. 
Nicholas pried his gaze off her breasts. “I’m afraid it’s too 
late for that.” He put both his arms around her and leaned toward 
the window beside the bed. Safely shielded by his back, she 
could peek out and see an entire regiment of cavalry shaking 
their heads and muttering. 
“I believe they all want to call me out for this,” said Nicholas, 
feeling extraordinarily cheerful. 
“No.” 
“Well, of course they can’t actually do so, but their faces, 
love. They’re positively grim.” 

“No, I won’t marry you.” 
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” 
“I won’t do it to you, Nicholas. Many powerful nobles 
already doubt your good sense in making me your friend. If 
you marry me, they will begin to ridicule you. A few will whisper 
that I bewitched you. Then someone will hear about your illness 
and call me a witch in all seriousness. And then you will no 
longer be safe from your own people. Believe me, I know what 
I’m talking about.” She scurried out of the bed and grabbed her 
shift, pulling it over her head. 
“How can you think for one minute that my people would 
react to you—to me—that way?” 
“Don’t treat this lightly, Nicholas. It has happened before 
to kings who were just as kind and just as clever.” She finished 
buttoning her gown as she spoke and bent to the floor to slip on 
stockings and shoes. She threw him a dressing gown and went 
to the door. 
“Hurry,” she said. “I shall wait in the next chamber while 
you dress and go below to speak to them. Perhaps they will 
accept your taking me as a mistress, Nicholas. But they will 
never accept me as their queen.” 
“Damn!” Nicholas muttered as the door quietly shut behind 
Sera. It took but a moment for him to dress and take the stairs. 
He had not expected this amount of resistance. It was evident 
that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. And she cared 
about him, damnit. She did. How long would it take to change 
her mind? 
*** 
After their return to the palace, Andre poked his head into 
Nicholas’s study late in the day. Nicholas glanced up from the 
book of jewelry illustrations he was perusing. “Where is Sera? 
Still hiding?” 
Andre shot him another of the black looks he’d been giving 
him all morning during the ride back to the palace. “She won’t 
even let Katherine in to see her. How could you do it?” 
“Oh, do let off, Andre. Even if she’d been sleeping in another 
bedroom, she would still have been utterly ruined. I simply 
wanted to clarify the issue for her.” 
Andre let out a whistle. “My God. You’re going to marry 
her.” 

“On Saturday next, to be precise. I’ve seen to most of the 
arrangements.” At Andre’s grunt, he looked up quickly. “You 
don’t disapprove of the match, do you? The people love her. 
She has an extraordinary gift, Andre. What she did for me was 
truly—well, she’ll be Laurentia’s secret weapon.” 
He grinned, full of satisfaction over the outcome of their 
adventure. 
Andre frowned. “It’s just that, well, I assumed that you 
would be more…. I don’t quite know how to say this, but it 
appears that you’re approaching your wedding without a whit 
of sentiment.” 
Nicholas raised his brows in surprise. “Obviously, I desire 
Sera. I respect her. Laurentia needs her.” He glanced down at 
his book again, then slowly raised his gaze to Andre’s perplexed 
face. “You don’t expect me to blather some poetic nonsense 
about love, do you?” 
“Something on that order might be nice for Sera to hear,” 
Andre said. 
“I wouldn’t insult her with such a lie. Kings can’t love. 
Why, what if something happened to her, and I fell apart? What 
would become of Laurentia?” 
Andre gave him a long look. “Sounds to me like you’re 
scared, Nikki.” 
“Nonsense!” He realized he was shouting. Clamping his 
mouth shut, he motioned Andre toward the desk, and pointed 
to the book. “But the necklace,” he said, keeping his voice calm 
and cool. “I can’t seem to find what I want in the Jewel Tower. 
And I want it before the opening ball.” 
Andre, apparently reluctant to accept the change of subject, 
sighed loudly enough to almost ruffle the book’s pages. “There’s 
a merchant just come to town yesterday. A jewel merchant 
reputed to have the most beautiful ruby in the world. He’s made 
discreet inquiries at the palace. Shall I arrange an interview?” 
“A ruby, eh? Yes, that might do. Something better than those 
cold, lifeless diamonds. I’d be grateful for your help, Andre. In 
the matter of the necklace, and in other things as well…Listen 
to this: ‘It follows from what we have just said that, if we are to 
keep our flock at the highest pitch of excellence, there should 
be as many unions of the best of both sexes, and as few of the 
inferior, as possible, and that only the offspring of the better 

unions should be kept.”” 
“What is that?” Andre picked up the book and flipped 
through it. With a laugh, he dropped it into Nicholas’s hands 
again. “Plato? On the getting of children? Perhaps I should have 
paid more attention to my Greek translations.” 
“It sounds as though he was proposing some kind of superior 
race—one slowly developed through time. And what do you 
make of this?” Nicholas picked up another bound volume, this 
one in Latin, and translated, “An Historical and Mythical Study 
of The Ancients. 
“‘After Alexander the Great utterly destroyed the city of 
Thebes, the Council of Athens convened, for they saw the end 
to their democracy. 
“So they sent out a colony of citizens, youths graced with 
mental and physical acuity—and maidens of high virtue and 
beauty, athletes, craftsmen, sculptors, philosophers. To these 
they gave the laws and the great works of the city. Their duty 
was to disappear from mankind, to form a perfect society in 
which greed, brutality, and all manner of baseness was seen 
no more. These men and women were never heard from again.’ 
“ 
Nicholas closed the book and stretched his legs in front of 
him, slumping back in his chair. “Would you think it lunacy to 
believe that there might be a superior race of people hiding in 
plain view of the world? That they have managed to eradicate 
‘all manner of baseness’ from their society?” 
Andre raised his brows and gave a shrug. “Perhaps it’s 
possible,” he said slowly. 
“It certainly would answer a lot of questions about Sera’s 
silence on the subject of her upbringing.” 
“A master race, you’re thinking? Is it possible? Is it even 
ethical?” 
“Whatever the ethics of the plan, the result is a rather naïve 
master race—one that knew nothing of ‘all manner of baseness’, 
judging from my reluctant betrothed. Well, perhaps I am dead 
wrong about this. By the way, my rejection of the marriage-
alliance position includes my sister, Andre. You’ll have to be 
patient and discreet until we’ve vanquished Galerien, but I 
wanted you to know my mind in this. In case you’re interested.” 
It was good to see Andre’s smile as he jumped to his feet 

and left the study. Almost as good as imagining Katherine’s 
reaction to his revelation, which, judging from Andre’s alacrity, 
ought to happen in a few minutes, thought Nicholas. 
He settled into his chair and picked up the old volume of 
Plato again. What a shame he didn’t have a council to decree 
that Sera arrive in the abbey on Saturday dressed like a bride. 
Just how the hell did a man get a supremely stubborn woman to 
marry him? 
Nicholas was still pondering the question late that night. 
He lay in his big state bed, staring at the green velvet tester with 
the golden crown above his head. Sera hadn’t appeared at dinner, 
even though he’d sent her a no-nonsense invitation that 
Katherine had slipped beneath her door. He was beginning to 
worry. Had he pushed too hard? 
How long would it take Sera to accept her fate? He hoped 
he’d gotten her with child. It would certainly simplify matters. 
He sighed, looking at the door in the wall that he opened every 
night after his valet left him in peace. 
And there she was. Her hair flowed down her back in 
lustrous waves the way he liked it best. Her bare feet peeked 
out from beneath the folds of the dressing gown she wore. 
Nicholas rose swiftly and came to her, taking her in his 
arms, closing his eyes in relief. She was so soft, and she smelled 
so good. She rubbed her cheek against his bare chest, and he 
made a low sound of satisfaction. 
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked, and Nicholas suddenly 
remembered that he wore nothing but his trousers. 
“Not now.” He smiled into her hair. “Come to bed.” 
She nodded and slipped her arms around his neck like a 
trusting child. He swung her up in his arms and crossed the 
chilly floor to the bed. 
“I have to tell you something,” she said as he laid her on 
the mattress. 
“All right.” Suddenly, he was afraid. With a few well-
meaning words, she could shatter him. He stalled for time, 
changing the subject as he joined her on the bed. “Your feet are 
frozen. Why didn’t you wear your slippers?” 
“I didn’t know I was going to come until I was halfway up 
the stairs. I couldn’t sleep, and I wanted you, and, well, then it 
all seemed simple.” 

He rubbed the shapely little blocks of ice and made them 
warm again. 
“Oh, that feels lovely.” 
“Come under the covers. I’ll make you warm all over.” He 
kissed her cheek, right at the tender spot below her ear, and 
trailed kisses down her neck, wondering what accident of fate 
had placed this precious gift within his keeping. 
“When you do that I can’t think,” she said, rubbing up 
against him. 
“Good.” He opened the tie at her waist and slipped the 
dressing gown down her shoulders, following its slide with his 
lips. He didn’t want her objections to the marriage, not now, 
when her limbs opened to embrace him. He fought for a 
modicum of control. It was important to resist the urge to drown 
in the depths of that tenderness she offered with such generosity. 
It was she, not he, who needed to be convinced they belonged 
together. “Let’s keep you that way,” he said, and bent to her, 
reveling in the challenge. 
Afterwards, he braced his arms to either side of her, 
breathing so hard he thought his lungs might burst of it. He was 
pleased to see she was doing the same. When he found the energy 
to move, he rolled onto his side and drew her close, one arm 
clasped possessively around her. 
When had he become so entwined with Sera that a mere 
distance of inches would leave him bereft? He frowned. 
Tomorrow, he would think about it. Right now, she felt too good 
to let her go. 
Sera lay beside him, her head upon his shoulder. She 
contemplated the tester for some time, and then, on a sigh, she 
rolled to face him. 
“It is very strong, this feeling, isn’t it?” 
“Yes.” He stroked the damp, golden curls back from her 
face, dropped his hand to her waist and traveled up the arch of 
her back. 
“What is it that happens between us, Nicholas? Is this what 
mating is like always?” 
“No. There is satisfaction, but not this wrenching 
completion.” 
“I have to tell you something.” 
“Even now?” What could compel her that was stronger than 

what had just happened between them? He tried to push back 
the worry, but it nagged like a petulant shrew. 
“Especially now.” She paused to take a deep breath. “I love 
you. It’s been growing inside, since Selonia, I think and then in 
the hunting box, when I was so afraid for you…. I’m so filled 
with what I feel. I thought I must burst if I didn’t tell you.” 
His hand stilled. He thought the whole earth might have 
done the same. 
Her face was radiant in the firelight, and in her eyes—those 
deep, dark pools a man could drown in—her soul shone. “I 
don’t need for you to love me back, Nicholas. And I want to 
stay with you for as long as you’ll have me. I hope it makes you 
happy.” 
Her face, tremulous and luminescent in the light of the 
candles, humbled him. He had never seen anything the like of 
her naked joy, except perhaps…. 
A vision rose, of a palace and people everywhere, grown 
men and women in fine clothing. He was a small boy, brought 
to Beaureve by his father to sign the betrothal papers and stand, 
solemn and straight beside the cradle of the little princess. Her 
mother, the queen, had looked at her father and said, “I love 
you, Stephan.” Just that, but the look on her face as she said it, 
the same incandescent joy that had shone there had made 
something in him quiver with an intense yearning to someday 
have what they shared. As the years passed, he had forgotten 
those words, that look, except in dreams that became only a 
warm blur upon waking. 
“I love you,” the queen had said—Sera had said. 
“Oh, God.” He took her face in his hands and traced the 
contour of her cheeks, thought that if the curls springing from 
her temples were black as a raven’s wing, and not gold…. 
And knew the secret of Sera, and who she was, at last. 
Catherine Elizabeth Seraphina Galerien, daughter of King 
Stephan and Marissa, the queen from the Hills that some called 
witch. His little lost princess of Beaureve. His betrothed. 
He bent to her and shut his eyes against the salty sting. He 
laid his kisses on her cheeks, her mouth, and rested her head 
against his throat so she wouldn’t see that he knew. 
She was deathly afraid of Anatole Galerien. 
Her uncle. 

The stories for all these years of the sickly princess 
languishing in a convent were Galerien’s lies. And he had 
believed them, not caring, as long as Laurentia was served by 
an alliance his father had continued with Beaureve after King 
Stephan’s death. 
A deep sorrow rose in Nicholas, for all the lonely nights 
she must have spent in Laurentia, fearful and isolated with her 
secrets, while an Outlander king kept her imprisoned for his 
own designs. Sera might believe she loved him, but she didn’t 
trust him to keep her safe. Of course, after seeing him so ill, 
how could she believe he was capable of protecting her? He 
didn’t believe it, himself. 
Nicholas rocked Sera in his arms, soothing her with his 
hands, rubbing them up and down her back. She loved him, did 
she? It was wonderful. It moved him like nothing else had in 
his life. He wished he could tell her he loved her, too. But not 
now. 
A king couldn’t afford to love. 
He couldn’t let love weaken him at time like this. He had to 
rid his country of the Brotherhood, and then go after Galerien. 
He had to make his country safe, to keep Sera safe. Then she’d 
know, at least, that she could trust him. In the meantime, he 
would use every Rostov trick in the book to bind her to him. 
“Someday, Sera. . .” he whispered. 
Maybe someday, he could permit himself to love her. 
His hand covered her breast. Her eyes flew open, but he 
gave her a teasing smile and fondled her nipple. When he took 
it in his mouth, she gasped and shut her eyes, undulating like 
silk ribbon in a soft breeze. 
He teased her until she was mad with it. Until she said 
“Please.” Oh, yes. He would hold her with this. 
*** 
Well before the sun streamed through his window next 
morning, Nicholas carried Sera down the stairway and laid her 
on her bed. He shut the door in the wall behind him and thought 
about how much easier life would be when she was his wife. 
He would make a new edict so she didn’t have to sleep anywhere 
but in his bed. 
He spent the early morning finalizing plans for an attack 
on the Brotherhood base with his aides and Andre. He put young 

Oblomov in charge of the troops, and he gave Carlsohnn 
permission to draw up a plan of attack based on what he had 
learned spying out the base. 
“We won’t fail you, Sire,” said Oblomov. Since learning of 
the upcoming marriage, both had served him with renewed 
enthusiasm. 
They were so eager and so young, thought Nicholas, until 
he realized with a start that both men were a year older than he. 
He glanced at the paperwork and decisions that had piled up 
during the last few days. Well, perhaps he had always felt old, 
until now. Nicholas called his secretary into the room and turned 
to Andre, who stood by his side as the others left. 
“Sera will need a new gown for her wedding. I want her to 
choose the fabric. Perhaps it will give her some small feeling of 
control over what is happening to her. She likes Carlsohnn’s 
father. Would you mind accompanying her and Katherine into 
the city this morning with a few of the guards? I don’t want her 
alone for a moment outside the palace with those jackals so 
near Montanyard.” 
“Of course.” Andre gave him a grateful smile. “I want all 
the time I can get with Katherine.” 
Nicholas tried to work but found his thoughts straying back 
to the night before. A tidal wave of happiness washed over him, 
taking him with it. Sera said she loved him. She promised to 
stay with him. Shaking himself mentally, Nicholas returned to 
his task with renewed concentration, reviewing the plans for 
attack on the Brotherhood base. 
A discreet knock on the door jolted him out of his thoughts. 
A footman ushered in a small, thin shadow of a man with a 
scraggly brown beard and amber eyes, tugging at the hat in his 
hand. The fellow was dressed in a bedraggled velvet coat and 
frayed lace. He glanced unsteadily, furtively, from one corner 
of the study to another, with the look of a hunted outlaw. 
“The merchant, Sire.” The footman bowed and closed the 
door behind him. 
“Something to drink on this cold afternoon?” asked 
Nicholas. 
“Aye. Spirits, if you please.” 
Nicholas poured brandy, never ceasing until he reached the 
top of the glass. He pushed the glass across the desk until it 

reached the other side. 
The merchant lifted the glass. His hands were trembling so 
much that the brandy slopped over the sides. 
“Would you care to sit?” Nicholas asked gently. 
“That’s very kind of ye’,” said the merchant, lowering 
himself into a deep cushioned chair. He picked up the glass and 
tried again, this time making the distance to his mouth and 
swallowing a deep draught of brandy. “Oh, my that is good,” 
he sighed. 
“I understand you’re in possession of a rather unusual 
stone,” said Nicholas in an encouraging voice. 
“Aye, that I am. I’ll be honest with yer majesty. I must leave 
this country fast. There are those who look for me that I dursn’t 
meet again. The ruby’s all I have left to trade, for I’ve been 
paying those that’ll shield me for months now. T’was more in 
the manner of a reward I left for them to find, mind ye, than 
payment up front. They’re kind, your people, and I was bringin’ 
them danger. 
“I’ll not lie to you,” he went on. “I must be off across the 
border today if I’m to live healthy. I need money to cross and to 
make my way west through Russia what with all those Frogs 
and the Russian army, too. I hope ye’ll like the stone enough to 
buy it. That’s all.” The merchant had trouble with the knots on 
the pouch holding the jewel. 
“May I?” Nicholas held out his hand. The merchant nodded 
and dropped the pouch into his palm. 
Nicholas drew out the ruby and laid it on the desk. He looked 
at it for a long time. 
“Yes,” he said, pulling a brace of candles closer as he stared 
into the fiery depths of the stone. It was mesmerizing, changing 
constantly, giving off sparks of rosy light almost like living fire. 
It tugged at his heart with a mystical power. He had never looked 
at anything inanimate before and given a judgment to it other 
than to say, “This is beautiful,” or “This is unpleasing.” 
But the stone had a soul. 
“It is exactly what I wish,” Nicholas said. “How much do 
you want for it?” 
The merchant named a sum, and Nicholas immediately 
wrote out a bank draft. “You know,” he said, handing the draft 
to the merchant. “You’re welcome here for as long as you wish 

