My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

"... Or Forever Hold Your Piece" A Kit and Olivia Adventure Susan Krinard

Author's note: This story is set in an alternate Victorian England, Albion, where magical talents, like land and titles of the peerage, are inherited or "entailed" among the Albian aristocracy. Commoners may sometimes manifest "knacks" or minor Residual Talents,

. . . Into which holy estate these two persons present come now to be joined. Therefore if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else here­after for ever hold his—"

"I have cause!"

The bishop's mouth dropped open, showing a full set of crooked teeth. The congregation in the pews twisted around with like expres­sions of shock, and a deadly hush fell over St. Bertram's-in-the-Fens.

The man who had spoken stood at the rear of the church, fists clenched in defiance. Though he wore respectable-enough clothing and his hair was neatly combed, his accent was that of the Eirish commons, and it was immediately clear to Lady Olivia Dowling that he did not belong in this exalted company of Albion's most noble patricians. Lord Edward Parish, still kneeling at the altar, glared at the intruder with such ire that he seemed very apt to display his Lucifer-ian powers and start a fire right then and there.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

The unwelcome guest faltered beneath several score hostile, un­wavering stares and then gathered his courage. "My name does not matter," he said, his voice booming up to the buttresses. He looked directly at Lady Emma, bride-to-be and daughter of the Earl of Wakefield. "If only you had told me the truth. I would have under­stood. I—"

He broke off, his ruddy skin going pale. Olivia frowned and stud­ied him more carefully, sinking deep into her Talent as an Anatomist. The man's body betrayed him. His heart had begun to beat very fast, his palms to sweat, his eyes to widen with violent alarm. Olivia glanced again at Edward, who still stood at the altar. Lady Emma swayed, and Edward caught her against him.

The bishop finally found his voice. "Who are you?" he echoed. "You have interrupted a most solemn ceremony. What have you to say?"

When it was over, Olivia could not have said precisely what she had felt before the man bolted. It was rather as if she heard some­thing through his ears, an eerie wail that could not have come from a mortal throat. She knew that the stranger was consumed by such dreadful fear that it seemed that his heart must burst from his body.

He spun about, fell to one knee, scrambled to his feet, and charged for the doors, keening in despair.

A woman screamed. Everyone rose in a rustle of long skirts and the shuffle of polished shoes, and a trio of guests at the rear of the nave pursued the intruder out into the watery London sunshine. Olivia heard a rough, masculine cry of sheer terror, and then silence. A moment later one of the guests returned, his expression set and grim. He started for the altar, where Lady Emma trembled in Ed­ward's arms.

"I beg your pardon," Olivia said to her nearest neighbors as she squeezed past them out of the aisle. She looked about for Kit and, not seeing him, strode for the doors.

A flood of wedding guests poured out of the church, crowding about Olivia as she paused at the top of the steps. A woman at Olivia's elbow gasped, and a gentleman cursed under his breath.

The stranger lay at the bottom of the steps, his body twisted, his head bent at an improbable angle. One of the guests crouched by his side. Christopher Meredith—"Kit" to his dearest friends—was par­ticularly handsome today in his wedding clothes, his unruly black hair tamed into a semblance of order and no whiff of the Black Dog about him, though he wore his smoke-lensed spectacles to hide the crimson glint in his eyes.

Olivia remembered the third guest who had followed the unfor­tunate stranger and searched the crowd of gawkers that had gathered in the square to point and gossip. She caught a glimpse of a gentle­man's well-cut suit, an impression of aristocratic features, just before the man turned and vanished into the mob.

Olivia lifted her skirts and rushed down the steps with indecorous haste. Kit looked up as she joined him.

"Lady Olivia," he said, inclining his head with grave formality. "I'm afraid he has passed on."

Olivia knelt beside him, calling upon her fickle Residual gift and praying that this time it would obey her summons. In an instant she knew that Kit's diagnosis was correct.

"He appears to have died of a broken neck," she murmured. "What do you suppose he was running away from?"

"Probably thought better of his dashed interruption in a church filled to the rafters with Talent and a bridegroom capable of frying him in his boots."

Olivia clucked. "This is no time for levity, Kit. He was terrified before he fled the church, as if he'd seen a . . ."

A what? she asked herself. Unless one of the guests was an Illu­sionist or an extremely rare Conjuror, it was highly unlikely that the man could have seen an apparition invisible to the guests. And yet. . .

"There's a stink of magic in the air," Kit said more seriously, "but I can't identify it. It isn't human, that's certain."

"Then he was driven to his death by supernatural means."

Kit frowned. "It's possible. But just as I arrived, I saw a man in wedding clothes departing the scene. It wouldn't be difficult to trip someone fleeing down the stairs in a state of mortal terror."

