Passion for Five: Of the Straight Path

FIVE

OFF THE STRAIGHT PATH

Luce rocketed into the Announcer like a car speeding out of control.

She bounced and jostled against its shadowy sides, feeling as if she'd been thrown down a garbage chute. She didn't know where she was going or what she would nd once she arrived, only that this Announcer seemed narrower and less pliable than the last one, and was l ed by a wet, whipping wind that drove her ever deeper into the dark tunnel.

Her throat was dry and her body was weary from not having slept in the hospital. With every turn, she felt more lost and unsure. What was she doing in this Announcer?

She closed her eyes and tried to l her mind with thoughts of Daniel: the strong grasp of his hands, the burning intensity of his eyes, the way his whole face changed when she entered a room. The soft comfort of being wrapped in his wings, soaring high, the world and its worries far away.

How foolish she had been to run! That night in her backyard, stepping through the Announcer had seemed like the right thing to do—the only thing to do. But why? Why had she done it? What stupid idea had made that seem like a smart move? And now she was far away from Daniel, from everyone she cared about, from anyone at al . And it was al her fault.

"You're an idiot!" she cried into the dark.

"Hey, now," a voice cal ed out. It was raspy and blunt and seemed to come from right beside her. "No need to be insulting!"

Luce went rigid. There couldn't be anyone inside the ut er darkness of her Announcer. Right? She must be hearing things. She pushed forward, faster.

"Slow down, wil ya?"

She caught her breath. Whoever it was didn't sound garbled or distant, like someone was speaking through the shadow. No, someone was in here. With her.

"Hel o?" she cal ed, swal owing hard.

No answer.

The whipping wind in the Announcer grew louder, howling in her ears. She stumbled forward in the dark, more and more afraid, until at last the noise of the air blowing past died out and was replaced by another sound—a staticky roar. Something like waves crashing in the distance.

No, the sound was too steady to be waves, Luce thought. A waterfal .

"I said slow down."

Luce flinched. The voice was back. Inches from her ear—and keeping pace with her as she ran. This time, it sounded annoyed.

"You're not going to learn anything if you keep zipping around like that."

"Who are you? What do you want?" she shouted. "Oof!"

Her cheek col ided with something cold and hard. The rush of a waterfal l ed her ears, close enough that she could feel cool drops of spray on her skin. "Where am I?"

"You're here. You're … on Pause. Ever heard of stopping to smel the peonies?"

"You mean roses." Luce felt around in the darkness, taking in a pungent mineral smel that wasn't unpleasant or unfamiliar, just confusing. She realized then that she hadn't yet stepped out of the Announcer and back into the middle of a life, which could only mean—

She was stil inside.

It was very dark, but her eyes began to adjust. The Announcer had taken on the form of some sort of smal cave. There was a wal behind her made of the same cool stone as the oor, with a depression cut into it where a stream of water trickled down. The waterfal she heard was somewhere above.

And below her? Ten feet or so of stone ledge—and then nothing. Beyond that was blackness.

"I had no idea you could do this," Luce whispered to herself.

"What?" the hoarse voice said.

"Stop inside an Announcer," she said. She hadn't been talking to him and she stil couldn't see him, and the fact that she'd ended up stal ed wherever she was with whoever he was—wel , it was de nitely cause for alarm. But stil she couldn't help marveling at her surroundings. "I didn't know a place like this existed. An in-between place."

A phlegmy snort. "You could l a book with al the things you don't know, girl. In fact—I think someone may have already writ en it. But that's neither here nor there." A rat ling cough. "And I did mean peonies, by the way."

"Who are you?" Luce sat up and leaned back against the wal . She hoped whoever the voice belonged to couldn't see her legs trembling.

"Who? Me?" he asked. "I'm just … me. I'm here a lot."

"Okay.… Doing what?"

"Oh, you know, hanging out." He cleared his throat, and it sounded like someone gargling with rocks. "I like it here. Nice and calm. Some of these Announcers can be such zoos. But not yours, Luce. Not yet, anyway."