to stay. I could get you out of Laurentia in two weeks with a 
diplomatic mission heavily surrounded by a troop of cavalry.” 
The merchant tugged at his hat again. “That’s kind of you, 
Sire, but I can’t risk it. If ye don’t mind, I’ll let myself out and 
gather my things together at the inn.” He deposited the bank 
draft deep into the pocket of his coat. Nicholas rose. 
“I’ll tell the guards to admit you again should you change 
your mind.” 
“Thank ye, Sire. It’s very good to me you’ve been, and all 
your people. I don’t deserve it, but I’ll not forget it, either.” 
“Good luck to you, man,” said Nicholas. 
“I fear my luck has run out,” said the merchant with a hollow 
laugh. “But ye can always hope.” The man bowed his way out 
of the study. 
Nicholas opened his hand. The ruby lay warm against his 
palm. Had he been fanciful, he would have thought the haunted 
merchant unfit to carry this stone. But the ruby would grace 
Sera’s throat now. Who better than Sera to wear a jewel that 
aroused such joy? 
Nicholas called for Monsieur Laliche, the court jeweler. “I 
need this by tonight. Surround the stone with diamonds,” he 
said. “But don’t cut away even the smallest amount of it. It’s 
perfect just as it is.” 
*** 
When Andre proposed their shopping trip for her bridal 
gown, Sera panicked. “I don’t want to,” she said in a voice that 
wavered like a child’s. Where was Nicholas? She needed to 
remind him of all the reasons why he shouldn’t marry her. 
“Every bride needs a wedding gown,” Katherine insisted. 
“Come along. We need to get to Carlsohnn’s and then return 
again for your first fitting.” 
Edmund Carlsohnn did not make it any easier for Sera. He 
had already heard through the capital’s intricate grapevine that 
she and the king were to marry very soon. By the time they 
reached his shop, yards of white lace and creamy silks and 
brocades lay upon the cutting table at the back of the shop, and 
Monsieur Carlsohnn stood behind it with a delighted expression 
on his face, rubbing his hands together. 
“I cannot tell you what an honor—Lady Sera, our good 
wishes for joy and happiness. All of us in town, we’re ever so 

pleased.” 
Sera, helpless against such kindness, could only give her 
thanks in what she hoped was a gracious tone of voice. She 
stood at the cutting table, leaving all the decisions to Andre and 
Katherine. Everything was moving too quickly, and she was 
filled with such uncertainty. 
She vaguely heard the sound of the shop’s bell behind her 
and turned her head to see who had entered. A man shut the 
door, his back to her, a gray cloak covering his broad shoulders. 
Then he turned, and she saw his long blond braid hanging well 
below his shoulders. He fingered a piece of silk laid on the 
front counter and Sera froze. The man looked directly into her 
eyes. 
Jacob Augustus had come at last. She wanted to run to him, 
throw her arms around him, and ask him a million questions. 
But Jacob gave a swift glance sideways at her two companions 
and their guards. He bent again to the material, his dear, calm 
face perusing the frivolous ribbons as though they were the most 
important things in the world. 
Jacob looked up a moment later and held her gaze. He 
nodded once and turned, leaving the shop. The bell trilled, the 
only proof that Jacob had, indeed, been there. She knew he’d 
be able to find her. She need only get away. Her hands trembled 
as she lifted the brocade to touch its delicate flowered pattern. 
“This will do nicely, I think,” she said. Her voice sounded 
breathless to her own ears. Andre gave her a strange look, but 
she was too filled with new joy, new worries, to care. “And the 
lace for the veil. That will be lovely. Shall we return to the 
palace? It’s a beautiful day, and I haven’t ridden for such a long 
time.” 
“But I thought we’d stop at Mrs. Torville’s,” protested 
Katherine. “I purposely ate only a piece of toast for breakfast, 
anticipating a cream puff. Could you not put off the ride until 
later this afternoon?” 
“I have an excellent idea,” said Sera, mad with the need to 
see Jacob again. “Why not send me back to the palace in a 
carriage? Then you and Andre can go on for pastry.” 
“That will not do at all,” said Andre quite firmly. “I shall 
accompany you both to the palace. Then perhaps Katherine and 
I will return to town.” 

“Thank you so much, Monsieur Carlsohnn,” Sera said, 
gathering her reticule and gloves. “We must leave, now. Ready, 
Katherine? Here, let me help you with your cloak.” Her fingers 
managed the buttons, even shaking a little. 
She walked beside Katherine wishing they had taken the 
carriage, hating the time passing before she could see Jacob 
again. She cursed the Outlander rules that made her run back to 
her room and change into a riding habit before she could mount 
Wind Rider and head into the park to find him. 
The park, on this bleak December day, was deserted. As 
Sera rode up the gentle rise far from the stables, she saw Jacob 
Augustus standing beside Lightning, his mount, a few hundred 
feet ahead. She didn’t have to nudge Wind Rider forward. He 
whinnied once at the bay horse that had been his companion 
and sped toward him in a pounding gallop. They surged up the 
rise where Jacob waited and Sera came to a halt before him, 
jumping from Wind Rider and throwing her arms about his neck. 
“Oh, I have despaired of ever seeing you again. How is it 
that only now you’ve come? Did you know where I was from 
the beginning?” 
“Grandfather wouldn’t let me come until those vermin 
attacked you.” 
Sera lowered her eyes. “Does he hate me, then, for being 
such a fool?” 
Jacob hugged her again. “No, of course not. He will explain 
everything to you as soon as I get you home.” 
“Home? But I—I can’t go home, Jacob.” 
He looked at her as though she’d suddenly sprouted two 
heads. “You cannot be happy here, Sera. They are so stupid, so 
venal. Why, I have been here for less than a day, and I cannot 
breathe in their foul city.” 
“It is better than many others, Jacob, and Nicholas will only 
make it better as time goes on,” she said, stung by his criticism. 
“Nicholas is such a good man. You would like him. Grandfather 
would like him. Come, you must meet him. We can help him so 
much.” 
Jacob gave her a piercing look. “You have allowed yourself 
to become… involved with this Outlander king, haven’t you?” 
She squared her shoulders. “I love him, Jacob.” 
“Love. An Outlander word. Oh, gods, it’s as bad as it was 

with your mother.” 
Why was everything going so badly? She had been so 
happy, and now Jacob was growing angry and shocked by her 
new loyalties, as well. “Do not be so certain we Arkadians know 
everything. There are things we have lost in order to keep 
harmony amongst ourselves,” Sera said quietly. 
Jacob gave her an impatient look and said, “We have no 
time to quarrel. The thief has come to Montanyard. If you wish 
to keep the cliffs open, we must find his lodgings and go to 
him. Together, we can persuade him to give us the Heart of 
Fire.” 
“Yes,” she said. “Oh, Jacob, if the cliffs will stay open, I 
can return. I can bring Nicholas and Katherine. You would see 
then that there are good things about these Outlanders.” 
He gave her an abrupt nod. “The city is filled with frivolous, 
demanding aristocrats who come and go through the palace gate. 
Return your horse to the stable and slip away. I shall meet you 
beyond the gate, and we shall go to his inn to retrieve the ruby.” 
“Yes,” she said and mounted Wind Rider, turning one last 
time to plead with him. “Jacob, come now to the palace with 
me. You could meet them, help them. Please.” 
He shook his head. “My only concern is to bring you home 
safe. If that means retrieving the Heart of Fire with you, I shall 
do so. But that is all. I plan to leave the Outlanders to their 
tantrums and their self-destruction, Sera. And you will wish to 
do the same, after you have been back with your people and 
used right reason again.” 
*** 
Anatole Galerien paced in his study. His hands were on 
fire, his stomach was tied in so many knots that he could no 
longer eat or drink without pain. The door swung open gently, 
and Count Laslow stood before him, only his eyes visible above 
the black cape. Laslow seemed more and more a specter, but 
the king no longer cared with what kind of man he dealt. He 
was too furious at the cursed luck of his enemies. 
“Why didn’t you bring me the girl’s head? It was a simple 
matter, from the dispatches I have read.” 
Laslow inclined his head. “A blizzard sprang up in the midst 
of the battle.” 
“What battle?” screamed Galerien. “There were two of them 

against ten of yours—isn’t that correct?” 
“Rostov carried firearms. He picked my men off as they 
attacked. And then no one could see a thing. The two men left 
almost froze to death, but luck was with them. They chanced 
upon a farmhouse and disposed of the family living there.” 
“So they ate and drank while Rostov and the girl returned 
to the palace.” 
“They were surrounded by a squadron of cavalry. But the 
thief has arrived in Montanyard. Tonight is the eve of a palace 
ball ushering in the Christmas Season. With all the confusion, 
my men have had no trouble slipping into Montanyard. Even 
as we speak, they are at the thief’s inn. You’ll have the ruby and 
the location of the cliffs into Arkadia shortly. You can deal with 
the other two after you have conquered Arkadia. Unless, of 
course, you wish to end your association with us?” 
Something about the rasp of Laslow’s hollow voice gave 
Galerien pause. He had fed this band of cutthroats until they 
were an army. Should they turn against him, he would never 
sleep safe in his bed again. 
“No. Bring me the ruby, and I’ll make you my representative 
on the throne of Laurentia, just as I promised.” 
“Very well.” Laslow bowed and turned to go. 
“Count.” Galerian said, and Laslow turned again to face 
him. 
“In a few days, you are to stage an all-out attack on Laurentia 
while I take the army to Arkadia. Gather your men together at 
the base. Begin to plan the details.” 
“No,” Laslow said. “There’s a chance that the base has been 
discovered. I must diversify our troops, not call them together 
in one place.” 
Galerien knew that the time had come to use the secret 
weapon he held over the count. “I have a list with the names of 
every man you have recruited. If you don’t obey me, I shall rid 
myself of every member of your organization, and his family, 
as well. Think carefully. Which will it be? A little courage now 
will gain you a throne.” 
Laslow’s eyes were cold as ice. Galerien fought against the 
shudder that threatened to course through him, standing tall and 
narrowing his own eyes into a look that meant instant death. 
“Very well,” said Laslow. “Beware that you don’t lose all 

in the winning of this point.” 
*** 
Sera crept up the dark, narrow stairway of the Black Bear 
after Jacob. The old inn, surrounded by warehouses and 
businesses now empty at this late hour, was located near the 
posting house at the northwestern outskirts of Montanyard. 
“Which way?” she whispered as they reached the third 
floor’s uneven landing. 
“To the left. The second door down.” 
“But the innkeeper told you this man was as thin as a wraith. 
That does not sound like the thief.” 
“He has been running for the last three months. Constant 
terror and uneven meals can change a man.” 
They stood before the door. Sera took a deep breath. All 
the last months had led to this, finally. 
Jacob pushed the door open and walked into the darkened 
room. Sera followed at his heels, only to bang into his back 
when he suddenly stopped short. She peered over his shoulder 
and stared in horror at the scene before her. The thief was 
strapped to a chair, covered in blood from wounds all over his 
body. Jacob turned and herded her out the door. 
“Gods, who would do such a thing to him?” she whispered, 
gagging. “His eyes, oh heavens, did you see? They cut out his 
eyes.” 
“I know, I know.” Jacob had his arm around her, holding 
her upright. “From the look of it, they enjoyed their work. Will 
you be all right here? I am going back in to see what else I can 
find.” 
“I’ll come with you,” she said, afraid to remain in the dark, 
narrow hall. “If they are hiding behind some doorway, if they 
return….” 
“No,” said Jacob. “They have been gone for several hours. 
Wait for me here. I do not wish you to enter this room again.” 
Jacob shut the door after him. She stood alone in the gloom, 
growing more fretful as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the door 
opened and Jacob ushered her down the stairway and out the 
front door. 
The cold air hit them. Jacob took a deep, angry breath, like 
a man in need of cleansing his lungs. “So many against one 
man. He must have stolen something here—from a nobleman, 

or perhaps a member of the royal family. Is this how your king 
conducts an interrogation?” 
She felt her spine stiffen. “Nicholas would never treat 
another human being that way, not even his worst enemy. It 
was the Brotherhood. They have infiltrated Laurentia all the 
way to Montanyard. We must help him, Jacob.” 
“You are a little fool, Sera.” Jacob steered her into an alcove 
where there was some small shelter from the biting wind. “Face 
facts. You put Arkadia in danger when you brought the thief 
past the cliffs. You rode out into this carnage alone, unschooled 
in the arts that would keep you safe. Do you think we can trust 
this Rostov with our secrets any more than we could trust 
Galerien?” 
“He is nothing like Galerien!” 
“Look at you, clothed in lace and furs yet shivering in the 
freezing wind. You have lived with this corruption for so long, 
your judgment is clouded.” Jacob’s eyes burned into her soul. 
“Your oath on it, Sera. Not a word to Rostov or any other 
Outlander. About the Heart of Fire, about Arkadia, about me. 
Do you understand me? On your sacred honor, not a word.” 
Sera shook her head numbly. “You cannot know what you 
ask, or you would never ask it.” 
Jacob’s face was stern and implacable. “The oath, Sera, for 
the good of your country.” 
The blood seemed to seep from her veins, leaving her 
insubstantial as a dead leaf hanging by a thread from a bare 
branch. She took a deep breath. “By the gods and the sacred 
One they represent, I shall never break trust in these matters 
even under threat of death, imprisonment, or loss of all that is 
dear to me.” The formal words that had kept Arkadia safe in 
times of upheaval came out in a bare whisper. 
Jacob nodded, and his expression softened. “You will come 
with me tomorrow, safe and warm in a plain gray Hill cloak.” 
“I cannot leave them.” She felt her soul rip itself in two and 
almost cried out with the pain of it. 
“Listen to me. The Heart of Fire is gone. In little more than 
a week, the cliffs will close for good. I shall not argue this matter 
longer. Tomorrow morning I return to Arkadia, and you will go 
with me. Otherwise, you’ll never see home again.” 
“Jacob.” She clung to his hand. “If I go, I shall never see 

Nicholas again. You have to understand, to tell Grandfather.” 
Jacob drew her back into the streets filled with merchants 
closing their shops and hurrying home, heads lowered against 
the wind. 
He walked beside her through this crowd of humanity until 
they reached the square leading up to the palace. Drawing her 
aside beneath an archway where they couldn’t be seen, he said, 
“I shall come to the palace tomorrow at dawn. I shall wait 
beneath your window. Come to me then, Sera.” 
She nodded stiffly and hurried across the square and past 
the gate. She ran up the stairway and through the great doors, 
into the light and the warmth of Nicholas’s home. 
*** 
Someone rapped sharply on his chamber door an hour 
before the ball’s opening. As Nicholas finished fastening a ruby 
stickpin into his white cravat, Simson, the valet, opened the 
door and Andre burst in. Simson returned to his side with the 
long brocade court vest. 
With a sharp look at Andre, Nicholas took it from him. 
“Thank you, Simson. That will be all.” The valet bowed and 
slipped quietly out the door. 
“Nicholas, I must speak to you at once.” Andre’s face was 
red and his hair looked even more windblown than usual. He 
had obviously just ridden hard from wherever he had been. “You 
do remember our conversation about the possibility of a superior 
society.” 
“Of course.” 
“It’s true. I’ve just run into one of them, and the experience 
was not pleasant.” 
Andre opened the door and called to a footman. “Brandy 
and two glasses. Hurry, man.” Nicholas sat down slowly and 
motioned Andre to a chair. The footman arrived and poured 
both glasses. Andre took his at a gulp, motioned for more, and 
dismissed the servant. 
“You’d know him right away. A veritable colossus of a man, 
and absolutely perfect in form and feature. I swear to you, he 
could have posed for those damned statues in the hall. Long 
blonde hair in a que over one shoulder—very broad shoulders, 
indeed. Tall, taller than you. And as beautiful as Sera. His eyes 
are the same dramatic blue as hers.” 

Nicholas raised the glass to his lips and swallowed the 
burning liquid down. “What was he doing here?” 
“Looking for Sera. He came into the draper’s and stood 
there for a minute. They looked at each other, and then he left. 
Afterwards, Sera was almost giddy with excitement and eager 
to be off. I followed her as soon as I got her and Katherine back 
to the palace. She rode out to the bluffs, halfway into the park. 
He was waiting.” 
“And then?” Nicholas felt the dread rise in him. He poured 
another brandy. Andre took the bottle and filled his own glass. 
“I came close enough to watch them. I hid in the brush.” 
Andre looked away. “She—she embraced him.” 
Nicholas tightened his hand on the glass until his knuckles 
turned white. 
“They talked, got into some kind of argument, I think, but 
one of those very civilized ones, where there’s no shouting. I 
couldn’t hear a word of it. Then Sera rode away.” 
“She didn’t embrace him again? Or did she. . .” He choked 
on the word. “Did she kiss him?” 
“No. He watched her go. She returned her horse to the 
stables and slipped past the guards into Montanyard, where she 
met the man before.” Andre cleared his throat and stared down 
at his dusty boots. “They went to an inn together,” he said 
woodenly. 
Nicholas felt something icy and sharp slice through his belly. 
“How long….” He swallowed hard. “How long did they stay?” 
“Barely fifteen minutes. She looked white as a sheet when 
she came out, and the man’s face was grim. They hurried back 
to the palace. I followed, and I got close enough to hear their 
plans when they paused at the stone wall beside the gates. He 
plans to meet her tomorrow. At dawn. Then she left him and 
glided back inside the gate without attracting notice.” 
“I trailed the man back to the cliffs and made myself known 
to him. God, you should have seen the look on his face. A bit of 
amusement, a lot of contempt. 
“‘What do you want with the king’s betrothed?’ I said. He 
just smiled, a sort of flicker of the lips and the brows, as though 
he was considering whether to lower himself and reply. 
“He looked me over from head to toe the way one does an 
unruly child. ‘Let the king try to wed her,’ he said. I drew my 

sword, Nicholas. I thought to protect her, to protect you. And 
he laughed. He actually laughed at me. 
“‘Such a pity about you Outlanders,’ he said. ‘Violence is 
always the first choice, is it not?’” 
Andre shivered and rose to stand by the fire, rubbing his 
shoulders and arms. 
“And then?” Nicholas demanded. 
“Somehow, I—I dropped my sword. My arm went numb, 
and my fingers must have opened. The sword just slipped out 
of my hands.” Andre’s hand trembled as he looked at it. “Then 
he raised the hood of his cloak. And he disappeared. I swear by 
all that’s holy. He disappeared.” 
Nicholas took a long swallow of brandy and rose, staring 
at the fire. “Whatever she did with this man, she’ll tell me 
about… eventually.” 
“Unless she leaves with him first.” 
The glass crashed into the fireplace. “She won’t leave me! 
She gave me her word.” He closed his eyes and gathered himself 
together. “She’s never gone back on her word. Never.” 
Andre’s eyes flicked to the silver jeweler’s case sitting on 
Nicholas’s desk. “Don’t give her the ruby tonight.” Andre’s 
mouth, usually so apt to smile, was set, stubborn. 
Nicholas grabbed up the case, holding it so tightly that the 
edges pressed painfully into his palm. Fifteen minutes. Enough 
time for the man to—to…. 
He’d said it, himself. What was love without trust? She had 
said she loved him. He had to at least try to trust her. 
“I see no reason to alter my plans.” 
“Postpone the wedding for a week or two. You want to be 
sure of her.” 
No, no, no. Nicholas’s heart beat out the rhythm in his chest. 
“No matter what you believe, Andre, I know she is faithful. In 
two days, she’ll be my wife.” 

