The Treasure Keeper

Chapter One

Journal of Mlle. Zoe Cyprienne Lane

Presented to Me Upon the Occasion of My Thirteenth Birthday

Myers Cottage, Darkfrith York, England

May 1, 1766

No rain.

Cherry Cake with Breakfast. Spotted Scones and Cider after Supper.

From Mother:The Journal. An Embroidered Tucker.

From Uncle Anton:A Tome of Verse: Songs for Gentle Girls.

From Cerise: An Ink and colored Portrait of my favorite rooster, Maximillian. (From me to Cerise:A Polished Silver Nugget in the Shape of a Heart from the River Fier.)

From Lord Rhys Sean Valentin Langford, second son of the Alpha (!):A bouquet of Pure Whyte Roses (the marchioness's garden?). A Small Carving of Maximillian from Pine (bloodstain on the left wing? dirt?). A Woven Ring of his Hair (!!).

Roses to Mother. Hair Ring to the dust bin. I rather like the carving.

Journal June 13,1766

No rain. Quite hot.

Lessons to-day in the village from the Dreaded Council for All Drakon Children. (I do think that at Thirteen Years of Age One ought not to be called a Child, and ought to be excused from these events, but the Council Begs to Differ.) I don't know why they bother repeating the same shabby old rules year after year. We've heard them enough by now to choke on them: We must not Leave the Shire! We must not Speak of the Gifts! We must not Reveal our Secrets to the Others! We must Think Only of the Tribe!

Rhys arrived late, as ever (no one even chided him. I suppose it must be lovely to be a Lord), and insisted upon squeezing into the seat next to mine. Then he kept pretending to tip his Inkpot upon my skirts when None were Looking. Vexing. I don't care what he said afterward, I don't believe he would have stopped without my kick to his shin. I will Concede, however, that it was unfortunate the Ink spilled upon his breeches instead.

Cerise claims She Saw it All. Grew very red and said that I was a shameless flirt. I told her to find a looking glass before casting names at me. Everyone knows she's a Goose, no matter that she's the elder by three minutes.

I cannot fathom a person less Likely to be my Twin.

Perhaps she is a changeling.

Journal June 19,1766

No rain.

Full moon, couldn't sleep. Mother made me extinguish the lamps early. The smell of smoking oil simply fills my face; I can hardly breathe with it. When I opened my window the stars tried to siphon me up into the sky. Saw Uncle Anton flying, the marquess, Mr. Williams, Mr. Grady, at least five more. We are so very lovely by moonlight. I do hope—I do I DO HOPE I shall fly too someday. I know that females no longer Turn into dragons, not since the marchioness, but I could be the first. I want it so much.

I shall be pink and gold and silver. Those are my favorite colors. I shall have a mane of glorious silk.

Rhys boasted he can already Turn. Liar. Lord Rhys of the manor house surviving his first Turn? I certainly would have heard about that.

June 21, 1766

Cloudy.

With Rhys in the woods. Should not have gone there with him, but he said he would prove he could Turn. And he did.

Thirteen is young. I suppose he's a half year older than that but most in the Tribe Turn after they are sixteen at least. I have time yet before I need worry.

His eyes are very green. I wonder that I never noted it before. June 24, 1766

Still Cloudy. No rain.

Rhys says the most foolish things. My hair is like Ivory. My voice is like Dusk. My eyes are like Pitch.

Pitch. Indeed. I told him that comparing my eyes to the color of tar was uncouth. He changed it to Obsidian and Tried to Kiss me again. I did not Let him.

June 25, 1766

Wind Rising. Clouds Darkening.

He keeps trying to get me to Go Back to the Woods with him. I know it's a Terrible Notion. But I want to. He tracked me to-day to the Lending Library, which very much needs to have its windows wiped. It was murky and we—

I do not know why I feel these things around him, my stomach upset and my heart pounding all queer. It's quite unpleasant, actually.

He's Graced me with a Pet name. No one's ever done such a thing before. "ZEE." As if my given name is too difficult to manage, all two syllables of it.

Zee.

His smile is so fetching. He never bothers with a hat or gloves so his skin has tanned with the sun. I did not go with him to the Woods.

Cerise more and more waspish every day. She has at least Five beaux. I can't imagine why she would begrudge my One.