"And if this man was murdered . . ." She bit her lip. "Who would want to silence a man with objections to a marriage?"

She and Kit exchanged glances. The motives were obvious when one wished to protect the reputation of one's daughter ... or fiancee.

"Lord Wakefield wouldn't stoop to such an act, even if he antici­pated this disturbance in time to arrange the murder," Olivia protested. "And as for Edward . . ."

"Impossible," Kit agreed. "But whatever or whoever contributed to this man's end, the devil's in it now. The police are on their way, although I'm sure that Lord Wakefield will arrange to keep the mat­ter quiet. The bishop will call a halt to the proceedings pending an investigation . . . and as the subject is dead . . ."

"Poor Emma. What an odious thing to happen on one's wedding day." She shook her head. "Will you see Edward?"

"Yes. He'll be distraught, but Emma . . ." He sighed. "You should go to her, Livvy. Her mother will be having a fit of the vapors, and her other relations won't help in the least."

"Of course." She touched Kit's arm. "I'll see you later, then."

She hurried back up the stairs and continued on through the nave to the vestry, where Emma sat surrounded by her family and a most agitated clergyman. Emma's sister was weeping, Lord Wakefield was pacing furiously, his wife the countess lay prostrate on a settee, and Edward was nowhere to be seen.

Olivia went straight to Emma and took her icy hands. "Are you all right, my dear?" she asked gently.

Emma met Olivia's gaze, her eyes great wells of misery. "Edward is furious," she whispered. "The wedding must be postponed. And I hear that the young man is dead. . . ."

"Hush." Olivia stroked a loose strand of hair away from Emma's face. "Don't trouble yourself about that now. I want to help you, Emma. Can you answer a few questions?"

"I . . . believe so."

"Good girl. Have you ever seen that man before?"

Olivia felt Emma's heart jump, but her answer was swift and ve­hement. "No."

"He is of Eirish descent. You know no one from that country?"

"Only servants, and they would have no cause—" She broke off and raised her handkerchief to her mouth, stifling a sob.

She was clearly in no state to cooperate in any investigation, so Olivia comforted the thwarted bride with every reassurance she could muster. "Don't worry, my dear. I will do whatever I can to help you."

Emma sniffed but didn't answer. Olivia took her leave and went back outside, where the guests were finally beginning to disperse. The police had come and gone, taking the body with them.

"Any luck?" Kit asked, coming up beside her.

"None. Apparently Emma didn't know the man, although . . ."

Kit arched a brow. "Although what?"

"There is something very peculiar about the entire situation."

"And you naturally wish to get to the bottom of it."

"Naturally. Emma is in a great deal of distress. If the investiga­tors determine that the stranger was in fact made to fall, suspicion could descend upon Emma's family. This could be a scandal of epic proportions—"

"And you could never contain your curiosity in any case."

Olivia wrinkled her nose. "Don't tell me that you have not re­solved to take action yourself."

"But of course. I am Edward's friend, after all." Kit offered his arm, and they walked in the direction of Olivia's waiting carriage. "But I would never dream of doing so without you at my side."

"Or you at mine." They smiled at each other, content in the per­fect understanding of a long and durable friendship.

"Emma is gone."

“Gone?”

“Is my speech as incomprehensible as all that, Mr. Meredith?” Olivia said irritably, pausing to instruct the coachman to deliver her to her hotel. "The countess says that Emma must have departed be­fore dawn this morning—crept out without so much as waking her maid—and left only a brief note that said nothing of her reasons save that she had no choice but to go. She took only one small bag . . . scarcely enough for a lady of her breeding, even for a single day."

"Not all ladies of breeding feel compelled to carry their entire wardrobe wherever they travel," Kit said, giving Olivia a pointed glance. "Perhaps Lady Emma is more like you than most of these simpering society damsels."

"Don't be foolish, Kit. Even if that were so, why should she run off, and without a decent word to her family? Surely she can't be so ashamed of yesterday's incident—"

Unless she has something to do with the death, Olivia thought, but Kit suggested a slightly more palatable explanation.

"It's quite possible that she knows there is some substance to the stranger's objection, which she has failed to admit to her interrogators"—he cast Olivia another piercing look—"and she fears to have her secret exposed."

Olivia folded her arms across her chest. "What 'secret' do you suggest? That Emma is already married, or that she and Edward are within the proscribed degree of blood relation?" She snorted. "That is ridiculous, and you know it."

"I admit that it does seem unlikely. But it's no coincidence that she left within a day of the interrupted wedding."

"No. And Emma's family have not been able to locate her, though they have had servants, police, and Finders looking for her since she was first discovered missing."

Kit examined a cracked fingernail. "Are you still committed to solving this mystery, Livvy?"

"More than ever."