"I'm confused." More than confused, Luce was afraid. Should she even be talking to this stranger? How did he know her name?

"For the most part, I'm just your average casual observer, but sometimes I keep an ear out for travelers." His voice came closer, causing Luce to shiver. "Like yourself. See, I've been around awhile, and sometimes travelers, they need a smidge of advice. You been up by the waterfal yet? Very scenic. A-plus, as far as waterfal s go."

Luce shook her head. "But you said—this is my Announcer? A message of my past. So why would you be—"

"Wel ! Sor-reee!" The voice grew louder, indignant. "But may I just raise a question: If the channels to your past are so precious, why'd you leave your Announcers wide open for al the world to jump inside? Hmm? Why didn't you just lock them?"

"I didn't, um …" Luce had no idea she'd left anything wide open. And no idea Announcers could even be locked. She heard a smal whoomp, like clothes or shoes being thrown into a suitcase, but she stil couldn't see a thing. "I see I've overstayed my She heard a smal whoomp, like clothes or shoes being thrown into a suitcase, but she stil couldn't see a thing. "I see I've overstayed my welcome. I won't waste your time." The voice sounded suddenly choked up. And then more softly, from a distance: "Goodbye."

The voice vanished into the darkness. It was nearly silent inside the Announcer again. Just the soft cascade of the waterfal above. Just the desperate beat of Luce's heart.

For just a moment, she hadn't been alone. With that voice there, she'd been nervous, alarmed, on edge … but she hadn't been alone.

"Wait!" she cal ed, pushing herself to her feet.

"Yes?" The voice was right back at her side.

"I didn't mean to kick you out," she said. For some reason, she wasn't ready for the voice to just disappear. There was something about him. He knew her. He had cal ed her by name. "I just wanted to know who you were."

"Oh, hel ," he said, a lit le giddy. "You can cal me … Bil ."

"Bil ," she repeated, squinting to see more than the dim cave wal s around her. "Are you invisible?"

"Sometimes. Not always. Certainly don't have to be. Why? You'd prefer to see me?"

"It might make things a lit le bit less weird."

"Doesn't that depend on what I look like?"

"Wel —" Luce started to say.

"So"—his voice sounded as if he were smiling—"what do you want me to look like?"

"I don't know." Luce shifted her weight. Her left side was damp from the spray of the waterfal . "Is it real y up to me? What do you look like when you're just being yourself?"

"I have a range. You'd probably want me to start with something cute. Am I right?"

"I guess.…"

"Okay," the voice mut ered. "Huminah huminah huminah hummm."

"What are you doing?" Luce asked.

"Put ing on my face."

There was a ash of light. A blast that would have sent Luce tumbling backward if the wal hadn't been right behind her. The ash died down into a tiny bal of cool white light. By its il umination she could see the rough expanse of a gray stone oor beneath her feet. A stone wal stretched up behind her, water trickling down its face. And something more:

There on the floor in front of her stood a smal gargoyle.

"Ta-da!" he said.

He was about a foot tal , crouched low with his arms crossed and his elbows resting on his knees. His skin was the color of stone—he was stone—but when he waved at her, she could see he was limber enough to be made of esh and muscle. He looked like the sort of statue you'd nd capping the roof of a Catholic church. His ngernails and toenails were long and pointed, like lit le claws. His ears were pointed, too—and pierced with smal stone hoops. He had two lit le hornlike nubs protruding from the top of a forehead that was eshy and wrinkled. His large lips were pursed in a grimace that made him look like a very old baby.

"So you're Bil ?"

"That's right," he said. "I'm Bil ."

Bil was an odd-looking thing, but certainly not someone to be afraid of. Luce circled him and noticed the ridged vertebrae protruding from his spine. And the smal pair of gray wings tucked behind his back so that the two tips were twined together.

"What do you think?" he asked.

"Great," she said flatly. One look at any other pair of wings—even Bil 's—made her miss Daniel so much her stomach hurt. Bil stood up; it was strange to see the arms and legs that were made of stone move like muscle.

"You don't like the way I look. I can do bet er," he said, disappearing in another flash of light. "Hold on."