Thirteen 
In a turmoil of gnawing anxiety, Sera bathed and dressed. 
She tried very hard to keep the horrifying image of the dead 
thief out of her mind, but it kept returning and, with it, Jacob’s 
warnings. 
But Jacob was not using right reason. Nicholas would never 
brutalize another man. 
Except for Dawson, something whispered in her mind. 
Dawson’s face had been battered and bloodied at the end of the 
fight between the two of them. 
She clenched her hands together, straining against the 
niggling doubt that Jacob had placed in her mind. Dawson’s 
case was different. Nicholas had gone a little mad seeing Dawson 
in the process of raping her. It was understandable, even though 
no Hillman would react with such violence. But a Hillman would 
have other means at his disposal to stop violence. All the 
Outlanders had by way of defense was more violence. 
She went to her window and looked out at the stars, seeking 
peace. Her fan’s staccato rhythm tapping against her hand told 
her she had not found it. A soft knock sounded at the door to the 
secret stairway, and it slid open. Then Nicholas stood behind 
her, pulling her against him. She let go of all thought, all struggle, 
and felt only his warmth, the strong arms encompassing her, 
the rise and fall of his chest at her back. She leaned back and let 
herself relax against him. 
After a long moment, she turned in his arms and looked up 
at him, hoping for reassurance in the form of a kiss. He did not 
disappoint her. It was soft and sweet, as though he, too, had 
decided to savor every moment and leave thought until the 
morrow. 
“You look very beautiful tonight. This gown…” His fingers 
slid over her shoulders above cream-colored silk and lace, and 
her whole body responded blindly. It had been thus for her since 
their return from Nicholas’s hunting box. She walked about in 
a haze of heightened sensuality, remembering the secret, wicked 
things he did to her in the dark, where no one could see. Now 
all he had to do was touch her, and her body readied for him. 
She was in thrall to Nicholas like the most bespelled lady in a 

fairy tale. 
She didn’t want to think about Jacob now. 
She concentrated on Nicholas’s smile. Oh, his smile made 
his whole face change. Everyone said that Andre was the 
handsome one, the golden, careless Adonis. But Nicholas was 
beautiful, in the way the paintings of Renaissance princes were 
beautiful. Dark, brilliant, passionate. 
He held out a silver jewelry box wrapped with a gold ribbon. 
“Open it,” he said. 
She held the box in her hand, and Jacob’s words came back 
to her, wringing her heart. “Look at you, dressed in lace and 
furs.…” If he could see her now, ready to don jewels as well, he 
would turn away from her in sorrow. 
She fumbled with the ribbon, and Nicholas took the box 
from her hand. 
“Come.” He led her to a mirror. 
“Shut your eyes,” he said, and she heard both gaiety and 
something slightly fevered in his voice. 
A chain slipped round her neck and a heavy jewel hung 
against her collarbone. Nicholas’s hands were warm and gentle 
at the back of her neck as he fit the clasp together. 
“Now open them,” he said. 
She opened her eyes and stared at the woman in the mirror. 
That woman wore a necklace of fine craftsmanship, a chain of 
ruby flowers and diamond leaves from which hung a single, 
priceless jewel circled by diamonds. 
The key to a kingdom of riches and magic. 
The Heart of Fire. 
The murdered thief’s treasure. 
“Where did you get this?” she whispered in a voice so thin 
she didn’t even recognize it as her own. She had to hold her 
hands together to keep them from fluttering like parchment in 
the wind. 
His eyes held only confusion at her question. Above the 
turmoil rushing through her brain, Sera realized that this was 
not the reaction he had hoped from her. 
“A merchant asked for an audience while we were gone. I 
saw him this morning, and he showed me the ruby.” His fingers 
lifted the stone, and he looked into its depths, smiling. “It’s 
warm, ever changing, brilliant and alive. It reminded me of you.” 

He slanted a shy look at her. His eyes couldn’t hide the 
vulnerability, the worry and, above all, the innocence that lay 
within their gray depths. “The jeweler has been working on it 
all day. I know it’s not the custom for your people to wear such 
things, but I thought…I wanted you to have something good 
enough. Do you care for it a little?” 
He stood there, something endearingly hesitant about the 
way he looked at her. She took a deep breath, the first she’d 
taken since that unworthy suspicion entered her mind. He would 
never torture and murder a man, she thought. 
He only hoped to give me a treasure. 
And, she realized with sudden shock, to make good his 
promise and quiet the cruel speculation and lascivious gossip. 
He had given her a necklace so valuable that none would doubt 
he meant to make her his wife. That calculating Rostov brain, 
hard at work again. 
She wanted to laugh—a high, wild, hysterical bout of relief. 
Yet her heart wrenched at the irony of it all. The Heart of Fire, 
the very key to her freedom, was now the lodestone that would 
bind her to this man, and this world, forever. She stood on tiptoes, 
threw her arms around his neck, and, as it was all she could 
reach, brushed kisses on his chin. Nicholas gave a faint, relieved 
exhalation, like a man who wanted to believe his luck but could 
not quite do so. He lowered his head and covered her lips with 
his. 
Sera threw all of her love into the kiss and felt his joyous 
response, the warm mingling of breath and spirit as his mouth 
played over hers. He deepened the kiss, and as his tongue slipped 
into her mouth and tasted her, she accepted his claim on her 
soul and lost herself in him. Her body opened and hungered as 
she clung to him, forgetting the expectant courtiers gathering at 
this moment. The passion he aroused was so sharp and deep 
and joyful. 
When at last he lifted his head, he was smiling, and his face 
was young and beautiful. “You do like it!” he said. 
“More than you can imagine.” Her path was clear now, and 
if fear and violence were the price to pay for this deep a love, 
then so be it. She would never doubt—she would never fear— 
Nicholas again. 
He traced the curve of her cheek with his fingers, and she 

leaned into the palm of his hand. 
“Sera.” Nicholas looked at her most gravely. He seemed 
about to ask her something of serious import, but then he took 
a deep breath. Fast as quicksilver, his expression lightened, and 
his lips quirked. “Have you been working with Monsieur 
Gallopet as I begged you?” 
She smiled up at him. “Once I give a promise, Nicholas, I 
never break it. I have seen that effete, self-promoting humbug 
of a dance master every day since we returned to Laurentia.” 
“Have you learned the steps of the Quadrille?” 
She gave him a grimace. “Each and every one.” 
“Excellent.” He held out his hand to her. “Then, my most 
diligent lady, may I have the honor of the first dance?” 
Nicholas wished to open the ball with her as his partner, as 
sure a sign as the ruby around her neck that she was his 
betrothed. She felt the heat rise to her cheeks, and a giddy 
excitement filled her. She gave him a deep, graceful curtsey. 
“Most gladly, my king.” 
Leave caution behind, she challenged herself. You are no 
longer alone. 
*** 
Late in the night, Nicholas took the stairway to Sera’s room 
smiling. He was right to take the risk and trust her. She had 
made him so proud and happy this evening. She glowed with 
an inner fire that warmed everyone who saw her, and when she 
looked at him he knew she burned for him, alone. 
To see all of the courtiers bow deeply as soon as he entered 
with Sera on his arm had been a singular satisfaction, for they 
bowed not only to him, but to the woman who wore his necklace. 
He had set about the rumor that Sera had saved his life in 
the Brotherhood’s ambush, and the nobility had been suitably 
impressed. Although he wanted to disclose his illness and the 
fact that she had nursed him back to health, Sera had refused to 
allow it. She had a terrible fear of Outlander mistrust, and no 
wonder, given what her mother had endured. 
All of it made sense now—her inexplicable abilities, her 
fears, her nightmares, even her extraordinary beauty. He was 
filled with excitement and dreams. Someday, when he rid his 
country of the Brotherhood’s evil incursions, Sera might trust 
him enough to tell him everything. Above all, he wanted to go 

to the Hills with her, to meet the Mage, to learn everything he 
could about this land of mystery. If the Mage found him worthy, 
he might help find a way to keep his country safe from the 
French. 
He paused in the open doorway to her chamber. She stood 
facing him. Above the graceful curve of her shoulders, the 
necklace at her throat glittered in the light of the candelabrum. 
But what held the eye was the ruby, its facets giving off living 
fire like a beating heart. The ruby was Sera—deep, passionate, 
resonating with life. 
He walked into the room and pulled her into his arms. He 
bent his head to her neck and placed a kiss on the creamy skin 
above the necklace. 
“You danced most gracefully,” he murmured, breathing in 
her sweetness, and beneath that the sudden, intoxicating scent 
of desire. His body responded immediately. He became rock 
hard, straining to take her without preliminaries. 
“Mmm,” she said, arching against him and making it worse. 
“In spite of Monsieur Gallopet.” 
“You simply decided to accept your fate, sweetheart. Was 
it so bad to waltz in my arms, after all?” he asked, trying to 
concentrate on the conversation. 
“Only when I thought of what I would vastly prefer to be 
doing.” Sera slowly untied his neck cloth and unbuttoned his 
shirt. Her hands slipped inside, moving restlessly over his chest, 
her fingers smooth and enticing on his heated skin. 
“And what might that be? A ride across the park, perhaps?” 
He was dying. 
She pulled the shirt free. When she began to open the first 
button on his trousers, he put his hand over hers to stop her. He 
was so hot, so hard, that he feared he would humiliate himself 
and lose all control. 
“No,” she said. “I thought of doing just what I am doing 
now while you held me in the waltz. Didn’t you realize that 
your touch could leave me this impatient?” 
She reached out to him again. 
He didn’t want it quick and hot. “Oh, no, my lady. From 
the moment I saw you in my necklace tonight, I conjured other 
plans for the evening.” Nicholas lifted her in his arms and carried 
her high against his heart, taking the stairs to his room swiftly. 

The candles glowed, lighting the room just enough to allow 
him to see every inch of her. 
Sera’s arms circled his neck. He slowly lowered her, letting 
her slide against him, feeling the crush of her breasts against 
his bare chest, the soft curve of her hips against his erection as 
she stood in his arms. He carefully brought her arms down from 
his neck and held them out on either side of her, framing her 
body with his hands, sliding them along her sides, molding her 
hips. 
“Stand very still,” he whispered against her ear and felt her 
shiver in reaction. 
Lifting his head, he noted the changes already apparent— 
the pink nipples pointed and erect through the creamy silk of 
her gown, the swelling of her round breasts. He pulled down 
the silk and the lace, lifting each breast free of the gown. 
“Little goddess. Do you think you might have Cretan 
ancestry somewhere in your past?” he asked, brushing his hands 
up the underside of her breasts, lifting them. He drove himself 
mad with this slow, sensual perusal, but the mist of passion in 
her eyes, her quick, uneven breaths, were worth the denial he 
forced on himself. 
“Nicholas,” she whispered. She sounded tormented with 
anticipation. Good. He lowered his head, and while he lifted 
and stroked her, he blew his breath on the nipple. She cried out, 
arching her back. 
“Shh,” he said, and opened his mouth, taking the nipple 
and suckling it with measured, gentle movements of tongue 
and lips and teeth. She nearly collapsed against him. 
“How I adore a passionate woman,” he said on a low laugh. 
He held her upright in the curve of his left arm. The fingers of 
his right hand slid upward to the ribbon beneath her breast, and 
he slowly pulled it free. The gown fell to her hips, and then the 
floor, followed by lacy corset and petticoat. 
He gently propelled her backwards, out of the pool of silk 
and lace, until she stood before the room’s blue velvet covered 
wall. He wanted her clothed only in her white silk stockings 
and garters and dancing slippers. The betrothal necklace flashed 
and glittered on her neck. She was panting as she watched his 
gaze linger over her. She leaned against the wall while her whole 
body trembled. She made no move to cover her breasts or the 

silken mound at the soft juncture of her thighs. 
He knelt and lifted each slipper from her foot, kissing the 
delicate, high arch before he put her foot down to the floor again. 
She gasped as his hands swept upward. His fingers stroked the 
soft skin at the back of her knees and higher up her thighs in 
infinite slowness. She moaned when his hands closed on her 
buttocks, stroking, then pulling her forward, towards his mouth. 
He looked up at her, imprisoned as she was by his hands, his 
body. He smiled, and watched her eyes widen. He blew on those 
glinting curls. 
“Open your legs, love. I want to see you.” With one hand, 
Nicholas stroked between her thighs, moving her legs apart, 
while he arched her toward him with the other hand until her 
hips were close to him. He rubbed his face against her belly. 
The scent of her arousal came to his nostrils, inflaming him. 
Freeing her, Nicholas brought his other hand forward. Her own 
passion held her prisoner. He stroked the apex of her thighs and 
gently pushed them even farther apart. Slowly, carefully, he 
parted the plump petals enclosing all the secret places of her 
body and breathed deeply. 
“You’re so beautiful here,” he said. She arched her hips 
forward, straining closer, but he wanted her even wilder before 
he touched her. 
“There are drops of moisture on your curls, sweetheart. They 
shine like pearls. You’re swollen, and flushed a lovely pink, 
and sheened in that moisture. You smell delicious. I wonder if 
you taste as good.” He blew gently on her soft, swollen folds. 
“Nicholas,” she whispered, helpless and aching. 
“I’ll do this to you every night, Sera. For the rest of our 
lives, I’ll stroke you here in all your secret places. And I’ll kiss 
you and run my tongue over that sweet, swollen nubbin right 
here.…” He stroked her once and watched her jerk her hips. 
“Nicholas,” she said plaintively. 
“Do you think you should like that, darling?” 
“Nicholas!” She moved her hips again in that helpless, 
passionate, age-old sign of urgency. 
“All right,” he said, fiercely satisfied. He plunged his tongue 
into the soft, swollen depths of her and stroked her again and 
again, bringing her up relentlessly, until she moaned. Her head 
rolled back and forth against the wall, and her fingers curled 

into his hair. She held him close to that place, so lost in her 
need that she was without self-consciousness or shame. It 
humbled him that she could give everything of herself without 
holding back. 
And with that thought, the lust rose hot and strong, 
obliterating all thought but one. He couldn’t wait another 
moment, not even to carry her to the bed. The surging need 
overpowered him. Somewhere, the thought came to him that 
even tonight, as a result of this magnificent lust she aroused, 
his child might be conceived. 
It was too much. He groaned and turned her to the wall. 
Pressing against her softness, he struggled for control and found 
he’d lost it. 
“I can’t wait,” he said. His heart beat like that of a runner 
who saw the finish line and sprinted for it. He pulled her down 
onto the rug and cradled her against him, breathing fast. 
“Sera, I won’t hurt you. Trust me. Trust me.” His voice 
sounded hoarse and straining. What was he asking her to give 
him—her complete faith when she realized what he wanted from 
her now, or some promise for the future? He positioned her, 
drawing her up on her knees with her back to him. Tearing at 
the buttons of his trousers, he freed himself and smoothed his 
hands over her buttocks. 
She trembled, whether from passion or sudden fear, he could 
not tell. His member thrust forward, jerking with heat. With 
gritted teeth, he pushed down the pressing need. Instead, he 
bent over her, and nuzzled against the back of her neck. His 
hand reached round and cradled her belly, stroking that place 
he’d just kissed, until she sobbed and rolled her hips. 
It was her passionate response that undid him time and 
again. His body blazed with hot urgency. He pulled her hips up. 
She rested her head against her bent arm. The very sight of her 
vulnerability, her body stretched, open and glistening, drove 
him over the edge. He made a sound deep in his throat, guttural, 
elemental. And plunged into her. He stroked deep, hard, as his 
fingers played upon her in the same quick rhythm. 
He felt her body gather, taut and straining, and then the 
explosion within her, the trembling earthquake that stroked him 
as she screamed, muffling the sound against her arm. He gave a 
deep shout of release, and with one last plunge, he touched her 

womb. He felt himself shatter into a million pieces and, pulsing 
strongly, poured his seed deep within her body. 
She was his. She was his. She was his. Forever. 
*** 
Sera awoke in the gray hour before dawn. Nicholas slept at 
her back, his arm flung over her, his hand resting on her breast. 
She turned in his arms and looked at his face. He murmured 
something in his sleep, and his mouth curved upward just a 
little. A lock of his dark hair lay over his forehead. He looked 
young and happy, and it made her smile. 
She fingered the necklace about her throat and slowly 
slipped out of the big bed. She knew what she had to do, and 
although it gave her great pain, she wouldn’t hesitate to do it. 
Whether he had said so or not, Nicholas loved her. If she couldn’t 
tell him why she had to do this, he would understand and forgive 
her, just as he had accepted her secretiveness before. 
Taking up her gown and underclothing, Sera crept down 
the stairway to her room and dressed in a simple green wool 
gown. Then she wrapped the ermine lined cloak about her and 
took a back stairway down to a door beneath her room. It was a 
chill morning, with the scent of snow in the air. The fog swirled 
about her, settling in waves of wet cold on her face and bare 
hands. The distant trees in the park appeared to be indistinct 
shadows, as though this world was growing dim and unreal. 
Sera shivered. 
Jacob came to her, appearing out of the fog like a shadow 
as he drew down the hood of his cloak, and then he solidified, 
and became real. She threw herself into his arms, already feeling 
the sorrow of imminent separation. He held her with the same 
sorrow and intensity, until she drew back and carefully, as though 
she were learning him by heart, caressed his face—forehead, 
eyes, cheeks, lips. 
“You cannot mean to stay,” he said, his voice tight. 
Sera’s mouth trembled as she tried to smile at him. “I cannot 
leave, but look, I bring you a gift.” She lifted her hands to the 
clasp of the necklace and opened it. 
“Gods!” Jacob stared at the necklace as she held it out to 
him, heavy with the weight of the jewel. Even in the gloom, it 
beat with a thousand pulses of light. “Where did you find it?” 
Sera heard herself give a laugh that ended on a sob. “It is 