June 26, 1766

Storm to the East. Not here Yet.

I had a Dream Last Night that he came to my window as a dragon, dark glimmer and gold. I dreamt the dragon was tap-tapping on the glass, like raindrops, steady and soft, but when I woke, he was not there. Only those storm clouds, and not a drop of rain.

The air feels so heavy I could tear at my hair.

Addendum

HE LOVES ME. !!!!!!

He wrote it on a slip of paper during Council Lessons. Pressed it into my hand as we were Leaving, along with a rose petal he had hidden in a pocket.

Lord Rhys Langford of Chasen Manor Loves ME, of all the maidens of the shire. Me, the daughter of the seamstress. Me, who once put a clot of mud in his tea when he wouldn't stop teasing me about besting him in Latin and Arithmetic. Me, and I'm not even Pretty. Cerise says my eyes are too strange and my lips are too big and I'll certainly never Develop as she has.

Me.

What a load of piffle. All that just to steal a kiss in the woods. It's really rather pitiful, isn't it? (I shall save the petal here, between these pages.) Addendum Addendum

Cerise found the paper. I had dropped it by accident in the Hallway after Supper, and came upon her just as she was picking it up. I could hardly disguise from Whom it Came. Master Baird says Rhys's penmanship flows like a Sultan's robes in the wind, right off the edges of the page. Most Distinctive.

She was red again, even more red than her hair. She was trembling. I stood there and felt as if a great hammer had smashed upon my head.

Ceriseis in love with Rhys. Enormously shocking!

But she is. She's weeping in her room right now. I can hear her through the wall, though she's trying to be quiet.

August 1, 1766

I've thought on it a great deal. I've thought and thought.

Cerise and I have been at odds nearly our entire Lives. She is Comely while I am not; she is well liked while I am not. She is fashionable, and droll, and buxom, while I am ... not. It's a very great Wonder that we should have shared a womb at all. But I look at the portrait of Maximillian she made for our birthday, now hung above my bed. I look at the lines very carefully drawn, and how steady her hand was with the colors. How she got every stripe in his feathers just right, and the red comb, and the cock of his head. I think about how long it must have taken her to complete it, especially since Maximillian despises Cerise and must have spent a great deal of his portrait time hiding behind the coop.

She is my Twin. When she weeps I feel it to my bones.

August 2, 1766

Cloudy. Warm.

I told Rhys to leave me be. I told him I did not love him. I gave him back his carving of Maximillian, just so he knew I was Sincere.

August 4, 1766 Cloudy. Hot.

He persists.

August 19, 1766

Cloudy. Hot, hot,when will it rain?

He leaves gifts for me on my sill. He follows me about. When I walk to the village, he is there. When I walk to the downs, he is there. When I feed the chickens, he is there, and it is a Very Big Fuss because now that he can Turn, all the animals scatter in fear of their Lives. Mother Heard the Fuss and now she's cross at both of us. The hens won't settle if he's near; they remain frightened for days. No eggs.

I hardly think it's fair I was punished for that. I'm trying to get rid of him.

September 1, 1766

I had the same Dream last night. Rain was softly falling, and he came to my window, tapping on the glass. Only this time when I awoke, it was so hot I was perspiring, and the rain was really, truly falling, drawing into silvery tears down the panes.

And behind the tears was the dragon, watching me with glowing green eyes.

No Dream.

I walked to the window and looked back at him. His scales were slick and shining, an emerald so

dark it was nearly black, and his talons and mane and wings were metallic gold. He looked from me to the brink of the eastern forest over his shoulder, then back at me. I understood him as clearly as if he had spoken the words.

Come with me. Come to the woods.

Instead, I pulled the shutters across the window, latched them, and returned to bed.

December 24, 1769

Snowing!

It's wonderful to have everyone around in one house, even if it is for just a few days. I love the scents of the holidays, cinnamon and roast goose and pine needles covered in ice. Mother's cough has improved. Even Cerise laughed at the runny mess I made of the plum pudding.

Saw Lord Rhys back from Eton today in the village, shopping, I think. He was there with all three sisters and his brother, and their father. The Marquess of Langford tipped his hat to me and wished me a very Happy Christmas. I, of course, wished them all the same.