Flash.

Daniel stood before her, cloaked in a shining aura of violet light. His unfurled wings were glorious and massive, beckoning her to step inside them. He held out a hand and she sucked in her breath. She knew something was strange about his being there, that she'd been in the middle of doing something else—only she couldn't recal what or with whom. Her mind felt hazy, her memory obscured. But none of that mat ered. Daniel was here. She wanted to cry with happiness. She stepped toward him and put her hand in his.

"There," he said softly. "Now, that's the reaction I was after."

"What?" Luce whispered, confused. Something was rising to the forefront of her mind, tel ing her to pul away. But Daniel's eyes overrode that hesitation and she let herself be pul ed in, forget ing everything but the taste of his lips.

"Kiss me." His voice was a raspy croak. Bil 's.

Luce screamed and jumped back. Her mind felt jolted as if from a deep sleep. What had happened? How had she thought she'd seen Daniel in—

Bil . He'd tricked her. She jerked her hand away from his, or maybe he dropped hers during the ash when he changed into a large, warty toad. He croaked out two ribbits, then hopped over to the spring of water dripping down the cave wal . His tongue shot out into the stream. Luce was breathing hard and trying not to show how devastated she felt. "Stop it," she said sharply. "Just go back to the gargoyle. Please."

"As you wish."

Flash.

Bil was back, crouched low with his arms crossed over his knees. Stil as stone.

"I thought you'd come around," he said.

Luce looked away, embarrassed that he had got en a rise out of her, angry that he seemed to have enjoyed it.

"Now that that's al set led," he said, scurrying around so he was standing where she could see him again, "what would you like to learn first?"

"From you? Nothing. I have no idea what you're even doing here."

"I've upset you," Bil said, snapping his stone ngers. "I'm sorry. I was just trying to learn your tastes. You know—likes: Daniel Grigori and cute lit le gargoyles." He listed on his ngers. "Dislikes: frogs. I think I've got it now. No more of that funny business from me." He spread his wings and flit ed up to sit on her shoulder. He was heavy. "Just the tricks of the trade," he whispered.

"I don't need any tricks."

"Come now. You don't even know how to lock an Announcer to keep out the bad guys. Don't you want to at least know that?"

Luce raised an eyebrow at him. "Why would you help me?"

"You're not the rst to skip around the past, you know, and everybody needs a guide. Lucky you, you chanced upon me. You could have

"You're not the rst to skip around the past, you know, and everybody needs a guide. Lucky you, you chanced upon me. You could have got en stuck with Virgil—"

"Virgil?" Luce asked, having a flashback to sophomore English. "As in the guy who led Dante through the nine circles of Hel ?"

"That's the one. He's so by the book, it's a snooze. Anyway, you and I aren't sojourning through Hel right now," he explained with a shrug.

"Tourist season."

Luce thought back to the moment she'd seen Luschka burst into ames in Moscow, to the raw pain she'd felt when Lucia had told her Daniel had disappeared from the hospital in Milan.

"Sometimes it feels like Hel ," she said.

"That's only because it took us this long to be introduced." Bil extended his stony lit le hand toward hers. Luce stal ed. "So what, um, side are you on?"

Bil whistled. "Hasn't anyone told you it's more complicated than that? That the boundaries between ‘good' and ‘evil' have been blurred by mil ennia of free wil ?"

"I know al that, but—"

"Look, if it makes you feel any bet er, have you ever heard of the Scale?"

Luce shook her head.

"Sorta like hal monitors within Announcers who make sure travelers get where they're going. Members of the Scale are impartial, so there's no siding with Heaven or with Hel . Okay?"

"Okay." Luce nodded. "So you're in the Scale?"

Bil winked. "Now, we're almost there, so—"

"Almost where?"

"To the next life you're traveling to, the one that cast this shadow we're in."

Luce ran her hand through the water running down the wal . "This shadow—this Announcer—is dif erent."

"If it is, it's only because that's what you want it to be. If you want a rest-stop–type cave inside an Announcer, it appears for you."

"I didn't want a rest stop."