my betrothal gift, Jacob. Treat it carefully and someday return 
the necklace to me.” 
“Your betrothal—but Sera, this proves Rostov’s a beast—a 
murderer and a thief. You absolutely cannot stay with him. You 
would not be that stupid, much less that immoral.” 
She shook her head again and again, knowing that she must 
convince Jacob of Nicholas’s innocence. “The thief came to 
him in the palace. He needed money to escape the Brotherhood. 
Nicholas told me all about it, and if you could have seen the 
look on his face, you would know that he had nothing to do 
with the murder. All he wanted was to wed me, Jacob. That is 
his only crime.” 
“He lives in a world of criminals. If you remain with him, 
you condemn yourself to the same fate.” 
“Jacob, you believe that goodness exists only in the Hills. 
It is true that we are peaceful and powerful, and all in our world 
is based upon reason. But there are things we have given up, 
Jacob—things that enrich life beyond what you can imagine.” 
She had to stop for a moment to control the catch in her 
breath. She rubbed her cheeks and realized they were wet with 
more than fog. “I have seen such love here. A leader protects 
his people by constantly putting himself in danger. A grieving 
mother takes a dead woman’s child to her bosom.” 
“And, Jacob, how they strive to understand the Divine, to 
reflect it in their own souls. If you could hear their music, Jacob. 
It would make the gods weep.” 
She shook her head. “They are flawed, more so than we. 
They search and struggle against their own demons and those 
imposed upon them by evil men. But they reach such heights 
of glory. And they love with all their strength. I could not leave 
them. In truth, I am more Outlander than Arkadian.” 
Jacob bent his head and took her own in his hands, until 
they stood, foreheads touching. “How will we deal with this, to 
lose you forever?” 
“It needn’t be that way, Jacob. That is why you carry home 
my gift. Convince Grandfather to use it and keep the cliffs from 
closing forever on us. Perhaps someday, he will allow me to 
come home again.” 
Jacob nodded and slipped the necklace into his tunic. He 
held out a folded square of gray material. “Take this. You may 

need it, Sera. There is war to come and perhaps famine after. 
Keep it.” 
She shook her head, backing away from him. “I cannot use 
it, Jacob—it is too dangerous. I am never certain I can control 
this new power I have. And besides, I am to be their queen. I 
could never leave while they suffer.” 
Jacob shoved the cloak into her hands. “Grandfather says 
your gift has grown very strong. You will know how to use it 
when the time comes. Take it, Sera. If just to please me one last 
time. I cannot leave unless I know you have the means to come 
home.” 
Sera nodded, blinking against the blur in her eyes. She 
needed to see him, to memorize his face. “Give this to 
Grandfather from me,” she whispered, knelt before him and 
lifted Jacob’s hands to her lips. He raised her up again, pulled 
her close and then stepped back, touching her cheek lightly. 
“Farewell, and fare well, sister, most beloved friend. The 
gods keep you in their hearts.” 
“The gods go with you, dearest Jacob.” 
He tried to smile and then closed his eyes for a moment. 
Gathering himself, he turned his back and walked two paces. 
Then he lifted the hood of his cloak and simply… was no more. 
Nicholas stood at the window of Sera’s chamber and 
watched the Hillman disappear. Sera stood below him, her 
shoulders shaking in wracking sobs. But Nicholas felt only a 
dull, empty pain. It was much, he reasoned, like an amputee 
must feel, when laudanum took effect and he could almost 
believe that his arm was still there. 
He had not been able to hear them, but he could see plainly 
enough with his own eyes. She embraced that golden stranger. 
She knelt and kissed his hands as though she worshipped him. 
She gave him her betrothal necklace. Her betrothal necklace, 
as though it were his right to have it! That had pierced him with 
such a flaming spear of agony, he thought he might howl and 
expire on the spot. 
Andre was right. The Hillman—that incarnation of 
Hercules—was a superior specimen of the damned master race 
he sprang from. Certainly Nicholas looked a sad second to him. 
The comparison was laughable, really. 
There was no doubt from her tears, her embraces, that Sera 

loved this better man. 
“Once I give a promise, I never break it,” she had said. 
She had made a promise to Nicholas, and she would be true to 
it. She loved the Hillman, but she’d sent him away. 
That powerful bastard wouldn’t give her up so easily. 
Nicholas knew that, because he himself would do anything to 
manipulate, or coerce, or seduce Sera into staying with him. 
He rang the bell for a footman. He wanted answers—all of 
them, by God! He deserved them, and he was going to get them. 
*** 
A few minutes after the footman had found her, Sera slipped 
into Nicholas’s study. He stood by the window, his back turned 
to her. She had a strange surge of fear, a sense of déjà vu. It was 
very much like the beginning, when she was escorted, dirty 
and rebellious, to hear the king’s displeasure at her escape 
attempt. 
“Shut the door behind you.” Nicholas’s soft voice cut 
through her thoughts like a whip. She tried to quell the rising 
dread as the footman did so. He had never sounded so dangerous, 
so cold. 
In one of those impossibly quick movements that still 
surprised her, he turned. His eyes blazed in a face absolutely 
drained of color. He looked like a man who had just escaped 
the rack and, now armed, faced his torturer. 
“You met a man at dawn. You embraced him. You knelt to 
him. You kissed his hands. You gave him my betrothal gift, 
damn you! And now you’re going to tell me why.” 
She looked into his beloved, tormented face and raised her 
hand in a plea—for this not to be happening, for some softening 
in the icy fire of his gaze—but he just stood there, his hands 
curling and uncurling into fists. She wondered wildly whether 
he would hurt her. He certainly looked as though he would like 
to. “I cannot tell you.” 
He was on her before she could even cry out, his hands 
gripping her shoulders, shaking her hard once, twice, and then 
he shoved her away from him and covered his face with his 
hands. “God! You make me into a beast.” 
He lowered his hands, and she backed away until she stood 
against the wall. His burning eyes pinned her there. She could 
feel the silk of the wall covering against her back, the only thing 

in the room that had any softness to it at all. 
“You don’t trust me enough to tell me who that damnable 
god was and why you loved him so much that you’d give him 
my necklace. You put me through hell, and all because you 
don’t trust me. What is it? Do you think I can’t keep your secrets 
safe?” He took a jagged breath. “Or is it that I can’t keep you 
safe, Sera?” His voice was desolate and dry as a desert. 
She stood there, her back clinging to the wall like a brand, 
while her thoughts whirled madly. She shook her head back 
and forth and shut her eyes. “You cannot keep me safe, Nicholas. 
Not in this world. There is disease and violence, and no one can 
protect me from those.” 
His laugh was a harsh groan. “Considering the number of 
times you saved my hide, I should think you’d occasionally 
want me to return the compliment.” 
“You rescued me from Hadar. From Dawson twice. Why 
do you torment yourself?” She hated his bleak humor, knowing 
that it hid a self-condemnation that went soul deep. “I cannot 
tell you who the man was. I cannot tell you why I gave him the 
necklace. I cannot tell you anything that you want to know, and 
still, I ask you to trust me. You say that I do not trust you, but on 
this you must trust me. Trust me when I tell you that I love you, 
Nicholas, for it is holy truth. Trust me that I stay here because 
my happiness is here, with you.” 
Expressions chased over his face—misery, fury, cynicism 
warring with hope. She hung on his gaze, willing him to believe 
her. He turned away from her, shaking his head. 
“How can I trust you if you won’t give me answers?” he 
asked softly. 
A sharp rap on the door jolted her from the wall. “Nikki!” 
Andre swept into the room with Carlsohnn and young Oblomov 
before the footman could announce them. “There’s trouble. The 
Brotherhood camp—something’s brewing there.” 
“Men have been arriving for the last three days, Sire,” 
Carlsohnn said. “Their numbers reach the thousands now. We 
believe…” Carlsohnn cast a cautious look at Sera. 
Nicholas nodded curtly to her. “ Kindly leave us,” he said, 
without a hint of inflection in his voice. 
Sera bent her head and walked to the door. He was beyond 
her for now, impervious to the truth of her argument. She could 

only pray that with time, he would choose to believe not what 
he had seen, but what his heart knew to be true. She was so 
afraid her prayers would not be answered. 
That night, she crept up the secret stairway to Nicholas’s 
chamber. He had not come to her, but she had no pride where 
he was concerned. His door was closed. She tried the handle, 
only to find it locked. 
“Nicholas,” she said softly and knew somehow, from the 
dead stillness in the air, that he wasn’t there. “Nicholas,” she 
whispered, while a numbing dread began to envelop her. “Don’t 
do this to us.” 
Empty silence greeted her plea. Sera wrapped her arms 
around her stomach and curled over, bracing against the pain. 
Slowly, she sank to her knees and leaned her head against the 
door. After a long, long time, she rose and walked blindly down 
the stairway. 
*** 
“I told you to remain at home, Andre. Damn it, man, who 
will lead the country should something happen to me?” Nicholas 
sat his mount, in a black mood from two sleepless nights—the 
first spent in his study with a bottle of brandy for company, the 
second on the road. 
The army had marched for two days and crossed the border 
before Andre presented himself. In the gray hour before dawn, 
he now rode the forest path beside Nicholas with one of those 
maddeningly cheerful smiles just visible on his face. Nicholas 
knew just one perfect right to the jaw would erase that grin and 
leave Andre safely asleep in the forest until the battle was over. 
He wished he could use it. 
“You were under orders, you idiot! You and Katherine were 
to remain at home. When the time came, you were to rule and 
keep her safe.” 
“I keep her safe by protecting you, old man. And lower 
your voice, Nikki. We’re coming in on them soon.” 
Indeed, the first scouts slipped back like silent ghosts in 
the chill December mist to report a few moments later. 
Carlsohnn, among them, wore a look of deep concern. 
“From the number of campfires, it looks to be as many as 
eight thousand troops, twice our number.” 
Nicholas tapped his fingers against his saddle, his mind 

sorting out the information against what he knew of Galerien 
and the Brotherhood. 
“It will be difficult to win against so many of them,” said 
General Oblomov, who rode up beside them. The other generals 
clustered about Nicholas, all of them wearing expressions of 
doubt. 
“We must,” said Nicholas. “They’re gathering in force to 
march on Laurentia. There’s no other explanation for such 
numbers when their normal method of operation is infiltration 
in small, deadly gangs. If we refuse to engage, we’ll face them 
and Galerien’s forces together soon, and Laurentia will fall. 
We must move now, gentlemen, while the element of surprise 
is with us.” 
“In the darkness?” asked Andre. 
“No,” said Nicholas. “The darkness will confuse us as well 
as them. We’ll follow the original plan. Gather above them to 
the east and wait until sunrise. The cavalry will charge the camp, 
followed closely by the infantry. Pray the sun blinds them. Once 
down, we fight like hell. If we succeed, we fan out in legions 
and surround their army.” 
General Oblomov nodded once, smartly. “It just might work, 
Nicholas Andreyevitch.” The others, though still grave, nodded 
as well. 
“Gentlemen. Kindly send the order along the ranks and 
move the men into position.” 
An hour later, Nicholas shut his spyglass and replaced it in 
his pocket. “I want you at the back, Andre,” he murmured. “You 
must return alive to Montanyard. Marry Katherine and name 
your first son after me, eh?” 
Andre’s hand pressed his shoulder. “You will not die in this 
battle, Nikki. Do you understand me? You will not die.” 
Nicholas tried to smile, but the effort was too difficult. “I 
don’t want to make an end of it, you dunce,” he said. “I simply 
want to justify my taking up space on this earth. If I make it 
back, I’ll go on to solve the next problem, and the next.” 
“Damnit, Nikki,” Andre began as the first rays of the sun 
struck the hills behind them. 
“Save your breath, my friend. You’ll need it.” 
*** 
“What is it, Grandfather?” Jacob Augustus entered 

Emmanuel Aestron’s study and sat down across the table from 
the Mage. 
Jacob peered into the scrying glass. Across the smooth 
surface, the sun rose above hilltops surrounded by forest. A band 
of horsemen gathered at the top. A tall, dark-haired rider who 
sat straight as a Hillman in his saddle raised his sword. It flashed 
in the sunlight and the band charged downward to a plain 
teeming with black-clad soldiers. 
“Nicholas Rostov goes to battle,” said Emmanuel. “Sera 
will never forgive us if we do not watch carefully.” 
*** 
Nicholas whipped his sword arm upward once more, 
meeting the jarring stroke of steel yet again. His horse had been 
shot out from under him eons ago. He had managed to jump 
free, only to come up against one of the black clad soldiers. A 
ball from a pistol to his right had downed the soldier and saved 
him. The sun, now past the zenith by a good, long time, revealed 
a field strewn with bodies, both in the blue and red of Laurentia 
and the black of the Brotherhood. Still the fighting went on, to 
the cries of the wounded and the metallic stench of blood. He 
pressed on, backing a man toward a steep drop in the land, 
somehow aware of where he stepped, when to turn, although 
conscious thought had disappeared hours ago. 
He had lost sight of Andre when he lost his horse. He could 
only pray that his friend made it through this hell. The enemy 
sliced at him from the left. Nicholas parried, stepped aside to 
the right, and readied. The soldier, wild for the kill, lunged, and 
Nicholas speared him cleanly. The soldier fell, never knowing 
what had hit him. 
He sensed a lull in the battle and stopped for an instant, 
breathing heavily and wiping the grimy sweat from his forehead 
with his sword arm. And heard, very distinctly, a deep, powerful 
voice shout inside his head. 
“Rostov! Behind you!” 
Nicholas whirled to find a tall, spectral man caped in black, 
whose sword rose to slice through his neck. He blinked and 
leaped aside in time to feel the cold steel cut through the flesh 
on his side. The wound was bad, but he still had strength to lift 
the sword and back away. 
“Count Vladimir Laslow, at your service.” The black-caped 

creature bowed, a mocking, graceful movement. “Why don’t 
you give it up, Rostov?” The spectre’s voice was cold as the 
gates of Hell. “You are dying, just as Catherine Elizabeth will 
die, just as your sister, your friend, and the rest of these men 
will die.” 
Laslow grinned, a tight, feral baring of teeth. “In a day, 
maybe two, I shall get the ruby from the witch’s daughter. Oh, 
yes, we know she wears it now. As we speak, there are men 
inside Montanyard to bring her and the jewel to me. And with 
it, the Hills will belong to Galerien, and Laurentia will belong 
to us. Your time is up, Rostov.” 
The spectre came closer, sword glittering against the sun, 
eyes gleaming. “I didn’t make it easy for the chit’s mother, I 
can tell you. I enjoyed her screams. Do you believe I’ll give 
your mistress an easy death, Rostov? Oh, yes, I can see I’ve got 
your full attention at last. I shall allow Galerien to watch while 
I cut her, bit by bit. I shall cut out her heart last of all, and give 
it to Galerien still beating. Won’t that be a pretty sight?” 
Nicholas spun away from the bright flash of the sword. His 
head felt light and dizzy. He blinked his eyes to clear them and 
swayed on his feet. He must have lost a lot of blood. He probably 
wouldn’t survive much longer. 
“That is what you must remember, Rostov, as you hurtle 
toward death. The picture of the witch’s daughter butchered, 
her body desecrated. Our victory over the Devil and his whore.” 
Again, his body was jolted by a shock of electric 
recognition, as though a soul had just touched his own. “To the 
left,” said a voice, deep and compelling, and Nicholas jumped. 
The spectre took a step, stumbled over a hidden root, and 
Nicholas lunged as Laslow tried to right himself. His sword 
slid deeply into flesh, between ribs, and struck the very heart of 
the beast. 
“No,” whispered the spectre. “I planned it all perfectly. I 
shall not die.” Even as he spoke, the cruel light drained from 
his eyes, and the beast fell forward on the sword, his venom 
drained forever. 
Nicholas swayed above the prone figure from Sera’s deepest 
nightmares. He had done this much, anyway. “Thank you,” he 
whispered to whatever saint or touch of magic had given him 
warning. 

“Nikki!” 
Nicholas blinked to clear his vision. Andre hurtled toward 
him with a division of soldiers at his back. Within seconds, they 
surrounded him in a protective phalanx, and two men half-
carried, half-supported him off the field of battle. 
Andre bent over him, his mouth a grim line in a face lined 
with soot and sweat. 
“I need you to. . .” Nicholas could barely hear his own voice. 
“What the hell do you want me to do, Nikki?” Andre leaned 
his ear close to Nicholas’s mouth. 
Nicholas grabbed his arm. “Go home,” he told Andre. “Save 
Sera. You have to save her.” 
“All right, old fellow. Tell me how to do it.” 
Nicholas fought the rising darkness while he gave Andre 
the details of the plan that would destroy the one chance of 
happiness he was ever to have. At least, he thought, he got it all 
said. 
“Good,” he muttered. “Leave now. Not a mom’nt t’ lose.” 
Darkness rolled in and took him under. 