February 2, 1773 Cold and Sunny.

I cannot fully describe my emotions on this day. I'm very happy for Cerise, of course. She deserves every Felicitation and it's a joy to see her so flushed and pretty. Thomas is no doubt a good man, a strong dragon, and their child will be doubly blessed.

I can't imagine having a baby. I can't imagine being wed. I think of Love and feel only a rather empty sense of curiosity. I've been kissed before, and I liked it. I've been squired before—to dances, to soirees—and I liked that too. But I feel so strange these days. I look up at the sky and I feel as if I have forgotten something important.

Not the Turn. I suppose I never really believed that would happen. Yet when the clouds gather and blow, it almost seems like they're taking a part of me with them. I long for the rain, all the time, and I don't know why.

Hayden James came by today for tea bearing a posy for me and a bouquet for Mother's sickroom. He's blond and tall and quite handsome. But he spent an entire two hours talking with me about the weather. Even I was bored.

May 11, 1774

Temperate. Clear.

I should have anticipated this. I mean, I did anticipate it. I just never truly believed he would work up the nerve to ask.

Hayden is very dear. I do like him. Perhaps I even love him. I enjoy his quiet company, and his thoughtfulness, and the way his eyes light up to the most perfect blue when he smiles. I appreciate that he still brings lilacs to Mother's grave, and that he worries about me living alone here in the cottage. It's very kind, if unnecessary. I have my work (although I am a poor substitute for Mother's skills), and family about. I have ones who care. We are a tribe, after all, and no one is ever truly alone in Darkfrith. Just ask the Council.

I suppose that if I am to note that Hayden's character is rather reserved, I must also truthfully declare that his manners are always the pinnacle of courtesy. If his demonstrations of physical affection for me are somewhat . restrained, at least I know he values my virtue.

I've tried to close my eyes and picture him in the cottage with me, taking tea with me every day for the rest of our lives. Our sons and daughters around us, yellow-haired and merry. What a relief it would be to finally slip into the domestic ease enjoyed by the rest of the tribe.

Madam Zoe James. Madame Zoe James.

He is a fine man. I must think about how to answer him. My least desire is to hurt him. May 12, 1774

Rhys. Langford. Is. An. Ass.

Saw him at Market this morning in the village. Heavens knows what he was doing at Market, since he surely never has to purchase anything of his own. There are servants to shop for him, after all. No doubt he's just been sent down from Cambridge (again) and decided to rake up some trouble here at home for a change.

(What would I give for a chance to leave this shire and attend school! You can bloody well wager I'd not get caught doing anything to send me back here, but of course only the hallowed family of the Alpha is allowed to leave!)

He spies me before the bakeshop buying bread and saunters over. Yes. Saunters. He wears his hat cocked back and his brown hair untied and his breeches too tight and has this smile, this so Charming and Sweet smile, as if he's just happened upon a Dear Bosom Friend. Which I am not.

"I understand I am to congratulate you," he says.

"Oh?" I reply, because I can't imagine to what he's referring. Cerise's second child? Surely not Hayden, as I have not yet spoken with him.

"Indeed," he says. "Hayden James, eh? Decent sort, if a bit dull. I wondered if any of the fellows here would ever pluck up the courage to end your reign as the Old Maid of the Shire."

I did not throw my bread at him. I merely gave him my coolest smile and answered, "As long as it wasn't you. Oh, but that's right—you did try, didn't you?"

And then I sauntered away.

May 13, 1774 Cloudy. Drizzle.

We have set the wedding date for June of next year. May 28, 1774

Something grave has occurred. I don't know what. There's a hum racing through the shire, through the tribe, an awful sort of excitement. I know there was a letter delivered today to Chasen Manor. Susannah Cullman, the third scullery maid, caught a glimpse of it on the salver before it was delivered to the marquess and is telling everyone it was stamped from a foreign land, written from the hand of a princess. And then I heard it was actually from Lady Amalia, the marquess and marchioness's youngest daughter (who, as everyone knows, was supposed to be at boarding school in Scotland).