"No, but you needed one. Announcers can pick up on that. Also, I was here helping out, wanting it on your behalf." The lit le gargoyle shrugged, and Luce heard a sound like boulders knocking against each other. "The inside of an Announcer isn't anyplace at al . It's a neverwhere, the dark echo cast by something in the past. Each one is di erent, adapting to the needs of its travelers, so long as they're inside."

There was something wild about the idea of this echo of Luce's past knowing what she wanted or needed bet er than she did. "So how long do people stay inside?" she asked. "Days? Weeks?"

"No time. Not the way you're thinking. Within Announcers, real time doesn't pass at al . But stil , you don't want to hang around here too long. You could forget where you're going, get lost forever. Become a hoverer. And that's ugly business. These are portals, remember, not destinations."

Luce rested her head against the damp stone wal . She didn't know what to make of Bil . "This is your job. Serving as a guide to, uh, travelers like me?"

"Sure, exactly." Bil snapped his fingers, the friction sending up a spark. "You nailed it."

"How'd a gargoyle like you get stuck doing this?"

"Excuse me, I take pride in my work."

"I mean, who hired you?"

Bil thought for a moment, his marble eyes rol ing back and forth in their sockets. "Think of it as a volunteer position. I'm good at Announcer travel, is al . No reason not to spread my expertise around." He turned to her with his palm cupping his stony chin. "When are we going to, anyway?"

"When are we …?" Luce stared at him, confused.

"You have no idea, do you?" He slapped his forehead. "You're tel ing me that you dove out of the present without any fundamental knowledge about stepping through? That how you end up when you end up is a complete mystery to you?"

"How was I supposed to learn?" Luce said. "No one told me anything!"

Bil ut ered down from her shoulder and paced along the ledge. "You're right, you're right. We'l just go back to basics." He stopped in front of Luce, tiny hands on his thick hips. "So. Here we go: What is it that you want?"

"I want … to be with Daniel," she said slowly. There was more, but she wasn't sure how to explain it.

"Huh!" Bil looked even more dubious than his heavy brow, stone lips, and hooked nose made him look natural y. "The hole in your argument there, Counselor, is that Daniel was already right there beside you when you skipped out of your own time. Was he not?"

Luce slid down the wal and sat, feeling another strong rush of regret. "I had to leave. He wouldn't tel me anything about our past, so I had to go find out for myself."

She expected Bil to argue with her more, but he simply said, "So, you're tel ing me you're on a quest."

Luce felt a faint smile cross her lips. A quest. She liked the sound of that.

"So you do want something. See?" Bil clapped. "Okay, rst thing you ought to know is that the Announcers are summoned to you based upon what's going on in here." He thumped his stony fist against his chest. "They're kind of like lit le sharks, drawn by your deepest desires."

"Right." Luce remembered the shadows at Shoreline, how it was almost as though the speci c Announcers had chosen her and not the other way around.

"So when you step through, the Announcers that seem to quiver before you, begging you to pick them up? They funnel you to the place your soul longs to be."

"So the girl I was in Moscow, and in Milan—and al the other lives I glimpsed before I knew how to step through—I wanted to visit them?"

"Precisely," Bil said. "You just didn't know it. The Announcers knew it for you. You'l get bet er at this, too. Soon you should begin to feel yourself sharing their knowledge. As strange as it may feel, they're a part of you."

Each one of those cold, dark shadows, a part of her? It made sudden, unexpected sense. It explained how even from the beginning, even when it scared her, Luce hadn't been able to stop herself from stepping through them. Even when Roland warned her they were dangerous. Even when Daniel gaped at her like she'd commit ed some horrible crime. The Announcers always felt like a door opening. Was it possible that they real y were?

Her past, once so unknowable, was out there, and al she had to do was step through into the right doorways? She could see who she'd Her past, once so unknowable, was out there, and al she had to do was step through into the right doorways? She could see who she'd been, what had drawn Daniel to her, why their love had been damned, how it had grown and changed over time. And, most importantly, what they could be in the future.