Fourteen 
At the rap on the door of Nicholas’s study, Andre stopped 
pacing and took his place behind the desk. It would be an 
understatement to say he was not at all happy to inform Sera of 
her fate, particularly after speaking to Katherine earlier that day. 
But there had been no time to argue with Nikki. The fierce 
intensity in his drawn face, as well as the gravity of his wound, 
compelled Andre. He had to do it, and do it right. 
Andre took a deep breath. “Enter.” 
Sera preceded the footman, who quietly closed the door 
behind her. She crossed the room in quick steps. “How is he?” 
she asked him breathlessly. “Terrible rumors are flying through 
the palace this morning. I don’t know what to believe. How 
badly is he wounded? You must take me with you, quickly, for 
he needs me.” 
Sera looked like hell, Andre thought. Her shadowed eyes 
were too big in a face gone pale and thin. The realization of just 
how much Nikki meant to her hit him hard, and he inwardly 
cursed fate and duty. But still, he forced his voice to come out 
in a clipped, impersonal tone. 
“The wound is grave, but the doctor believes he has a good 
chance of pulling through, as long as he is not disturbed. The 
king expressly does not wish you with him, not now, and not in 
future.” He unrolled a thick parchment and forced his hands 
not to tremble. 
“In this year of our Lord 1812, His Majesty Nicholas 
Alexander Andreyivitch Rostov, tenth of that line by the Grace 
of God, Ruler of Laurentia, and of the counties of the eastern 
Arkadian range, hereby deems it fit and worthy to banish Lady 
Sera, of those mountains, from Lauentia now and forever.” 
Sera made a sound, a choked whisper, really. Her face, 
already pale, now looked as white as the parchment he had been 
reading. Andre rounded the desk in a hurry. He was afraid she’d 
faint and he wouldn’t be there in time to catch her. But she 
waved him off and clutched at the high back of a wing chair. 
He watched her struggle for control and silently cursed. 
“The king has ordered that soldiers take you to the 
mountains. He reminds you that this is what you wanted for a 

long time. He tells you to keep the ruby as a…” Damn Nikki, 
he thought, choking on the word. “douceur. You may give it to 
anyone you please.” 
She raised eyes that were tragic blue pools. “A douceur,” 
she said in a voice devoid of all emotion. 
“Yes, Sera. Do you understand what that means?” 
Blindly, she stared past him. “It is money, or a valuable 
trinket, an Outlander gives to a woman when he rids himself of 
her.” 
Andre realized that she was in shock. “Come.” He eased 
her into the chair and poured a glass of wine. “Here,” he said. 
“Take deep breaths. It’s not so bad, after all. You’re going back 
to your homeland, Sera. You’ll see all your friends, all your 
family. Think of it that way.” 
She pushed away the glass he offered. “He gave me a 
douceur to take the sting away, did he? As though I were just 
another discarded mistress.” The last word came out in strangled 
sob. Sera pressed her fist to her mouth. 
Andre stared at the floor. He couldn’t stand watching her 
devastation. 
“The king wishes you to leave immediately. Soldiers await 
you in the courtyard. They will see that you arrive home safely.” 
“Tell them there is no need,” Sera said, and he heard the 
soft scrape of the chair as she rose. 
Andre took a hasty step forward, in case she should falter 
and need assistance. But she drew herself up and raised her 
hand, palm out, to keep him back. Sera was a small woman, but 
somehow, at this moment, she looked tall and commanding. He 
saw strength radiating beneath fragility, holding her upright. 
Without thinking, Andre executed a deep bow—a minister’s 
bow to his queen. 
“Sera,” he said holding out his hand to escort her from the 
room. He paused, not knowing what to say or do next. 
She lowered her head and raised it again, a regal gesture, 
and looked him square in the eye. “I do not require your 
assistance, Count Lironsky.” She swept from the room and down 
the corridor. 
Andre waited alone in the study until he decided enough 
time had elapsed for Sera to gather her strength to face him 
again. He must arrange to pack her clothing. Nikki was very 

insistent that she dress warmly for the journey. He gazed out 
the high arched window into the park, sick at what Nikki had 
ordered him to do, and disgusted with himself for doing it. 
A slender figure covered in a plain gray cloak ran from the 
palace to the stables. Within moments, she appeared again, upon 
Wind Rider. Sera lifted her head to look at the palace. From 
where he stood, Andre could see the glitter of tears on her cheeks. 
She raised the hood of her cloak, and horse and rider disappeared 
into thin air. 
*** 
Nicholas groaned. Where was he? He could hear flames 
licking and crackling. Was he in Hell? He doubted it. The place 
was warm, but not burning. He made a vain attempt to keep 
himself from thinking of Sera, but his nightmares had been full 
of her. In scene after scene, he saw them coming for her, saw 
her dragged from the palace and tortured by Laslow’s ghouls, 
and upon waking, the horrifying images still made his blood 
run cold. He turned his head and groaned. 
He hurt, that was for sure. His head felt as though it had 
spent the last twelve hours inside an active cannon. His side 
throbbed, and it was difficult to breathe. Cautiously, he opened 
one eye and found himself on a cot in a crude hut. The crackling 
flames were, in reality, a warm fire in the stone fireplace at one 
end of the room. 
A familiar face twinkled down at him—a blue-eyed with a 
broad smile. 
“Baron Summers,” he said. His voice cracked. 
The doctor lifted his head and gave him warm beef broth to 
drink. “Hullo, dear boy. You’ve found me out.” 
“But how? And where. . .?” 
“You are in a crofter’s hut not far from the Laurentian border. 
And I’ve been a member of His Majesty’s Forty-seventh for a 
few months. Got the urge to travel, see the world, do my bit for 
Laurentia, and all that. So here we are, together again, I’m afraid. 
Andre and Will Carlsohnn dragged you here after the battle, 
which, incidentally, you won. Any other questions?” 
“How many of us survived?” Nicholas couldn’t keep the 
fear out of his voice. He was too weary. 
Andre’s face came into focus above him. “Many,” he said. 
“They had us fighting hand to hand, there were so many of 

them, but when you killed their leader, their discipline broke. It 
was easier after that.” 
“God, what a creature,” said Nicholas. “I’ll have nightmares 
for weeks about him.” 
“They thought he was invincible,” said Andre. 
“He very nearly was.” His voice almost failed him, then. 
“Sera?” he asked, and it came out in a whisper. 
Andre leaned over him. He looked haggard. Nicholas 
wondered how he had managed to ride to Laurentia and back in 
just two days. “She’s all right, old fellow. Safe home by now, 
with that horse of hers. She had a gray cloak like that Hillman 
wore when he disappeared. I’ll tell you more later.” 
The picture rose in his mind of Sera, small and sad in her 
ermine cloak, sitting in the straw-strewn stall and confiding to 
her horse in the Hill tongue. “No cloak,” she had said, even 
though ermine and wool protected her from the cold night. Of 
course. The plain gray cloak that had never raised suspicion 
among Outlanders had enough power to hide both Sera and the 
horse from those who would harm her. He sighed, filled with 
relief even as his heart opened in a crack that could never be 
healed. She was safe. 
“But there’s more, Nikki, and it’s an unsettling mystery,” 
Andre said. “You remember the merchant who sold you the 
ruby. The municipal guard found his body. Whoever killed him 
made him suffer for a long time before he died. So they alerted 
the palace. Then, three nights ago, our guards captured four 
men attempting to breach the palace walls. All of them wore 
Brotherhood black.” 
“Damnation.” 
“One of them lived long enough to confess. The thief had 
given them the location of the entryway to Sera’s Hills before 
they killed him. Laslow sent them in to capture Sera as well, 
and—this is odd—the ruby you bought from the merchant. It 
seems the ruby’s some kind of key to Arkadia. 
Nicholas nodded slowly. “Galerien wants to see Sera die. 
Painfully and slowly. He thinks she is still in Montanyard.” 
He shook his head, trying to keep the fragments of what he 
had just learned together. “Laslow said something, too, about 
the ruby. He said that with it, Galerien would conquer the Hills. 
She gave that Hillman the ruby, Andre, and I thought to myself, 

‘she doesn’t care about what it means. She doesn’t love me.’ I 
thought she had thrown away my betrothal gift. I didn’t 
understand.” 
Nicholas felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the wound 
or the temperature in the room. It had to do with despair. “But I 
think perhaps I just hurt her worse than I was hurt. Do you 
know, I never told her I loved her. How could I, when I couldn’t 
afford to love anything but Laurentia? She told me, of course. 
She had the courage of a lioness when it came to loving me 
freely, without reciprocation.” 
He laughed, a sound bitter and thin to his own ears. “But I 
was always afraid she’d leave me. So I made her leave me before 
she could think of it, herself.” 
Nicholas stared into the fire, recognizing fully what he had 
lost. 
Andre bit his lip. “I’m sorry, Nikki.” 
“I’m not. She’s safe.” Liar, he thought. “She’s safe,” he 
repeated, using the words like a mantra to soothe the harsh sting 
of loss. 
“Laurentia’s still in danger,” he told Andre. “I want the men 
to return to Laurentia immediately, Baron Carlsohnn. Would 
you and young Oblomov ask the generals to gather here in, say, 
half an hour?” 
“Sire,” said Baron Summers. “Forgive me. You should not 
think about traveling for at least a few days. The wound is deep 
enough to be troublesome as it is. Kindly keep your men here, 
protecting you should your presence be discovered.” 
“I cannot leave Laurentia with only half the force necessary 
to guard the land against Galerien.” Nicholas lifted his hand to 
his eyes and covered them. “Baron Summers, I am weary. This 
conversation is at an end.” 
Summers heaved a sigh. “Andre, try to talk some sense 
into him, will you? And convince him to take the laudanum.” 
“He’s right, Nikki, and you know it.” Through a foggy haze, 
Andre scowled down at him. 
“Galerien will be desperate when he gets word of what we 
did to his terrorists. If you could have heard that commander— 
by all that’s holy, I didn’t know if he could be killed.” 
“Laslow. A fanatic, a madman.” 
“I noticed,” said Nicholas with a wry twist to his mouth. 

The generals filed in, grim-faced. Nicholas knew that, lying 
prone on his pallet after so much blood loss, he must look like 
a dying man. But he had no intention of giving Galerien that 
satisfaction. 
He gave his orders in a voice he hoped sounded less hollow 
to them than it did to his own ears. “Count Lironsky will lead 
you home. Station men of the fifty-ninth along the border and 
take the rest to the passes at Selonia. We can hold Galerien 
there for quite a while. Put the citizen militia on alert. General 
Oblomov?” 
The old general approached the pallet and knelt in a rather 
creaky fashion. “I am here, Sire.” 
“I may be weak, sir, but I am not blind,” said Nicholas with 
a wry smile. He pulled at the ring on his finger, the blazing 
sapphire held in a golden eagle’s talons. It held fast, and it took 
all his puny strength to draw it off. Never, since they had 
crowned him king, had it left his hand. 
“Give this to my sister in front of all the ministers. Tell her 
to keep Laurentia safe in my stead. Tell her I shall return.” 
Nicholas lay back on the pallet and shut his eyes. He had no 
energy left to fight the hot pain of his wound. “I’ll take that 
laudanum now, Baron,” he told the doctor as the generals left 
the room. 
*** 
On the third day after the battle, Nicholas awoke feeling 
less as though an ox cart had rolled over him. The hut was quiet 
and warm. Carlsohnn and young Oblomov kept watch in the 
room. Oblomov had his knife out and whittled away at a small 
object. He turned it in his hand, inspecting closely, then used 
the knife again. 
Nicholas heard low voices outside the door, and then it 
opened. Andre stood silhouetted against the light, his hair going 
in a thousand different directions, and the grin wide on his face. 
“What the hell are you doing, Lironsky?” 
Andre’s grin grew even wider. “I’m the proverbial cat that 
came back. I sent the generals on to Montanyard and returned 
in record time. Rather impressive, eh?” 
“You know damned well I wanted you in Montanyard with 
Katherine. Stop that infernal grinning and get out of here. 
Damnit, this is serious, Andre.” 

“I’m well aware of that, my friend. You, however, seem to 
be a bit muddled about your own safety. Do you remember our 
first days at Eton? How the bullies came at you, wanting to 
make the barbaric crown prince cower before English 
superiority? It might be illuminating to recall that you could 
not have beaten seven boys so soundly without me by your 
side.” 
Andre was no longer grinning. “I have always been there 
for you. It pleases me to think that may be part of why we have 
never lost. Galerien is looking for you. There’s danger all around, 
Nikki. Do you expect me to turn tail and run, leaving you to get 
out by yourself?” 
Nicholas shook his head. “I wanted one of us happy, Andre.” 
Andre shrugged a shoulder. “What chance of happiness 
could I have if I didn’t bring you home safe? Do you think 
Katherine would ever speak to me again? Do you think I could 
live with myself? So tell me you’re happy to see me and when 
the hell we can get out of here.” The smile broke on his face 
like sunshine through a cloud. 
“Now, I suspect,” Baron Summers said sweeping into the 
hut. “If the king can ride, we must leave immediately. Galerien’s 
soldiers are scouring the area.” 
“All right,” said Andre. Lieutenants Carlshonn and 
Oblomov jumped to their feet. They were halfway out the door 
when Nicholas heard the sound of hoofbeats and the metallic 
ring of swords pulled out of scabbards. 
Nicholas had made it up on one knee when the door of the 
hut was flung open and several figures appeared silhouetted 
against the bright light. Andre, Carlsohnn, and Oblomov went 
for their swords, but the fruity tones of the man in the middle 
stopped them short. 
“My dear Nicholas Alexander Andreyevitch Rostov. I hold 
a very accurate pistol in my hands. Tell your men that if they do 
not lower their swords, you will be the first to die.” 
Nicholas’s men slowly lowered their swords. 
Anatole Galerien stepped into the hut, his weapon raised 
and aimed at Nicholas. “I am hurt that you have chosen to take 
shelter in this rude hut when you could have come to me. But I 
am not one to hold a grudge. I have a comfortable litter that 
will take you to my palace in Constanza, where you will recover 

in a peaceful chamber while you await my wedding to your 
sister. No, no, my dear brother-in-law to be. Do not jerk like 
that. You will open your wound if you are not careful, and I 
need you alive until the wedding, which will give me as much 
right to Laurentia as I need to accomplish my goal.” 
Galerien smiled coldly as his men tied Andre’s hands. They 
did the same to Carlsohnn, the doctor, and Oblomov with 
efficient dispatch. 
“My sister is no fool, Galerien,” said Nicholas. A cold, 
relentless fury welled up in him. He would survive this, he 
vowed, and have Galerien’s head for it. 
“Oh, she will consent, believe me. When my messengers 
inform her that I have her brother in custody, and that her 
marriage to me will free him. Of course, I shall not reveal to her 
that you will have but one instant of freedom before I have you 
killed, along with your guards, here. Such details are not for the 
gentler sex, are they? 
“And now, Nicholas, if you’ll excuse me, I shall see that 
your traveling accommodations are made ready for you.” 
Galerien swept out of the hut, leaving Nicholas to contemplate 
how he might get them all out of this. 
*** 
Katherine sank slowly into her chair as she read aloud the 
message Galerien had sent her. The faces of the ministers in the 
council room turned grim and frightened. 
“What do you suggest, gentlemen?” she asked, raising a 
pale face to them. 
“We must keep Laurentia safe. That is the important thing. 
We have soldiers at the borders, at the mountain pass, and armed 
citizens through the countryside. Remain here, princess. Keep 
the throne safe. That’s our advice.” 
Katherine felt the weight of the monarch’s ring that hung 
from a heavy gold chain about her neck. She lifted it and stared 
down at it. The eagle was a fitting symbol of the house of Rostov, 
and not just for its power and courage. She thought of 
Prometheus and his sacrifice. 
She didn’t doubt Galerien’s threat. She, too, was a Rostov. 
She raised her head and looked calmly at the men assembled. 
“I am, in my brother’s absence, regent of Laurentia, and what I 
decide is law, is that not correct?” 

The men gathered about the table assented. 
“You will remain here, protecting our country against 
Galerien’s invasion. For as soon as he has married me, he will 
come. I shall go to Constanza and wed this monster.” 
The ministers rose, shouting their denial. Katherine quelled 
them with one fierce look and a raised hand. “If I do this thing, 
Nicholas will be alive until the ceremony is completed. Your 
king is clever and resourceful. As long as he lives, there’s hope. 
I give him a week by consenting—time for him to come up 
with a plan. Do you understand, my lords? This is the only way 
to buy what we need. Time.” 
*** 
Nicholas paced the tower room, thinking hard. He had been 
prisoner here for almost a week. His wound was not completely 
healed, but he could hold a sword or a pistol, if only he could 
get hold of one. Andre leaned over the narrow sill, staring out, 
as he did each day. Nicholas glanced down and saw the bright 
banners hung from the palace’s high walls to greet his sister 
who was arriving today for her wedding. 
“We would need a flying machine to get out of here, Andre. 
Keep your mind on another way for us to get to the abbey. For 
that’s the only hope we’ve got.” 
“I’m aware that escape is impossible, Nikki.” Andre’s eyes 
glittered like those of a man stretched too far. “How could she 
do this? To agree to this marriage. To put herself in danger. 
How the hell could she, knowing I love her?” 
“She’s giving us time. Remember, Andre. There hasn’t been 
a fight we haven’t won.” 
“If it hadn’t been for Sera, we would have lost the one in 
Iman Hadar’s palace.” 
Sera. He had thought of her so often, and each time he 
thanked God she was safely away from all this. “Damnit, Andre. 
Concentrate. You’ve got to give me a distraction. That’s not too 
much to ask. Just one instant, and I’ll get to the abbey and take 
down Galerien.” 
*** 
Sera knocked on the door to Emmanuel’s study. “You sent 
for me, Grandfather?” 
Emmanuel looked up from the scrying glass. Instantly, the 
glass fogged over. “Come in, my dear, and sit here beside me.” 