Whatever it is, it's not good news. I was in the garden pulling weeds when I first felt it. It was clement today, sunny with the smallest of breezes. I was on my knees in the bed of mint and thyme, enjoying their fragrance and the warm pungent dirt, listening idly to all the little rocks beneath me when all at once, without warning, a great cloak of Deep Blue Darkness rose up to wrap around me. I don't know how better to depict it: soft, encompassing, infinite. I froze, trapped in my body; I could still feel the tips of my fingers and my toes, my face, that one particular bone of my corset that is pushing out of its seam into my ribs—but everything else was gone. I was suspended in indigo space. There might have been stars, but the sensation of blindness filled every sense. No smells, no sight, no touch or taste. Utter, perfect silence.

A cold wind shivered over me; my skin prickled like I was stark naked in snow. I caught the scent of pure panic, of fear. There were still no sounds around me but the feeling of danger! discovery! hide!

And then three single words, echoing as if coming from the center of a great bell, yet very clear:Lia. Maricara. Drakon.

When I drew breath I was back in the garden. I held a mint leaf in my hand, torn from its branch. The leaf was crushed, and the smell of the damaged leaf—the sight of the green juices upon my fingers—nearly turned my stomach.

I don't know what that was. I don't know what to think. May 30, 1774

Hayden has the ear of the Marquess of Langford. He's of a good family, reliable and trusted, and came to me late tonight after an emergency meeting with the Alpha & Council to tell me what he could of what's occurred.

I can hardly pen the words. There is another tribe ofdrakon! None of us ever, ever once suspected such a thing. They live in Transylvania, in the far, far hills. They are hosting Lady Amalia even now, though God knows how she got all the way out there, or even how she found them at all. And here is the most amazing news of all: They are ruled by a princess—a female! Princess Maricara of the Zaharen.

It's a strange and marvelous miracle, that there are more of us. That a woman could lead.

Hayden disagrees. Grew rather fussy about it. Pointed out the danger behind this discovery, that this new tribe threatens our existence. That they may be wild, or feral, or taking risks that could be of immense danger to us, leading to our exposure. I admit I didn't really consider that ...

Told him he was right. Offered him tea and gingerbread (only a very little scorched!) and watched his natural Mild Humor return. He unbent as far as to kiss me Good-Night. On the lips. Very nice.

I did not mention the incident in the garden. It seemed insignificant, in light of everything else that has occurred. Perhaps I'll bring it up later.

It was probably my imagination. June 5, 1775

This was to have been my wedding day. Feels like Every Other Day. Nothing special. Worked tonight with Cerise in their tavern; they do need the extra hands. It's a dirty, messy job, and my gowns end up reeking of tobacco and ale and gin. I don't enjoy it. But she's always so grateful for the help. And in truth, I appreciated the distraction, although Cerise could not know why. I never told her the exact date.

Hayden says perhaps soon, perhaps even next year. He's still so worried about our future. Says

until the threat of the other drakon is contained, it would be Irresponsible in the Extreme to Wed (he means, I know, to Breed). He's deeply involved in the Council's plans for these "Zaharen" drakon. I do wish he'd tell me something of it. But he won't. Or can't. One man has already left the shire, and no one has panicked about it, so he's not a runner. Luke Rowland, about our age, unwed. It isn't hard to conjecture he's been sent after the rogue dragons. But again, no one will discuss it.

Today by the rye fields we shared a picnic I had prepared—my private little No-Wedding Feast—and Hayden murmured something about how my hair shone like moonlight under the bright sun. Which didn't even make sense, if you consider it. Managed not to laugh or cry. I only tipped my head and asked him calmly, "Well. Are you free June next, Mr. James?"

He understood me. He's very wise when he wishes. He took my hand and kissed it and said, "My heart is yours today, June next and the next, and always. It is more my body which concerns me."

I replied, "And me," which was really rather bold of me, but he only smiled. "You are my love" is all he would say. That tells me practically nothing, does it?

March 28, 1776

He drops by every afternoon for tea. He is absent all the rest of the time. I have told him I need more, but he only averts his eyes and repeats the same word: "Soon." I know he is vital to the plots of the Alpha and the Council, to our future as a tribe. But he is vital to me as well.

I don't have "soon" any longer. I am not a wife. I am not an unmatched dragon maiden. I am affianced, and alone. Always alone. It's a bit too much like purgatory.