"We're already wel on our way somewhere," Bil said, "but now that you know what you and your Announcers are capable of, the next time you go stepping through, you need to think about what you want. And don't think place or time, think overal quest."

"Okay." Luce was working to tidy the jumble of emotions inside her into words that might make any sense out loud.

"Why not try it out now?" Bil said. "Just for practice. Might give us a heads-up about what we're going to walk into. Think about what it is you're after."

"Understanding," she said slowly.

"Good," Bil said. "What else?"

A nervous energy was coursing through her, as if she was on the brink of something important. "I want to nd out why Daniel and I were cursed. And I want to break that curse. I want to stop love from kil ing me so that we can final y be together—for real."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Bil started waving his hands like a man stranded on the side of a dark road. "Let's not get crazy. This is a very longstanding damnation you're up against here. You and Daniel, it's like … I don't know, you can't just snap your pret y lit le ngers and break out of that. You got a start smal ."

"Right," Luce said. "Okay. Then I should start by get ing to know one of my past selves. Get up close and see her relationship with Daniel unfold. See if she feels the same things I feel."

Bil was nodding, a wacky smile spreading across his ful lips. He led her to the edge of the ledge. "I think you're ready. Let's go."

Let's go? The gargoyle was coming with her? Out of the Announcer and into another past? Yes, Luce could use some company, but she barely knew this guy.

"You're wondering why you should trust me, aren't you?" Bil asked.

"No, I—"

"I get it," he said, hovering in the air in front of her. "I'm an acquired taste. Especial y compared to the company you're used to keeping. I'm certainly no angel." He snorted. "But I can help make this journey worth your while. We can make a deal, if you want. You get sick of me—just say so. I'l be on my way." He held out his long clawed hand.

Luce shuddered. Bil 's hand was crusty with rocky cysts and scabs of lichen, like a ruined statue. The last thing she wanted to do was take it in her own hand. But if she didn't, if she sent him on his way right now …

She might be bet er of with him than without him.

She glanced down at her feet. The short wet ledge beneath them ended where she was standing, dropped o into nothing. Between her shoes, something caught her eye, a shimmer in the rock that made her blink. The ground was shifting … softening … swaying under her feet. Luce looked behind her. The slab of rock was crumbling, al the way to the wal of the cave. She stumbled, teetering at the edge. The ledge jerked beneath her—harder—as the particles that held the rock together began to break apart. The ledge disappeared around her, faster and faster, until fresh air brushed the backs of her heels and she jumped—

And sank her right hand into Bil 's extended claw. They shook in the air.

"How do we get out of here?" she cried, grasping tight to him now for fear of fal ing into the abyss she couldn't see.

"Fol ow your heart." Bil was beaming, calm. "It won't mislead you."

Luce closed her eyes and thought of Daniel. A feeling of weightlessness overcame her, and she caught her breath. When she opened her eyes, she was somehow soaring through static-l ed darkness. The stone cave shifted and pul ed in on itself into a smal golden orb of light that shrank and was gone.

Luce glanced over, and Bil was right there with her.

"What was the first thing I ever told you?" he asked.

Luce recal ed how his voice had seemed to reach al the way inside her.

"You said to slow down. That I'd never learn anything zipping around my past so quickly."

"And?"

"It was exactly what I wanted to do, I just didn't know I wanted it."

"Maybe that's why you found me when you did," Bil shouted over the wind, his gray wings bristling as they sped along. "And maybe that's why we've ended up … right … here."

The wind stopped. The static crackling smoothed to silence.

Luce's feet slammed onto the ground, a sensation like ying o a swing set and landing on a grassy lawn. She was out of the Announcer and somewhere else. The air was warm and a lit le humid. The light around her feet told her it was dusk. They were sunk deep in a eld of thick, soft, bril iant green grass, as high as her calves. Here and there the grass was dot ed with tiny bright-red fruit—wild strawberries. Ahead, a thin row of silver birch trees marked the edge of the manicured lawn of an estate. Some distance beyond that stood an enormous house.