Sera closed the door behind her, laid her cloak across a 
bench, and took the seat her grandfather offered. Jacob paced 
the room, she noted, with a most peculiar look upon his face. 
He was flushed and frowning furiously. Normally cerebral and 
serene, Jacob looked very much the Outlander at the moment. 
Jacob’s restlessness grated on her today, perhaps because 
she was so weary. 
“Jacob, why don’t you take your bad mood elsewhere?” 
her grandfather said. 
“Absolutely not. I have every right to be here. Sera is still 
unable to make reasonable decisions, and I should—” 
“Oh, do cease storming about.” Sera bent her head and tried 
to massage the throbbing out of her temples. 
The last days at home had been difficult. Only the other 
night, Jacob pressed her to dine with him and his friend Lysander 
Antiocus, a man she’d always admired. He had made it clear 
that Lysander, with a little encouragement, would ask for her 
hand in marriage. 
When the dinner party was over, Lysander had taken her 
aside. Smiling kindly, he said, “You need time to return to us, 
Seraphina. I shall not press you until you are ready.” 
From the time she’d reached the age of dedication, she’d 
known that Lysander was everything a man of Arkadia should 
be. He was brilliant, comely, and kind. His line and the Aestron 
line would breed beautiful children who would, perhaps, lead 
Arkadia into a golden age greater than the one Pericles knew. 
Lysander would care for her. He would respect her. But he 
would never look at her as Nicholas did, with passionate 
intensity. He would never tease her, or move her to the heights 
and depths of every emotion within her. 
Lysander was not Nicholas. 
Fiercely, she reminded herself that Nicholas had broken 
her heart. 
Her grandfather’s serene regard somehow called her from 
her bitter musings. “I must ask you to look into the glass, Sera,” 
he said in that gentle tone he’d been using with her since her 
return. “Tell me what you see.” 
“All right.” The swirling fog dissipated slowly as a picture 
formed and sharpened, all its colors and movement hurting her 
eyes. 

“It’s Katherine and a host of the ministers. Katherine is 
dressed in white velvet. She and the courtiers are riding through 
a city. A very poor city. People in dull, patched clothing with 
pinched faces line the streets as they ride through. They don’t 
cheer. They don’t do more than stare. What is this place, and 
what is happening here?” An icy chill of dread crept through 
her, and she trembled. 
“Look again into the glass, Sera.” Grandfather’s face wore 
the look of the Mage. His voice was no longer gentle, but 
commanding. 
The colors swirled, changed, resolved themselves into 
another scene, and this one took the breath from her body in a 
rush. She held to the sides of her chair so hard her fingers hurt. 
“It is Nicholas. He is locked in a small, gray room high above 
the city through which Katherine rides. Andre is with him.” 
She put her hand to her heart. “Oh, Nicholas looks tired. See 
how pale he is? Thinner, too.” 
“They are in Constanza, a small city in Beaureve,” said 
Grandfather. “Galerien holds them for ransom. The price he 
demands is Katherine’s hand in marriage. They wed today. Of 
course, he plans to kill the king and his friend after the wedding. 
Then he’ll claim both Beaureve and Laurentia.” 
Cold crept into Sera, settling deep in her blood. She couldn’t 
move for a moment, she was so cold. Nicholas to die! And 
Katherine to wed that beast? “No, no. That must never happen!” 
Sera grasped her grandfather’s hands. “There must be something 
you can do, Grandfather. You cannot let this happen!” 
The Mage shook his head. “My duty is to Arkadia, Sera. I 
cannot help them.” 
Sera nodded slowly and straightened her back. Feeling 
returned to her body, and with it, the ability to breathe, to move, 
in spite of the terror. She felt that her life was a scrying glass, 
and she had finally allowed herself to look deep within it. 
“Of course,” she whispered. “This is not your responsibility. 
It is mine.” 
“By the gods, I knew you had lost all sense among the 
barbarians! Lysander, the best of all the men in the City, asks to 
address you, while that man treated you like a common doxy. 
And you decide to risk your life to save him and all those fops 
who laughed at you and called you whore. Where is your 

perspective? Where is your mind, sister?” 
Sera stood slowly and squared her shoulders. She gave 
Jacob a brilliant smile. “I have been thinking long and hard 
about this. It struck me that even in Hadar’s palace, when 
Nicholas thought I was a harlot, he treated me with respect. I 
don’t believe he would have acted so discourteously unless he 
wanted to hurt me into leaving—perhaps for my own safety.” 
She lowered her head and blinked to banish the sting from her 
eyes. 
“Don’t be a fool!” Jacob glared at her. 
She opened her hand and held it out to him—a pleading 
gesture. “Don’t you see? My whole life has led to this moment, 
this choice. The important thing is not what Nicholas feels for 
me, Jacob. I love him. I love Laurentia. I have no doubt that I 
could love my own people, those poor, hopeless men and women 
lining the road into Constanza. 
Jacob made a sharp sound of frustration and wheeled away 
from her. She walked to him anyway and took his hands, willing 
him to understand. 
“Do not fling yourself away from me because I am half 
Outlander. I finally realize it is not such a terrible thing to be. 
Jacob, remember everything we’ve learned. It screams out at 
us now. 
“Evil threatens those I love, and I may be able to stop it 
with the truth. How shall I live afterwards if I do not try?” Sera 
reached up and tugged a lock of his hair in the old gesture she 
had used at parting since they were children. 
With an angry sigh, he bent his head, and she kissed his 
cheek, hugging him fiercely. “Don’t be too angry for too long, 
Jacob. I need to know you’ll forgive me.” 
“I forgive you already,” he said. “I shall come with you.” 
“No,” said Sera. “You are the Mage to be. Your duties lie 
here.” 
“Sera,” said Emmanuel as he rose to kiss her brow. 
“Remember, you may be half Outlander, but you are also half 
Arkadian, and an Aestron. The blood runs very true in our line.” 
“Thank you, Grandfather. It is a good thing to know when 
one goes to confront a monster in his lair.” Sera picked up her 
cloak and left the room. 
*** 

The door to the tower prison swung open, and Katherine 
burst into the room. Her gaze swept to Andre and Nicholas. 
“Oh, captain, I am so overcome with emotion,” she said in a 
high, fluttery voice entirely unlike her own. “If I could have 
just a moment with my poor brother…” She smiled tremulously 
at the beefy guard, and he frowned but obligingly left the room, 
locking the door after himself. 
“Quickly,” whispered Katherine. She knelt on one knee on 
the flagstones, unbuckled a holster from about her calf, and 
whipped out two knives. Nicholas leaped from the bed and 
grabbed them. 
Andre grabbed Katherine, pulled her to her feet and into 
his embrace. “You clever, wonderful girl. How did you get 
Galerien to let you in here?” 
Katherine shrugged. “It was easy, actually. I simply played 
on my reputation. Who would fear a plain, awkward, frightened 
little rabbit like me? I also happen to be a little muddled in my 
thoughts, as you have doubtless told me during many a 
philosophical argument.” 
Andre laughed softly, and his lips covered hers in a long 
kiss. “Oh, my love, you are the wisest of us all. Now we have a 
chance.” 
“There are only three of them outside the room. My 
charming escort and the two guards who have brought you the 
slop they’ve been feeding you. Nikki, they told me you were 
still weak from your wound.” 
Nicholas felt a bit of modest pride, himself. “I suppose 
acting runs in the family. I, too, thought a complacent enemy 
better.” 
“Ah—the Rostov motto—take every possible advantage. 
But hurry, there isn’t much time,” said Katherine. “Galerien 
only promised me five minutes to assure myself that you were 
still alive. 
“Galerien’s soldiers are everywhere, Nikki, a veritable army 
of them. Galerien insisted I bring none of our own here. We are 
all alone with only one chance, and that a slim one. We must 
take Galerien out during the ceremony.” She reached into her 
sleeve and another knife magically appeared. 
“Oh, no, Katherine,” said Nicholas. “I’ll not allow my little 
sister to take part in any of this.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Nikki,” snapped a flaming Katherine 
he had never seen before. “I’ve been practicing all week.” Her 
vengeful look wavered as some terrible thought struck her. Then 
she straightened her shoulders. “I assure you, my brother, if 
you do not reach Galerien, I shall.” 
Katherine cocked her head. Nicholas heard the guard’s 
heavy tread outside the cell and returned to his bed. Katherine 
motioned to them both and called out to the guard in a timid, 
tear-choked voice. “I am ready to proceed to the abbey, sir. If 
you could but open the door for me, I believe I can manage the 
stairway.” 
The guard appeared at the door. 
“Ah, me, I am so overset, my legs are trembling.” Katherine 
sniffled into a lace handkerchief and looked up at the guard 
weakly. “If you would be so kind as to escort me, I shall try to 
walk by myself.” 
The guard kept his eyes on Andre, who stood by the window 
with his head in his hands. Nicholas lay in bed moaning and 
tossing. Satisfied that the one man who might give trouble was 
too overcome to do so, the guard gave Katherine his right arm 
and reached with his left to shut the door. Katherine tugged 
once sharply, and the man stumbled to his right, losing his hold 
on the latch. Nicholas lunged from the bed and covered the 
guard’s mouth, holding him down with an elbow locked round 
his throat. 
“Move, Katherine.” 
“But—“ 
The man flailed beneath him with all his might. “Katya. 
You’re in bridal white, remember?” 
“Oh.” Katherine moved away, and Nicholas slit the guard’s 
throat. 
Katherine, stared, her face dead white. The man gurgled, 
and his limbs twitched wildly. Blood sprayed over the floor. 
“Come on,” whispered Nicholas, pushing Katherine toward 
the door. He peered through the crack to watch her performance. 
The two guards in the hallway barely had time to look up when 
an ashen-faced Katherine stumbled to the table, nearly 
collapsing. 
“Oh, sirs, my brother—the kind guard who brought me 
here—please, in there!” The men leaped to their feet and ran 

into the tower room. Andre and Nicholas gave each a swift chop 
to the jugular. The guards dropped like stones. Grabbing their 
swords and the braided tunics off their backs, Nicholas and 
Andre quickly shrugged into those and the high beaver caps of 
the palace guard. 
“Well,” said Katherine as they locked the door and ran to 
her side, “I’m happy I didn’t have to witness the rest of that.” 
All three raced down the winding stone stairway. “So that’s 
what you men do when you go to war,” she muttered to Nicholas. 
“I should think you would have outlawed that particular 
international solution eons ago.” 
“When we’re safe home, I’ll abolish war in my next speech 
to parliament.” 
They had reached the ground floor. Here, soldiers milled 
about, watching out for any sign of trouble from the visiting 
Laurentians. Galerien paced the marble floor waiting for a sign 
of Katherine. 
“Our soldiers are gathered at the border, Nikki,” whispered 
Katherine. “That is the closest I could get them. I must go, now. 
Wish me luck.” She squeezed his hand and threw her arms about 
Andre, holding him very hard. Then she was gone, walking 
toward Galerien in an awkward, hesitant manner, wringing her 
hands as she greeted him. Due to some trick of acoustics in the 
hall, Nicholas could hear every word clearly. 
“M-m-my b-b-brother is v-v-very ill. Please, c-c-could you 
send the doctor to h-h-him after the c-c-ceremony?” 
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Galerien absently. “Now, hurry 
to the abbey, my dear. I shall see you in but a few minutes.” 
Katherine stumbled and sniffled her way out the door. 
“Damned half-wit,” muttered Galerien. “I’ll get a couple 
of brats off her, and then she’ll go the way of her brother.” 
*** 
It was dark and dim inside Constanza Abbey. Even the 
candles seemed to fight weakly to stay lit against the gloom. A 
fit cave for the beast, thought Sera. Hood raised, she walked 
down the long aisle, past disheartened nobility, clever ministers 
with their fox eyes and gold badges of office, and guards, in 
their blue and gold uniforms, everywhere. One of them, close 
to the far side of the aisle, stood with such straight grace that 
she took a second look. Nicholas! And beside him stood Andre, 

with his unruly gold locks hastily shoved beneath a beaver hat. 
They had managed to escape, after all, but they stood behind a 
large company of soldiers armed to the hilt. She turned her gaze 
to the altar, where two figures knelt like statues, and a third 
read from a book. 
The man reading wore a tall hat and robes of crimson. His 
voice intoned a service over the bride and groom. As Sera drew 
closer, the words flowed to her through the incense clouded air. 
Something about marriage not being taken lightly. What irony, 
Sera thought. 
The moment was coming, the one she had feared and run 
from all her life. How would the beast try to kill her? For indeed, 
he would try. Probably, he’d shout to the guards, who stood 
now to her left and right as she strode soundlessly up the aisle. 
Galerien was never one to do his own dirty deeds, although, as 
she recalled, he vastly appreciated seeing the results. 
The soldiers would probably take her before she could raise 
the hood of her cloak and disappear. But perhaps her appearance 
could give Nicholas the time he needed to reach Galerien. 
Sera had studied this ceremony at university, learning the 
reasons for the words intoned by the Outlander holy man. He 
came to the part of the ceremony she would take for her cue. 
She took a deep breath and slowly drew down the hood of her 
cloak. 
“If anyone knows of any reason why this man and this 
woman should not be joined together in matrimony, speak now, 
or forever hold your peace.” 
“I know of several,” she said in a clear, firm voice that 
echoed through the abbey and kept walking. 
Nicholas’s head jerked at the sound of that clarion call. A 
collective gasp went through the congregation as Sera walked 
like a queen down the long, white aisle, her cloak trailing 
gracefully from her shoulders. He heard the screech of metal 
on metal as soldiers drew their swords. A guard standing in 
front of him remembered his duty and drew a pistol. Nicholas’s 
hand cracked against the back of the soldier’s head. He grabbed 
the pistol from his slackened hand. Edging around the fallen 
guard, he slipped through the next rows of men in blue and 
gold uniforms who seemed riveted on what was taking place at 
the altar. 

“Hold,” said the archbishop in a commanding voice. “This 
is God’s house.” 
The soldiers looked to Galerien, straining like hunting 
hounds before the cast. But the king had turned pale as a sheet. 
He stared at the woman walking toward him, and his mouth 
quivered. The men sheathed their swords. 
“Who makes this objection?” demanded the archbishop. 
“I, Catherine Elizabeth Seraphina Galerien, do make it.” 
Sera’s clear voice carried through the entire abbey. She turned 
to face those gathered, and at that moment, sunlight slashed 
through the clear, leaded window above her, lighting her features 
for those in the front of the abbey to see clearly. Men and women 
murmured to each other, and the whispers spread through the 
abbey from front to back. 
“She is the image of her blessed mother,” cried one woman. 
“Aye,” quaked an old man, “but with our beloved king’s 
coloring. I remember exactly that golden hair and those deep 
blue eyes. It is our princess, returned to us.” 
Elderly ministers of Beaureve painfully went to their knees 
while the new ones installed by Galerien looked left and right 
uneasily. 
Sera raised her right arm and pointed at Galerien. “This 
marriage cannot go forward because this man is a murderer and 
a traitor to Beaureve.” 
Galerien’s face froze in a mask of malevolence and fear. 
“How does this imposter dare to interrupt my wedding? 
Guards!” 
His army unsheathed swords again. 
Nicholas pushed through the last row of guards separating 
him from the altar. His heart pounded against his chest. Sera 
was so small, so vulnerable standing alone in the vast, cold 
abbey. 
She turned and slowly perused the abbey. Men gave cries 
of shock. Swords clanged dully upon stone as they dropped 
their weapons. 
“Dear Heaven,” said the archbishop, casting a fearful glance 
at Sera. He seemed to remember himself and his office, for he 
squared his shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Young 
woman, your charges are heavy, indeed. I must have proof that 
you are the princess Catherine Elizabeth before I listen to your 

accusations.” 
Sera climbed the stairway to the altar and held her hand out 
to the archbishop. In it was a man’s ring, wrought in beaten 
gold, a crowned lion rearing. 
“Dear Heaven,” said the archbishop again. “The royal seal. 
We have been looking for this for seventeen years.” 
Sera turned to Galerien. “You never could find it, could 
you? My father gave this to me moments before you had him 
murdered. Mama hid me, for we heard the assassins killing the 
guards outside their door. The murderers broke the door down 
an instant later. She never had time to close the wardrobe door 
completely. I saw everything.” 
Nicholas was close enough to see Sera’s face. Something 
painful and wrenching twisted in his heart as he watched her 
relive the worst night of her life. 
“They were dressed in black,” she said. “First they killed 
the king. He struggled, but they stabbed him again and again. 
My mother screamed, and they laughed as they plunged the 
knife into her heart.” 
There was absolute silence in the abbey. Sera’s voice clearly 
cut through the silence, and she sounded as cold as the moon. 
“You came in shortly afterwards, didn’t you, Uncle? ‘Where is 
the seal?’ you said. ‘I need it.’ And the tall man, the one who 
looks like Death said, ‘Why must you have it when you have a 
whole country now?’” 
A gasp of horror went through the crowd. “‘And the girl,’ 
you said. ‘Why did you not kill her in her nursery? I told you, I 
wanted them all taken out in one blow.’” 
Sera’s voice gained strength. She pointed at Galerien. “You 
have murdered kings and innocents. You have plundered the 
riches of Beaureve. You have forced the people into a life of 
destitution. You are not fit to marry. You are not fit to rule this 
country.” 
Galerien’s face mottled purple. Nicholas had seen that look 
before on a wild boar cornered by the hounds. 
“Imposter!” he roared, charging Sera from his place. 
“Guards, take her!” 
Sera squared her shoulders and faced the monster charging 
her. He would try to kill her, now, but Nicholas and Andre could 
escape with Katherine. A tall man stepped in front of her, his 

wide shoulders blocking her view. 
“No, Galerien. Finally, it comes to just you and me, doesn’t 
it?” 
Sera’s whole body went cold. “No, Nicholas,” she cried. 
“You have been ill. He will not fight fairly. I can deal with him.” 
Nicholas pushed her aside, very gently. “This is my battle,” 
he said in a soft, chilling voice. She had never seen so much 
cold fury in one man’s eyes before. 
She wanted to stop him, to reason with him, but it came to 
her that Nicholas must do this for his own pride. Even more, he 
must do it for Beaureve, for who would rule her country after 
she left it if not Nicholas? And how would her people accept 
him as their king, if he did not save them now from Galerien? 
She only prayed he was well enough to win against the monster. 
Galerien roared and unsheathed his sword. 
Nicholas’s face was calm and implacable as, blazing with 
rage, Galerien lunged. Nicholas parried easily. Sword rang upon 
sword as Galerien fought to push Nicholas back down the aisle 
of the cathedral. Nicholas stepped and turned without wasted 
motion. Sera thought he looked as graceful and as unconcerned 
as a dancer, but this dance was deadly. Galerien feinted, and his 
sword thrust down and sideways, but Nicholas had whirled out 
of the way. 
He had that look of abstract concentration one saw on the 
faces of saints and warriors in Outlander paintings. Sera dared 
not speak to stop the killing for fear of breaking that 
concentration. He leaped aside again as Galerien’s sword slashed 
downward. The deadly arc was a flash of jeweled color beneath 
the stained glass window. Sera shuddered, compelled to watch 
as every person in the prayer house watched, scarcely breathing. 
They twirled and feinted, clashed against each other as 
swords met and held. And then Nicholas, almost insouciantly, 
gave a flick of his wrist, and Galerien’s sword arced into the air. 
It sailed to the altar and embedded itself into the wood of the 
little cloth-covered table behind which the priest stood, 
transfixed. Nicholas smiled, a small, tight movement of the lips, 
and pressed his sword against Galerien’s throat. Galerien backed. 
Nicholas followed. Galerien fell to his knees and fumbled in 
his sleeve. He surged up again, a knife in his hand. 
But Nicholas gave a snarl of satisfaction. With a swift thrust 