August 3, 1777

Today I was washing dishes in the tavern and the Most Peculiar Thing happened. I wasn't paying much mind to my work—really, who enjoys washing dishes?—I was looking out the window to Cerise's little garden, admiring the green, the cuttings she's planted, Mother's lavender growing still, despite the damp, in the far corner, when I felt a faint, faint tingling across the skin of my hands.

I looked down, and—

I don't know what happened. I don't dare even put it into these pages.

It was lunacy. It was not real.

November 15, 1777

It was Worse than I anticipated. I did not cry. I fancy Cerise cried for me quite enough when I discussed this with her yesterday. But my eyes were dry, as were his when I informed him of my decision this afternoon.

I simply could not go on like this. He is half a stranger, half my heart. I understand his hesitations. There are undercurrents at work of which most of the tribe remain remarkably unaware. I might be as well, but for him . and the blue-dark Feelings that cloak me from time to time. The sense of danger galloping closer; of rising, enclosing threat.

I never wanted this half-life with him, to exist strictly in his leisure time and Sunday shadows. I confess it: I want true love and diamonds and passionate declarations. I want a mate who breathes my breath and strokes my skin, who holds my hand without reservations, who returns home to me every evening with open arms and happy anticipation. I want to be able to look up at him with the same adoration I glimpse in Cerise's eyes whenever she glances at her husband. And I want to see that adoration reflected back at me.

As I look over the previous paragraph I realize how childish it sounds. I'm ashamed of my weakness, that I'm not good enough or kind enough or patient enough to wait for Hayden any longer. It's been over three years now without any promise of a wedding date. I cannot change what's in my heart.

But I was so nervous to speak to him, my hands shook. It was very hard to give him back his ring.

Naturally, Hayden was a gentleman about it all. He kissed meadieu, very gently, on the cheek.

August 24, 1779

Sunny. Scattered Clouds.

It's been so dry this year, so dry and warm. I remember how I used to watch the clouds. I was younger then. I dreamed more. I suppose I believed in more as well.

August 25, 1779

Gray day. Clouds thickening.

Cerise wants me to go up to the manor house for the Tribal Socials the marchioness hosts every month for the singles of the shire.

I told her exactly the truth. I'm twenty-six years of age. How foolish would I look surrounded by a flock of giddy adolescents?

She seemed about to grow teary again so I forced a smile and told her not to worry. I was well and happy alone. I didn't mind being an Old Maid (!!) and that matrimony and children were for the wildly beautiful and good, like her.

She gave me a very curious look. She said, "You are beautiful."

I laughed and replied, "You're my sister. I cannot rely upon your opinion."

She sat up straighter. "Zoe. You're beautiful. You're probably the most beautiful woman in the tribe, more beautiful even than the marchioness."

I laughed once more. What else could I do? But it only angered her further, so I lifted my hands in surrender.

"Cerise! You yourself once told me how odd I am. My eyes are too dark, my lips are too big. Even my hair is this peculiar colorless color. I have mirrors. I can see the truth. I'm far too strange-looking to attract that sort of notice from men."

She was quiet a moment. She was staring at me hard, the way she does when she's trying to understand one of my jokes, or a pun I thought particularly clever. We were in the tavern after closing, seated together beside the fire. A fine gentle glow danced along our skirts. Finally she said, "Are you blind? Really, truly? Are you blind?"

"No," I said.

"Then I must suppose you are merely stupid. No wonder Hayden walked away."

That made me blink! I stood. But she was Cerise, ever Cerise, and she did not give quarter.

"No one courts you because you frighten them. You have this severity about you. This ice-cold perfection. But there's no question of your looks, Zoe Cyprienne. You're a diamond. You're a pearl. Haven't you noticed how all the males who come to the tavern stare at you, how they quiet when you're near? I've spent my entire life longing for half your charms, insane with the knowledge that you knew how much more fair you always were. Now ... I can't believe you don't know it. Are you jesting with me? Because it's not amusing in the least."

"No," I said slowly, gazing down at her. "I'm not jesting."

We locked eyes. Hers are such a lovely whiskey-gold. I always wished for eyes like that. "You're an idiot," she said.

"On that," I said, "we agree."

January 5, 1781

Cloudy. Light snow.