From here she could make out a white stone ight of stairs that led to the back entrance of the large, Tudor-style mansion. An acre of pruned yel ow rosebushes bordered the lawn's north side, and a miniature hedge maze l ed the area near the iron gate on the east. In the center lay a bountiful vegetable garden, beans climbing high along their poles. A pebble trail cut the yard in half and led to a large whitewashed gazebo.

Goose bumps rose on Luce's arms. This was the place. She had a visceral sense that she had been here before. This was no ordinary déjà

vu. She was staring at a place that had meant something to her and Daniel. She half expected to see the two of them there right now, wrapped in each other's arms.

But the gazebo was empty, fil ed only with the orange light of the set ing sun.

Someone whistled, making her jump.

Bil .

She'd forgot en he was with her. He hovered in the air so that their heads were on the same level. Outside the Announcer, he was somewhat more repulsive than he'd seemed at rst. In the light, his esh was dry and scaly, and he smel ed pret y strongly of mildew. Flies buzzed around his head. Luce edged away from him a lit le, almost wishing he'd go back to being invisible.

"Sure beats a war zone," he said, eyeing the grounds.

"How did you know where I was before?"

"I'm … Bil ." He shrugged. "I know things."

"Okay, then, where are we now?"

"Okay, then, where are we now?"

"Helston, England"—he pointed a claw tip toward his head and closed his eyes—"in what you'd cal 1854." Then he clasped his stone claws together in front of his chest like a gnomey sort of schoolboy reciting a history report. "A sleepy southern town in the county of Cornwal , granted charter by King John himself. Corn's a few feet tal , so I'd say it's probably midsummer. Pity we missed the month of May

—they have a Flora Day festival here like you wouldn't believe. Or maybe you would! Your past self was the bel e of the bal the last two years in a row. Her father's very rich, see. Got in at the ground level of the copper trade—"

"Sounds terrific." Luce cut him of and started tramping across the grass. "I'm going in there. I want to talk to her."

"Hold up." Bil flew past her, then looped back, flut ering a few inches in front of her face. "Now, this? This won't do at al ."

He waved a nger in a circle, and Luce realized he was talking about her clothes. She was stil in the Italian nurse's uniform she'd worn during the First World War.

He grabbed the hem of her long white skirt and lifted it to her ankles. "What do you have on under there? Are those Converse? You've got a be kidding me with those." He clucked his tongue. "How you ever survived those other lifetimes without me …"

"I got along fine, thank you."

"You'l need to do more than ‘get along' if you want to spend some time here." Bil ew back up to eye level with Luce, then zipped around her three times. When she turned to look for him, he was gone.

But then, a second later, she heard his voice—though it sounded as if it was coming from a great distance. "Yes! Bril iant, Bil !"

A gray dot appeared in the air near the house, growing larger, then larger, until Bil 's stone wrinkles became clear. He was ying toward her now, and carrying a dark bundle in his arms.

When he reached her, he simply plucked at her side, and the baggy white nurse's uniform split down its seam and slid right o her body. Luce ung her arms around her bare body modestly, but it seemed like only a second later that a series of pet icoats was being tugged over her head.

Bil scrambled around her like a rabid seamstress, binding her waist into a tight corset, until sharp boning poked her skin in al sorts of uncomfortable places. There was so much taf eta in her pet icoats that even standing stil in a bit of a breeze, she rustled. She thought she looked pret y good for the era—until she recognized the white apron tied around her waist, over her long black dress. Her hand went to her hair and yanked of a white servant's headpiece.

"I'm a maid?" she asked.

"Yes, Einstein, you're a maid."

Luce knew it was dumb, but she felt a lit le disappointed. The estate was so grand and the gardens so lovely and she knew she was on a quest and al that, but couldn't she have just strol ed around the grounds here like a real Victorian lady?

"I thought you said my family was rich."

"Your past self's family was rich. Filthy rich. You'l see when you meet her. She goes by Lucinda and thinks your nickname is an absolute abomination, by the way." Bil pinched his nose and lifted it high in the air, giving a pret y laughable imitation of a snob. "She's rich, yes, but you, my dear, are a time-traveling intruder who knows not the ways of this high society. So unless you want to stick out like a Manchester seamstress and get shown the door before you even get to have a chat with Lucinda, you need to go undercover. You're a scul ery maid. Serving girl. Chamber-pot changer. It's real y up to you. Don't worry, I'l stay out of your way. I can disappear in the blink of an eye."