of his leg, he kicked out and the knife went sailing. Galerien 
fell, tried to right himself, but the marble floor was slick. He 
struggled, back arched, while Nicholas held him there. 
“Say your last prayers, Galerien. Not that they’ll do you 
much good where you’re going.” Nicholas stood over his enemy. 
He was coiled to thrust. 
“Stop.” Sera’s voice held his hand back from the final coup. 
“What?” Nicholas tried to shake the battle rage from his 
brain. Sera stood beside him, staring down at the beast. Why 
did she ask—no, command—him to stop? How must she feel, 
looking into the eyes of the monster who had taken away 
everything she loved? 
“Not death,” she said. “Not in a prayer house. Not for this 
man.” 
“Sera, think. He took your loved ones from you. He hunted 
you and murdered your people. Think of Selonia, Sera, of Iman 
Hadar’s palace.” He could not believe she would hold true to 
her philosophy after all this. 
She shook her head. “It is too easy a fate to let him die,” 
she said. “Instead, he shall know, finally. He shall know just 
what he did.” Shall, not will. She spoke in the language of the 
law, proclaiming herself judge and jury. 
“Do you see them, Uncle? Your victims. My mother, my 
father, who did nothing to you but love you. Do you see their 
end, now?” She spoke very softly, and Galerien stiffened, 
moaning. 
“Do you see the people of Selonia? The dead children, the 
old people who couldn’t run fast enough from the black shadows 
that cut them down? Do you smell the blood?” 
“No, no, please!” Galerien’s neck was stretched like that of 
a man on the rack. 
“Do you hear the infants wailing for mothers who lie dead 
on top of them, shielding their tiny bodies from the beasts you 
sent to wreak such terror?” 
“God, no more! I see them. I see them! Take them away, 
please, please.” 
“I cannot, Uncle. You killed them, and now they’ll haunt 
you for the rest of your life. You’ll know your sins forever, and 
the sacred promise of each life you snuffed out.” 
Galerien rolled to his side and drew his legs up, curling his 

whole body together in agony. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.” 
He began to sob, muttering and moaning to himself. 
Nicholas looked at Sera and then at the figure cowering on 
the floor. Her beautiful face was stern. “Artemis,” he whispered. 
“Goddess of the silver bow. You called the Furies.” 
“I am no goddess,” Sera said, still staring at Galerien as he 
writhed at her feet. “And I did not call them. They have been 
waiting for him, lo these many years.” 
And Nicholas knew that with all his modern understanding, 
his enlightened vision, he would never totally comprehend this 
woman whose magic could make a demon writhe in shame. 
“Take him away,” said Sera to the people kneeling before 
her. “House him comfortably. From now on, look upon him 
and recognize his suffering.” 
Sera looked at the men and women before her. She began 
to raise the hood of her cloak. 
An old man richly dressed hobbled toward her as guards 
dragged Galerien out of the abbey. He dropped to one knee 
before her. “Princess, I am—“ 
Sera bent and helped the old man to his feet. “I recognize 
you, Baron Taurons. You used to let me play with your 
timepiece.” 
The old man’s rheumy eyes grew bright. “Aye, that I did. 
Princess, your throne awaits you. Your people need you.” 
Sera looked at Katherine, at Andre who stood now beside 
Katherine. After a long moment, she finally raised her gaze to 
Nicholas’s face, her expression inscrutable. She seemed to be 
waiting for something from him, perhaps an explanation, a 
justification. He was paralyzed by fear—that whatever he said 
wouldn’t be enough. What could he tell her, this goddess from 
a golden world, that would keep her here, that would convince 
her he was compensation enough for what she’d lose? 
Stay with me. Try to love me, in spite of my imperfections. 
If he were any other man, he could say, I love you. The muscles 
of his hand ached with the need to reach out and touch her, to 
tell her what was forbidden to him. 
A movement from the corner of his eye made him turn. 
Another walked the cathedral aisle toward them, a giant of a 
man with golden hair, wearing a gray cloak. 
Nicholas felt Sera’s eyes still locked on his face. Why 

couldn’t he say it? Why must he condemn himself to a life of 
hiding from what he felt? Everything in him fought to break 
free, to express in words what his heart had known, it seemed, 
forever. But her eyes fluttered shut and the radiance that seemed 
her very life seeped out of her face. Nicholas lunged forward 
an instant too late. The Hillman had already grabbed her. Sera 
slumped against his side, her face bleached of color. Even her 
hands hung lifeless from slack arms. 
“Let me have her,” Nicholas said—actually, begged—the 
man who had taken her away from him once. He raised his 
hand, half in supplication, half in preparation to take Sera in his 
arms. “I have to tell her. She has to know.” 
The Hillman’s blue eyes bit into Nicholas with a chill that 
went bone deep. “This is what you have done to her, Outlander,” 
said the Hillman. “The power she used to save you and these 
others has drained the life out of her until there is almost nothing 
left of her. Can you heal her?” 
Nicholas dropped his hand and lowered his head. He had 
not a word to say in defense of himself. What had he done in 
his pride but harm the only thing that gave light and joy to his 
life? My kind don’t heal. We only wound, he thought, and call 
it duty. 
“She comes with me.” The Hillman raised Sera’s hood to 
her hair, and then raised his own. A faint breeze wafted past 
Nicholas’s face. He shut his eyes, unwilling to face the empty 
space where she had been, but it didn’t matter. He knew that 
she was gone. He knew because he felt the crack that rent his 
heart in two. 

Fifteen 
Andre hesitated outside the door to Nicholas’s study. His 
friend had been busy all day with the problems of two countries, 
and if the last two weeks were any indication, he’d work on 
well into the night. Beaureve’s ministers had asked him for help, 
at least until their princess returned to them. Poor fools, they 
really believed she would come back to them. 
Nicholas seemed to know better. After the first week of 
difficult work in Constanza, Nicholas had appointed new 
officials, new justices, and new ministers to report back to him 
on a regular basis. He had been tireless in his efforts for 
Beaureve, attempting to exorcise his demons through intense 
work. 
He had succeeded in giving Beaureve the beginning of a 
new age. People who had suffered under the iron rule of Galerien 
now hoped for better from Nicholas, and were content to wait 
for improvement, particularly now that there was food in the 
markets and only reasonable taxation to face. 
But Nicholas, although physically recovered from his 
wound, carried scars that worried Andre. He never spoke of 
Sera, and he never laughed. He dined alone and ate little. The 
only sign of pleasure he had shown in the last week was his 
delight in Katherine’s upcoming marriage to Andre. And even 
that was tinged with a hint of melancholy. 
Andre bit his lip as he raised his hand to knock at the door. 
He must think of something that would smooth away the haunted 
circles from beneath Nicholas’s eyes. A sound behind him, a 
brush of air quickly displaced, jarred him from his thoughts. 
He turned about and scowled fiercely. The man removing the 
hood of his gray cloak was the Arkadian scoundrel who had 
taken Sera from Nicholas. 
“Does your king sit within his study?” 
Andre bristled. The fellow had a hell of a nerve returning 
to the palace. 
“Do you wish an interview? For what purpose? Will you 
tell him about your idyllic married life? Does it please you to 
rub his nose in it? Come,” he said raising his fists. “I apprehend 
that you do not approve of weapons, at least those that only 

hurt the body. But perhaps I could interest you in a bout of 
fisticuffs.” 
The golden bastard gave him a mild look. “Count Lironsky, 
you do me and your king a disservice. I am unmarried at present, 
and intend to remain so for quite some time. I came only because 
I believe that Sera and Nicholas Rostov may have made a grave 
miscalculation—one in which I played a part. But I must see 
with my own eyes if he suffers in any way as greatly as she 
does from this separation. Knowing that, will you allow me to 
pass, or do you wish me gone?” 
Andre blinked and lowered his fists. He could think of 
nothing to say or do other than step aside. The man gave him a 
curt nod. “My name is Jacob Augustus. If you would announce 
me to your king, I shall complete my task as quickly as possible.” 
*** 
Nicholas looked up from the book he had been trying to 
read for the past hour. “I am very busy, Andre,” he said upon 
seeing his friend at the door. “Perhaps I’ll see you tonight.” He 
was growing more and more impatient with Andre’s constant 
hovering. 
Recently, Andre and Katherine had made it their sole 
responsibility to watch over him, interrupting the little time he 
had to himself to seek reassurance that he wasn’t—what? 
Contemplating suicide? 
All of their worry was utter nonsense, of course. A man 
didn’t die for want of love. He simply no longer cared about 
living, which made sense when all about one was barren and 
gray as a landscape in Purgatory. 
What he contemplated was worse. For months, he had 
ignored what was in his heart, telling himself he mustn’t ever 
look at it closely, for fear it would weaken him. But living 
without Sera had shown him his own soul. Whether he admitted 
it to himself or not, he loved her, and he would love her forever. 
And out of fear, he had thrown it all away. 
Too late, he’d discovered that strength came not from 
denying love, but from accepting it, and giving it back for every 
moment love was granted him. Oh, he would survive, and he 
would even be a good king. He was too duty bound not to. 
Survival without Sera, however, wasn’t really living. 
Nicholas stared blindly at the book, willing Andre to leave. 

In the silence, he could hear the sounds of an army unit drilling 
to music outside his window. 
Andre didn’t leave. He was too stubborn to get Nicholas’s 
not very subtle message. He stood at the door looking… actually 
quite strange, and much too thoughtful, as though he had just 
been told that the moon really was made of green cheese, or 
that dragons did exist. 
“A man wishes to see you, Nikki. His name is Jacob 
Augustus. I believe you’d better grant him an audience.” 
Nicholas sighed. The last thing he wanted to face was 
another courtier from Beaureve today. “My schedule is full. 
Perhaps you could see him in my stead.” 
Andre cleared his throat in a curious manner. “He needs to 
speak to you. It’s rather urgent, Nikki.” 
Nicholas rubbed his eyes. “Very well. Send him in if you 
must.” 
Andre opened the door and spoke to this Jacob Augustus in 
a low voice. Nicholas rose and walked to the window, composing 
his expression. He heard the door shut and turned to speak to 
the man who waited before it. 
Nicholas froze in place, his whole being caught in a flash 
of pain. He didn’t know how long the two of them looked at 
each other, measuring, wondering. Finally, he felt he could 
control his voice enough to speak. 
“Sera, she is well?” he asked, indicating a seat as he walked 
to his desk. 
This Jacob Augustus shook his head and remained standing. 
“I do not believe so.” 
Nicholas felt all the blood drain from his heart and grabbed 
at the desk to remain upright. “She is not recovered?” he asked, 
remembering her deadly pallor in the abbey at Constanza. 
The man nodded solemnly. “In a way of speaking. She is 
physically well, just as you are.” 
Just as he was, thought Nicholas. He was a mess. “But soon 
she will marry. And you will be good to her, I know.” He looked 
down at his hands. “Else she would never agree to….” He 
couldn’t go on. 
“Marry me?” asked Jacob Augustus in an incredulous voice. 
“Nicholas Rostov, I am her brother, not her betrothed.” 
The sounds beyond the window dimmed in Nicholas’s ears. 

“Her brother?” he repeated numbly. 
“You have a sister, do you not?” 
Nicholas slowly loosened his hold on the side of the desk. 
“Katherine. She is very dear to me.” 
“As Sera is to me. And that is why I am here. Sera told me 
quite recently that she was now certain you had no wish to see 
her again, that you would never change your mind. In the prayer 
house, she was too busy and too tense to see anything in your 
face but what she thought was a final rejection. And I—well, I 
admit it. I gave in to anger and judged you to be like all the rest 
of them, in spite of what I saw in your expression when she 
appeared and you fought to reach her. You looked like a man 
desperate to protect his woman. 
“I acted wrongly,” the Hillman continued, “and knew I must 
make restitution. So I made her listen to my observations. 
Although she is not at all convinced that I am correct concerning 
your—what do you Outlanders call them?— intentions toward 
Sera, I have come to place the choice once more before you.” 
Jacob Augustus reached into a pouch that hung by his side 
and placed something wrapped in velvet on the desk before 
Nicholas. He picked it up and unrolled the wrapping. The 
betrothal necklace he had given Sera the night of the ball lay in 
his hand. The ruby was gone. Instead, a great sapphire, as deep 
a blue as Sera’s eyes, hung from the chain of diamonds and 
rubies. 
Beside the necklace sat a man’s large gold ring, fashioned 
by a master goldsmith. Nicholas’s breath caught as he looked 
at the crowned lion, rearing. The royal seal of Beaureve lay 
before him. 
“I must warn you. Sera knows nothing of my journey or its 
purpose. I also “borrowed” the ring without her knowledge. If 
you choose it, wear it, and return the necklace to her. That is the 
way of your betrothals, is it not?” 
Nicholas felt the first stirring of hope deep in his chest. He 
touched the ring with one finger, feeling the warmth of the metal 
as a promise. Carefully, he slipped it on the third finger of his 
left hand. It was a perfect fit. 
Jacob smiled and nodded as he picked up the necklace and 
stowed it back in his pouch. “I shall return this to my sister 
straightaway. Sera told me you can track a mouse through a 

forest. Is that true?” 
Nicholas’s lips quirked in a small grimace of irony. “Your 
sister thinks more highly of my talents than she should, but yes, 
I’m a good hunter.” 
Jacob nodded and looked past Nicholas to the window, 
where the sun was breaking through the clouds. “It promises to 
be a fine, warm day,” he said speculatively. “I believe I shall 
ride home without raising my hood.” Without another word, he 
turned and walked out the door. 
Nicholas stared at the betrothal ring on his finger. A slow 
grin spread across his face and through his whole body. He lifted 
his head as warmth and energy filled him, and he ran out the 
open door into the corridor. 
“Which way did he go?” he shouted to Andre. 
“To the left,” said Andre, loping after him. “What’s going 
on?” 
Nicholas sprinted for the stairs. “You and Katherine are co-
regents until I return.” 
“Good God, Nikki. Just like that?” 
Nicholas yelled to a passing footman. “My horse and a pack 
of provisions. Immediately.” He ran on, shouting orders, 
grabbing a warm cloak and gloves from a footman who raced 
to meet him as he made for the great stairway. 
“Andre, you’re slowing me down.” Nicholas threw on the 
cloak as he took the stairs two at a time. 
Andre grabbed his arm. “This is folly. You cannot go alone.” 
Nicholas easily broke his grip and turned to face his friend. 
“I’m following a dream, Andre, and it’s getting a head start.” 
He threw his arms around Andre and gave him a bear hug. 
Andre grunted. And grinned. After all, what else was there 
to do? 
The guard held Nicholas’s horse for him. The bay pranced, 
as though he had caught his master’s eagerness. “Farewell,” 
called Nicholas. He felt giddy and light as air. As soon as he 
touched his legs to the horse’s flanks, they sprang forward and 
cantered from the yard. 
*** 
The snow whirled around Nicholas as he continued his 
ascent of the tallest mountain in the Arkadian range. He had 
been riding for three days and slowly climbing upward for two. 

Damned if Jacob Augustus wasn’t a far better woodsman than 
his sister. Nicholas had to backtrack twice to find the man’s 
trail. This cost him valuable time, but luckily, the snow hadn’t 
begun until quite recently, when he hit the base of Mount Joy. 
He wondered at the irony of the name. 
An hour ago, Nicholas had left the horse with a crofter who 
promised to take care of it. The peasant seemed to be the only 
man to live among these isolated, bare cliffs. Nicholas knew 
why. He was cold and wet clear through. His lungs began to 
burn with each breath, but he couldn’t tell whether this was 
because of the double-damned pneumonia or the lack of oxygen 
as he climbed ever upward. 
A storm had begun an hour before. Through the swirling 
snow, he could make out a horse and rider high above him. 
Amazing what those Hill horses could do, he thought with a 
twinge of envy. Hell, if he lived, which he bloody well planned 
to do, he wanted to ride one of those magical beasts. Provided 
Sera didn’t throw him back out into the blizzard. 
During the ascent, he felt curiously detached from his own 
body, his own mind. But as soon as he became aware of his 
laboring breath, all of his fears and doubts gained ascendancy. 
Jacob had said nothing reassuring about Sera’s frame of mind. 
She was probably furious and hurt and far beyond his feeble 
attempts to convince her of his love. What trick could he use to 
move her when she had told him in every possible way that she 
loved him and he had never once said those words to her? 
Nicholas clung to the mountainside and heaved himself upward. 
Suddenly, it was abundantly clear that there was only one thing 
that mattered. It was in her hands to accept or reject him. It was 
in his to tell her what she meant to him. 
Each breath seared his lungs. He stopped, giving himself a 
little time to rest. Sweat bathed his body and drained the heat 
from him. A deep, bone rattling cold sliced through his boots, 
his gloves, his wet cloak. Icy pain gripped his limbs. His energy 
seeped from his body with its heat, and his own moisture chilled 
him. 
Cold shuddered through him. He pushed down the fear that 
surfaced with the cold—the panic that he would fail to reach 
Sera at all—and began to climb again. He’d make it, step by 
grueling step. He had to. 