Went for a walk today. My legs were restless, and the blue-dark cloak of Nothingness seemed to hover uncomfortably close to the cottage. I needed to leave.

Blackstone Woods are perfumed and dense; one can nearly always find a path there to follow without running into company. The snow fell in tiny glimmers, sideways, embedding into the tree trunks, throwing sparkles across my shawl. It was silent and empty and starkly serene. Within an hour snow encrusted my skirts and began to fill my boots.

I paused to rest in a clearing of rowan and oak. It's one of my most favorite places in the shire. In spring it's carpeted in grass and clover. In the summer it flowers with bluebells and red campion.

The snow picked up, still sideways. I lifted an arm to admire it, inspecting the individual crystals caught upon my sleeve, in the woolen weave of my mitten. Then I took off the mittens, both of them, and raised my hands to the flakes.

My fingers were rosy with the cold. I spread them, watching the white little dots hit my skin and melt into moisture . and I realized it was happening again .

The snow struck my hands. The snow melted. And every place there was a drop of water—I was gone. I had vanished.

I stood very still and let it happen. I waited until my hands were entirely wet, and I still felt the cold, and the sting of falling ice. Yet my hands were invisible. Except for the rush of frost from my breath, I could see straight through them.

Invisible.

Have I lost my wits? This is not a drakon Gift; I've never heard of such a Gift. This is surely something else.

Perhaps I've been alone too long. Perhaps my mind has bent.

February 18, 1781

Cloudy. Dry.

I seem to have some control over it. I seem to be able to Will it or Not. Mostly.

Tonight I stood before my bedroom mirror and splashed my cheeks with water from the basin. This was my Twenty-Second experiment, and nothing happened, as usual. I was relieved. And I was discomfited. I had imagined that moment in the woods or I had not: Either way, it did not bode well for me. And then, as I was staring at my reflection in the glass, I noticed my eyes growing darker and darker—they are already black, so I don't know how else to describe it. And then —yes! It happened again. My cheeks and nose and chin were gone. Only my eyes and my forehead remained.

As I watched I saw that I actually began to flush visible once more, even though my face was still wet.

I Willed it.

Oh, God. Should I tell anyone? Is this a New Gift or an Ancient One? What does it mean for my future?

I know the Council edicts. Sweet mercy, we all know them. Save for the marchioness and her daughters, female drakon have been unable to Turn for generations. Now any female of exceptional Gifts is considered tribal chattel, to be given to the Alpha or his line. She will be wed and bred into his family, and to hell with whatever she thinks about it.

The marquess is already wed. His eldest son is engaged. That leaves just Rhys Langford. Arrogant, rake hell Lord Rhys, with his long dark hair and mocking green eyes. Rhys, who cannot help but send me a gloating grin every miserable time we cross paths. He's always escorting some starstruck lass; obviously I'm still the Old Maid.

Bugger. I'd rather take my chances alone. If I can avoid water I can hide this. I'm certain of it.

May 1, 1781

Happy Birthday.

The tribe on edge, worse than I've ever felt. The Marquess and Marchioness of Langford have broken our most fundamental law and stolen away to the human world, to hunt Lady Amalia. Luke Rowland—sent to find and parley with the Transylvanian drakon —has been missing without word over four years now. The man sent after him, Jeffrey Bochard, has also disappeared.

The deep blue cloak follows me about. If I pause too long, it sneaks up on me. If I try to sleep, it slithers up into my dreams. This afternoon it caught me in the parlor between footsteps: wrapping close at once, vanishing the world. Suspending me in silence and fear and anger and worry. I heard the men's names. I felt their families' despair. I felt—I know not. Whisper brushings, their spirits? They seemed so lost; it was dreadful.

And then the cloak dropped me back into the parlor, and I finished my step, and there was a knocking at my front door.

I did not want to open it. I knew who it was, and why he had come.

What have I done? I can't bear to see him depart alone in his heart, as those other two did. I can't bear to have him think I never cared. I always did. And if this isn't love, well—does it matter? He deserves a wife. He deserves a reason to make it back home.

The Council will not send a married drakon man, so we'll wed after he returns from his mission to the Carpathians. Hayden promised.