Luce groaned. "And I just go in and pretend like I work here?"

"No." Bil rol ed his flinty eyes. "Go up and introduce yourself to the lady of the house, Mrs. Constance. Tel her your last placement moved to the Continent and you're looking for new employment. She's an evil old harridan and a stickler for references. Lucky for you, I'm one step ahead of her. You'l find yours inside your apron pocket."

Luce slipped her hand inside the pocket of her white linen apron and pul ed out a thick envelope. The back was stamped shut with a red wax seal; when she turned it over, she read Mrs. Melvil e Constance, scrawled in black ink. "You're kind of a know-it-al , aren't you?"

"Thank you." Bil bowed graciously; then, when he realized Luce had already started toward the house, he ew ahead, beating his wings so rapidly they became two stone-colored blurs on either side of his body.

By then they had passed the silver birches and were crossing the manicured lawn. Luce was about to start up the pebble path to the house, but hung back when she noticed figures in the gazebo. A man and a woman, walking toward the house. Toward Luce.

"Get down," she whispered. She wasn't ready to be seen by anyone in Helston, especial y not with Bil buzzing around her like some oversized insect.

"You get down," he said. "Just because I made an invisibility exception for your bene t doesn't mean just any mere mortal can see me. I'm perfectly discreet where I am. Mat er of fact, the only eyes I have to be watchful about are—Whoa, hey." Bil 's stone eyebrows shot up suddenly, making a heavy dragging noise. "I'm out," he said, ducking down behind the tomato vines. Angels, Luce l ed in. They must be the only other souls who could see Bil in this form. She guessed this because she could nal y make out the man and woman, the ones who'd prompted Bil to take cover. Gaping through the thick, prickly leaves of the tomato vine, Luce couldn't tear her eyes away from them.

Away from Daniel, real y.

The rest of the garden grew very stil . The birds' evening songs quieted, and al she could hear were two pairs of feet walking slowly up the gravel path. The last rays of the sun al seemed to fal upon Daniel, throwing a halo of gold around him. His head was tipped toward the woman and he was nodding as he walked. The woman who was not Luce.

She was older than Lucinda could have been—in her twenties, most likely, and very beautiful, with dark, silken curls under a broad straw hat. Her long muslin dress was the color of a dandelion and looked like it must have been very expensive.

"Have you come to like our lit le hamlet much at al , Mr. Grigori?" the woman was saying. Her voice was high and bright and ful of natural confidence.

"Perhaps too much, Margaret." Luce's stomach tied up in a jealous knot as she watched Daniel smile at the woman. "It's hard to believe it's been a week since I arrived in Helston. I could stay on longer even than I'd planned." He paused. "Everyone here has been very kind."

Margaret blushed, and Luce seethed. Even Margaret's blushing was lovely. "We only hope that wil come through in your work," she said.

"Mother's thril ed, of course, to have an artist staying with us. Everyone is."

Luce crawled along after them as they walked. Past the vegetable garden, she crouched down behind the overgrown rosebushes, planting her hands on the ground and leaning forward to keep the couple in earshot.

Then Luce gasped. She'd pricked her thumb on a thorn. It was bleeding.

She sucked on the wound and shook her hand, trying not to get blood on her apron, but by the time the bleeding had stopped, she realized she'd missed part of the conversation. Margaret was looking up at Daniel expectantly. she'd missed part of the conversation. Margaret was looking up at Daniel expectantly.

"I asked you if you'l be at the solstice festivities later this week." Her tone was a bit pleading. "Mother always makes a big to-do."

Daniel murmured something like yes, he wouldn't miss it, but he was clearly distracted. He kept looking away from the woman. His eyes darted around the lawn, as if he sensed Luce behind the roses.

When his gaze swept over the bushes where she crouched, they flashed the most intense shade of violet.