“In order to tell her,” he whispered against the howling 
wind. 
With grim determination, he bent against the storm. It 
screamed in his ears, howling a vengeful dissonance. He climbed 
on, stopping occasionally to look upward and gauge where Jacob 
Augustus was on the mountainside. One last time, he scanned 
the heights, his eyes narrowed against the wind and the snow. 
Jacob and his horse stood before a frozen waterfall. A flash of 
light and a fiery red burst from behind the fall pierced the 
gathering darkness, and Jacob. . . disappeared. 
Nicholas marked the spot in his mind and trudged upward 
with renewed purpose, furious with his clumsy steps, his 
stumbles over rock on the narrow path. His boots slipped. Sleet 
stung his face with a thousand needles. And still he climbed. 
The light began to fade completely as he hit the last hundred 
feet. Each breath he took felt like fire. His legs were numb, 
almost useless. He couldn’t suck enough air into his lungs. He 
fell to his knees, and shook his head against the dizziness that 
threatened to engulf him. And he crawled toward the waterfall, 
measuring his progress in inches. Fending off the dark spots 
before his eyes, he gritted his teeth and struggled forward. With 
every foot he gained, he thought, Behind that wall of frozen 
water, Sera is waiting. 
How long had he been climbing? he thought wearily. 
Forever? The waterfall stood before him, all its tumultuous 
power frozen in time and place. Slowly, painfully, he staggered 
to his feet, searching for the door behind the falls. He found 
only sheer, solid cliff wall. 
Ah, God. His breath came out in a painful sob of frustration. 
Along with his muscle and sinew, his mind had turned to 
porridge in the last hours. How could Jacob Augustus have 
disappeared behind this wall of rock? He had seen it, the flash 
of fire, and the man no longer visible. 
The flash of fire.… 
Nicholas carefully explored the rock with hands almost too 
frozen to feel. He forced his sleet-encrusted eyelids open and 
studied the pillars of rock to the left and the right of the falls. 
Think, he silently screamed at his sluggish brain. All right. Jacob 
Augustus still sat astride his horse when he disappeared. That 
meant the key to the door was high enough for a rider on a 

seventeen-hand mount to reach with ease. 
Nicholas tore off his gloves and blew into his hands. As 
soon as his sense of touch began to return, he ran his bare hands 
up along an icy crevice in the pillars. He felt something solid, 
many faceted, on the right hand column, and it was warm to the 
touch. In the midst of this frozen world, it felt as warm as the 
ruby he had bought from the merchant, he thought muzzily. 
And at his touch, the cliff wall split and slid open, as silently 
and cleanly as a pocket door in the palace. Through the swirling 
snow, he caught the rosy glow that emanated from the open 
cliffs. It bathed him in a warm radiance. He raised a foot and 
took a faltering step toward the light. It was suddenly very 
important that he walk upright through the gate. 
Nicholas squinted against the light of the setting sun as he 
slowly walked into a large square. He tried to make out the 
dark silhouetted figures that stood waiting at the square’s 
perimeter. Against the rose hues of sunset, one, a small, delicate 
shadow, stood frozen in place beside a larger shadow. 
He thought he heard her say, “For the gods’ sake, get him a 
cloak,” but his storm-deafened ears couldn’t make out the words 
clearly. He knew only that the voice was dear to him. On 
stumbling legs he made his way slowly toward her. He had to 
tell her. 
A tall, upright figure stepped into his path, and Nicholas 
stopped as abruptly as a dog reaching the end of a strong leash. 
Try as he might, he could not break past the invisible boundary 
that hemmed him in. Nicholas half shut his eyes against the last 
rays of light and peered at the man who blocked his path by 
will alone. He could just make out blue eyes deep as an ocean 
in a face lined but powerful. 
“What do you wish, Outlander?” asked the man who stood 
before him. Nicholas recognized his voice. He had heard it 
recently, on a battlefield in Beaureve. 
Nicholas stood straighter and tried to swallow, but his throat 
burned like fire. He ran his tongue over his lips, but even his 
tongue was dry. 
“I am Nicholas Andreyevitch Rostov,” he said through a 
voice that cracked as his lungs strained for breath to speak. “I 
must speak to Catherine Elizabeth Seraphina Galerien.” 
“Say what you will to her in the presence of this company,” 

said the older man. 
A mass of shadows moved forward, surrounding Nicholas. 
He swayed, took a step forward, and hit the invisible wall 
hemming him in. He blinked and felt along the boundaries of 
his prison. His numb fingers traced out a flat, smooth surface, 
like crystal and steel welded together. Leaning his forehead hard 
against it, he fought the frustration and tried to think of a way 
out of the cage that trapped him, but his mind was as useless as 
his trembling legs. Voices came to him like the muffled sighs of 
the ocean through a conch shell. The amorphous figures 
murmured and slowly took shape before him. 
Lights flickered on as torches flared. Nicholas could see 
buildings lining the square, the marble rosy in the light. Around 
him, men and women took their seats upon benches that led 
upward in a semicircle. A fine irritation jittered along all his 
nerve endings. He felt as though he were a beast in a pit. 
“Nicholas Rostov, you have formerly expressed a desire to 
wed Catherine Elizabeth Seraphina Galerien, of this country,” 
a voice declared from midway up the rows of seats. 
Desire, thought Nicholas, does not begin to cover it. 
“If this is still your wish, by what right do you claim her?” 
This answer, at least, came quickly to him. “I have no right.” 
Nicholas groaned, pressing against the invisible cage that 
held him. He couldn’t coerce, or outmaneuver, or argue logically. 
But Sera was there, he had heard her, felt her presence. He had 
come to tell her—he had lived to tell her—and nobody was 
going to stop him now. 
“I have no right to take you from the safety of this place,” 
he said in a voice that tried for calm but shook with emotion. 
“All I have is my love for you. I love you, Sera.” 
The small shadow at the periphery struggled, whether to 
run to him or away, he couldn’t tell. But the larger one touched 
her arm, and she quieted. 
“Let her come to me,” he called out to the dark shadows 
about him. “If just to say good-bye, let her come.” But the 
invisible walls hemmed him in, as alone as he had ever been in 
the gray Outlander world beyond this light. He forced himself 
to go on, ignoring the listening ears, the strangers prodding him 
for all his secrets. It no longer mattered a damn who heard him, 
as long as she did. 

“Sera!” His voice broke on a laugh that was half a groan. “I 
don’t think you understand what it means to me that you see 
what I am, all of me and still you love me.” 
He cleared his throat. “You never let me off, did you? You 
never let me hide in logic or pretension, yet you believed in me 
when I doubted I would ever be good enough. Because of you, 
I changed into a man whom my people actually seem to look 
upon with fondness. Because of you, Katherine is no longer 
afraid of me—or anything else. Rather amazing, isn’t it?” 
He gave a low laugh that caught in his throat. “I have no 
right to you, Sera. Bloody shame, isn’t it, because I love you 
with all my heart. I think I did from that moment in Hadar’s 
palace, when you told me how you might have a terrible disease. 
Do you remember how you decided that if one was disgusting, 
two would certainly keep me away?” 
Nicholas stared at his hands and muttered, “Now I’ve 
probably embarrassed you in front of your people and ruined 
my chances. But I came here so I could tell you. I shall love 
you until I die. That is all I have to say.” 
“Nicholas!” Her clear cry cut through the muffled air. 
The barrier shattered into a thousand pieces. Nicholas turned 
blindly toward the sound of her voice. Sera burst down those 
endless stairs into the pit and flung herself against him. His 
arms whipped around her. She lifted her face. Her eyes were 
shadowed, and her face was thin. But she glowed. 
Nicholas tried to grin. With the lump in his throat, it was 
too hard. He buried his face against her neck, breathing in the 
sweet scent of her body, fighting for control. 
Sera tugged lightly at his hand. “Come away,” she 
whispered, glancing about them, and he remembered himself, 
and where they were, and the scrutiny that she must feel from 
the inquisitors who stood witness. He followed her out of the 
square and on through a wide city street smelling of flowers 
and fresh, blessedly warm air, and he realized that Sera’s elusive 
scent came from Arkadia, itself. 
It was around them and part of her, and it was the earth 
that had nurtured her all her life. In the soft lamplight, the 
buildings rose about him in the classic Greek style, clean of 
line and perfectly harmonious. This was quite unlike any city 
he had ever seen, not even Montanyard. Sculptures stood 

everywhere, magnificent, finer than any he’d seen in Florence. 
The streets were broad, and the stone that made them perfectly 
cut. Somewhere singing in the back of his dizzy brain was the 
strangest feeling of ease exchanged for tension, as though he 
had finally, after years of exile, come home. The Temple Square 
was empty. The people must all still be gathered in the 
amphitheater beyond the mountain pass. 
Nicholas pulled Sera behind the columns of a great marble 
building and wrapped his arms about her. She nestled against 
him, her own arms holding tight. This was what he craved, what 
he needed to live again. Bending his head, he covered her lips 
with his own, to take her joy and give it back again. He cupped 
her cheeks and planted kisses over her nose, her mouth, her 
eyelids. The words he’d kept boxed inside him flew from his 
lips. “I love you,” he whispered. “I love you.” 
In the dim light, he fumbled for the necklace and clasped it 
around her throat. 
“Blue and white,” he murmured, tracing the oval of the 
brilliant sapphire, feeling the soft skin above her collar bone 
with the back of his hand. “The colors of Laurentia.” 
“Red and white,” she said, drawing his hand to the rubies 
and diamonds of the chain. He could hear the smile in her voice. 
“The colors of Beaureve.” 
Laughing, he lifted her high and twirled her so many times, 
he lost count. “I love you,” he said again, for all the times he 
had not said it. And then, because it was a serious decision she 
had, after all, made in the midst of high emotion, he asked, 
“Are you sure?” 
The moon rose, silver and full, and he saw the radiance 
again on her face, and the teasing smile that he had seen before 
only rarely. It had the same effect it always did on him, turning 
him heated and eager in a flash. 
“How many times must I agree to marry you, Nicholas 
Rostov? Indeed, I do not believe you have formally proposed 
even now.” 
He pulled her up against him, letting her feel his heat and 
his need. “Once upon a time,” he said between butterfly kisses 
to her cheeks, her chin, the soft, upward curve of her mouth, “a 
king got himself well and truly lost. And a beautiful princess 
took pity on him.” 

She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back, 
ardent and joyful and sensual beyond his wildest dreams. “What 
happened then?” she whispered. 
“She married him.” He buried his face in her neck, breathing 
in her scent, which was the perfume of the flowers all about 
them. “And they lived happily ever after.” 

Epilogue 
A week later, Sera watched the moon rise over Arkadia. 
The light shone into the room where she stood with Nicholas 
behind her, his arms wrapped about her waist. It was their 
wedding night, and there was nothing more she would have 
wished than this—to have him warm and strong at her back, 
sharing her world, whichever one it would be. Waiting to be 
wed would have seemed torment, for they were not permitted 
to be alone with each other for more than a few minutes at a 
time. But there were compensations for her body’s hunger for 
him. This week she had seen Nicholas’s face light at the sight 
of scientific discoveries at the academy, at the feel of a Hill 
horse beneath him, and at the sounds of intense, earnest debate 
among young men and women in the agora. 
He had spent hours with her grandfather, discussing 
oligarchy and democracy, for Arkadia had been in transition 
from the former to the latter since the tenth century, when the 
eugenics program was discarded. Most of all, she treasured the 
look of relief and happiness on his face when he gazed through 
Grandfather’s scrying glass and saw the French troops hurrying 
away from Laurentia’s border, toward France. 
Never, she thought with a blush and a shiver of anticipation, 
had he looked so young, so eager and relaxed, except after their 
bodies had met and merged in love. 
This night, she had seen his even deeper joy at the sight of 
her, sitting suddenly shy in her crimson gown and veil when he 
came to “abduct” her from her home. 
Her kinsmen and her friends had put up very little fight 
when Nicholas and Jacob Augustus appeared at Grandfather’s. 
There had been much laughter and applause when he had swept 
her up in his arms and carried her from her childhood hearth 
while Jacob, as groomsman, ran ahead to bring the horses for 
the bride and groom to ride away. 
Jacob had taken time to get to know Nicholas in the last 
week, as if to make up for the prejudice that had unwittingly 
caused her so much unhappiness. And in the end, he had 
confessed a genuine liking for the king, intensified by his study 
of Nicholas’s genealogy. Hill blood ran in the Rostov line from 

Sophia, the daughter of a Russian prince and an Arkadian 
mother, who had met and fallen in love with Nicholas’s 
grandfather. It was Queen Sophia’s room that had the hidden 
staircase and the wondrous wallpaper that included a bird from 
the Hills. 
This discovery explained many things to Jacob. He now 
knew why the king felt that little prickle at the back of his neck, 
why he could fend off recurring pneumonia with the force of 
his will alone, and why he was able to hear Emmanuel’s warning 
on the battlefield in the Brotherhood camp. Jacob surmised that 
the Hill blood running in Nicholas’s veins was what had toppled 
his sister into delirious love in the first place. 
Sera could have told Jacob that Hill blood hadn’t a thing to 
do with her love for Nicholas, but she wanted to encourage his 
new interest in the Outlander world. For if Jacob, the future 
Mage, became curious, others would follow, and the bridge 
between both worlds would strengthen. 
“What are you thinking?” Nicholas wrapped her closer, his 
breath a warm, soft huff against her ear. She bent her head to 
one side, giving him access. A jolt of heat swept through her 
when she felt his soft kisses on the sensitive skin beneath her 
ear. 
“Among other things, how delighted you were with the 
wedding present your groomsman gave you.” 
She could feel his lips curve against her skin. “The Hill 
cloak! Sera, did I ever tell you how much I wanted to travel? 
When I was a boy, all I could think about was what the Pyramids 
must look like, and the Great Wall of China, and the Taj Mahal. 
I never thought I’d be free enough to do such a thing. And now, 
we can go anywhere we want, and be back by suppertime.” 
How she loved his joy. Such a man as her husband would 
never grow old. “Do you remember Jacob’s instructions?” 
“I should hope so,” Nicholas said with another huff of air, 
this time not so gentle. “They were certainly simple, although 
several months ago, I wouldn’t have believed in such things as 
Hill cloaks and beautiful, magical, stubborn women.” 
She smiled at that last and turned to twine her arms about 
his neck. “Tell me how to use a Hill cloak,” she said, rubbing 
her lips against the smooth skin just above his collarbone. 
“Tomorrow,” he murmured against her hair. “I can’t think 

when you do that.” His hand traveled up her side, cupping the 
fullness of her breast. She gasped as his palm grazed the nipple. 
Memory and privation sharpened her hunger, and she arched 
into his hand. But there was one last gift she wanted to give 
him before she surrendered to the need coursing through her 
body. 
“Now,” she whispered. 
He sighed and drew her close. “Either I think very hard of 
the exact place where I want to be, or I hold your hand, and 
you’ll guide me. Jacob also said that certain sensations would 
be… unsettling and that I should let you guide me the first time 
or two. But I know where I want to go.” 
“Where?” 
“To bed. With you.” Nicholas kissed her again, maddeningly 
exciting little teases along her throat and down, lower. 
“There will be a bed, I promise.” 
The cloaks lay across the couch by the window. Sera 
carefully fastened one about Nicholas’s shoulders. “Don’t put 
the hood up until it’s time,” she said, with frightening visions 
of Nicholas lost on the wind. 
“I have better things in mind for tonight than waiting for 
you to rescue me, Sera.” His eyes danced with excitement as 
she fastened her own cloak. “Take me to a nice, big bed where 
we can make love all night.” 
“Hold on to me,” she said, reaching out for his hand. 
Nicholas lifted the hood over his head. The world 
disappeared in a whoosh and swirl of air. He held on tight to 
Sera’s hand, sailing on the wind like a hawk high above the 
earth below them. The stars and the moon glowed, cold and 
remote above them. His nose was cold, but everything else was 
blessedly warm beneath the cloak’s thin wool. What magic had 
they woven into the warp and woof of the fabric? His heart 
pounded, his eyes watered against the wind, and he brushed 
them with his free hand, to better see rivers below him like 
shining silver ribbons. 
Excitement thrummed through him. This, then, to fly above 
the world at will, was the freedom he had always craved. He 
felt the earth beneath him coming up fast. For an instant, his 
insides lurched in sickening fear of a crash. Wildly, he looked 
round him, but the place was a blur in the darkness. 

Softly as a feather, they touched down into warmth and 
light. He blinked, disoriented. His feet felt boards beneath them, 
his hands the blaze of a fire. He drew down the hood of his 
cloak and looked about. His great, canopied bed with the crown 
at the top rose on the dais directly before him. Sera stood beside 
him, beautiful in the firelight as she unfastened her cloak and 
laid it carefully upon the chair in his room. For a moment, he 
didn’t understand her, and thought this must be some joke she’d 
thought to play. 
But she came to him with that radiance on her face and 
unfastened his cloak. 
He caught her fingers in his hand. “Why? Why of all the 
places in the world, here, in my room?” 
She raised his hands to her lips and very softly kissed them 
both. When she lifted her gaze to him, he saw that her eyes 
were that serene, deep blue of an ocean on a perfect summer 
morning, when the world is new again. 
“I’ve brought us home, Nicholas,” she said. 
Home. It was such a simple word. And with it, she gave 
him everything—her allegiance, her happiness, her complete 
trust. 
If he had learned one thing in the last months, it was to 
accept a gift of love without reservation. He scooped his wife 
up into his arms and carried her to his bed. She held on tight to 
the nape of his neck, warm and soft in his embrace. As he laid 
her down, she smiled up at him, a full, rich curving of her lips 
because he had understood her gift. Aye, he thought bending to 
her, a man who holds tight to the blessing in his arms may be 
flawed in a million ways, but he’s no fool. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR 
Mary Lennox grew up dreaming of places where magic 
and happy endings coexisted. She woke up long enough to leave 
graduate school, marry an irreverent lawyer and tour the world. 
Nothing could have prepared her for the medieval beauty of 
Europe’s cathedrals, the grimness and glory of Russia, or the 
exotic mysteries of India. The only way to top that experience 
was to turn carpenter and build with her husband her perfect 
house on a tranquil horse farm in Appalachia, home-school her 
kids from grades k-12, and gallop her horses on the wooded 
trails. 
Heart of Fire is Mary’s second novel. Now back to dreaming 
full time, Mary spends her days creating worlds where magic 
and human endeavor vanquish evil and a happy ending is 
guaranteed.