And after that, I'll tell him of the dark cloak. Of the Gift. After. Journal Conclusion

I'm very sorry, Cerise. I know you're going to read this and worry. I would, in your position. Although I think perhaps we've only recently begun to be real friends, I've never doubted the bond between us. And so I begin this final entry with my apology.

This is my sad, roundabout way of keeping you in my life, even if it's merely through memories scratched on paper. I've always been hopeless at organizing, as you know, and so there was never any chance I would manage to pen an entry every day. But I believe most of the important events of my past few years have been recorded here. Enough to give you insight into what I'm about to do next.

You know Hayden left the shire, and you know why. Calm, loyal, meticulous: He was considered our last good hope of reaching the Zaharen drakon and brokering a peace with them. And everyone in the tribe knows now that the Zaharen sent us their princess Maricara in turn, bringing her horrible news. That the sanf inimicus, those human hunters, have discovered us, have killed at least two of our three emissaries—although we don't know which two.

That they've breached the shores of England. That only weeks ago they kidnapped and tried to kill the princess herself, and Lord Rhys. At least Maricara escaped, though heaven knows what happened to Rhys. We've had no word.

The princess claims that Lady Amalia and her husband Zane, still in hiding, are working covertly against the hunters. That Lia was the one who recently stole little Honor Carlisle from her home here. That Zane has infiltrated the sanf by pretending to be one of them.

I admit it was that last bit that sparked my mind and opened my eyes. If Zane, a human, not even one of our kind, would risk his life to help protect us .

I'm far from impulsive. I hardly need mention that. I tend to consider matters very carefully before taking action. How often have you complained about how long it takes me to select even a pair of garters for my stockings? You above all will realize how much I've mulled this over and over.

My position in the tribe is low, as is my influence. If I thought it would do an ounce of good, I would go before the Council and tell them of my Gifts, offer myself as anapparatus belli against this group of Others who have possibly murdered my fiance. But I think we both know how fruitless that would be. I'm female; I'm unwed; I might still breed. Nothing I could say would persuade them to view me in any fashion beyond those three overwhelming facts.

They would lock me away, by force if need be. They would do whatever they thought they must to keep me bound to the shire. Our history speaks most eloquently for itself.

I used to think the Council was a faction of stuffy old men, bleating stuffy old rules out of lethargy, or just blind fear. Time has tempered my opinion. Now I better understand why they've held so tightly to our traditions. We do need to stand united against these hunters. We need every weapon at our disposal, which is why I must go. I cannot Turn, but I have these Gifts. I am a weapon.

I never told you—or anyone—that after Hayden left, he would send me a note every week to let me know where he was, that he was well. It was something I required of him, and to his credit, he never failed me until his communications with the tribe ceased entirely. His last note placed him nearly to Paris, en route to Dijon. I'll start there.

I shall leave up to you whether or not to share this journal with anyone else in the tribe. I said good-bye to you and the children tonight in your beds, although you never saw me. It was a test, and I passed. So I must no longer delay.

No need to reflect upon all the horrors of tribal punishment should I get caught. We both know the consequences for disobedience of the laws, so suffice it to say, I do not plan to be caught.

I wish I could better explain to you why I'm doing this. I wish I had the wit or the words to describe to you why I'm chancing nearly all that I love with this decision. I must make do with this: You have always been the other side of me, my twin, my friend and rival. I've watched you blossom as a wife and mother without a scrap of envy. Yet it would be a lie were I to write here that I did not long for the same as you. Hayden was that promise for me, that hope. He was the key to my future here in Darkfrith: my husband and helpmate, the father of my children.

You will not be surprised, I think, when I tell you that I've always felt slightly apart from all the rest of the tribe, just a step out of tune with everyone else. Hayden offered me the chance to find my place in the music here. For perhaps the first time, I felt that with him, despite my differences, I could belong.

I do not know if this is the definition of true love. All I know is that I must find him. I must discover what's happened to him. I will bring him home again if I can.

For ages we've been instructed to guard our place here, to grow our roots into this soil. But against our will we've been thrust into this new age; the human world has evolved without us. The marquess and his wife, Lady Amalia, Luke, and Jeffery—all scattered to the winds.

And now Hayden has vanished. Rhys has vanished.

I'm going to vanish too.

Be safe, Cerise.

Forever love,

Your twin, Mlle. Zoe C. Lane

August 1, 1782