"Then we shall have to summon Old Shuck."

Olivia rolled her eyes at the quaint old East Anglian name Kit gave his other half. "You know I'm as fond of dogs as any good Al-bian, but—"

"Old Shuck is no mere dog," Kit said with feigned affront. "Re­ally, Livvy. If even Finders can't locate Lady Emma, then she has well and truly disappeared. A Residual Talent, perhaps?"

Olivia thought of her own vexingly unreliable ability as an Anatomist—one who could literally see into the human body, which was only a tiny part of the power she would receive once her grand­mother chose to bestow her magical inheritance. Primogeniture de­clared that nonmagical assets such as land and title were almost always passed on from peer to eldest son, leaving younger sons and daughters with lesser property or modest annuities.

With Talents it was different. Each bearer of Talent in a Great Family, male and female, respectively, selected a boy and girl of the next generation to inherit that line's magic. Inheritance was not de­pendent upon the matrimonial state of the heir. When the elder died or chose to surrender his or her powers, the younger successor re­ceived the Talent in full measure.

Emma was almost certainly Lady Wakefield's chosen heir. She might possess some Residual form of her mother's gift.

"Have you heard anything of her maternal line's Talent?" Kit per­sisted. "Edward has never mentioned it, which leads me to believe that Lady Wakefield's line is one that prefers to keep the nature of its magic hidden from the world."

Rather like Kit himself, whose Wild Magic would not be consid­ered quite acceptable in good society. It carried the stigma of illegit­imacy and the Cymry and Eirish rebellions, of dark ceremonies chanted over ancient altars in the black of night.

A Talented family only concealed the form of its magic when said gift either was embarrassingly trivial, like a commoner's Resid­ual knack, or carried darker implications. Such concealment was considered somewhat bad form, and could arouse suspicion . . . but the countess's secret had certainly not prevented the Earl of Wakefield from marrying her, or obtaining an excellent match for their daughter.

"Emma has never spoken of it, either," Olivia said. "I always as­sumed it was a minor and useless ability, like calling up an unpleasant odor." Her eyes narrowed. "Do you think the Eirishman's objection had something to do with her family Talent?"

"I can't imagine any Talent that would provide a real obstacle to the marriage."

"Nor can I. Well, once we find Emma, we shall simply have to persuade her to speak."

On that note they reached Olivia's hotel, where she alighted to pack her belongings while Kit made his own arrangements. Though the rules of strict propriety dictated that Olivia should take her maid on any excursion with a bachelor, the situation was not precisely conducive to propriety. It required the utmost discretion. And though Alice was far from unfamiliar with the workings of Great Family magic, she would return to Waveney Hall the next morning.

At sunset, just as Olivia was setting down her book on the life of Elizabeth III, she heard the expected knock at her door. Alice an­swered it and showed Kit into the room.

"I've found her trail," he said, grinning as he removed his specta­cles. His eyes still burned with the Black Dog's crimson light. "She took the Oxford road."

Olivia dismissed Alice and offered Kit a glass of his favorite whiskey. "How was she traveling?"

"By carriage, or I might not have located her." He downed the whiskey in one swallow. "She must have hired a Residual to cover her tracks, but it wasn't enough to draw me off the scent."

"How far did you follow her?"

"Not far. I came back for you." He glanced about the small sitting room. "Are you ready?"

"Of course. I—-"

Another loud rapping came at the door, and with scarcely a pause Edward burst through.

"Kit!" he said. "I hoped I'd find you here." He bowed stiffly to Olivia. "Lady Olivia. I am sorry to disturb you, but. . ." He blew out his cheeks, looked straight at the whiskey carafe, and charged for the sideboard. "May I?"

"Of course." Olivia poured for him, judging that he was in no state to drink more than a little of the potent stuff. "You have heard nothing from Lady Emma?"

"Nothing." He drained the snifter and set it down with a trem­bling hand. "It's intolerable. There's no telling what predicament she has—" His voice thickened, and he swallowed. "I've come to ask for your help, Meredith. No one can seem to locate Emma, but I know that you . . ." He cleared his throat, peering with fascination into Kit's red-tinted eyes. "You have certain—"

"Shadowy abilities?" Kit offered wryly. "Wild Magic?"

Edward flushed, and the long-dead ashes in the grate suddenly be­gan to spark. "I beg your pardon. I assume that Lady Olivia knows ..."

"Oh yes," Olivia said, striving to inject a little lightness into the conversation. "I've known since we were children."

"And it's hardly a secret anymore," Kit added, "at least not from my friends, though I'd prefer that it remain among friends."

"Naturally," Edward said, looking relieved. "Can you help me?"

"We shall help you," Olivia said. "Kit has discovered the way she took out of London, and now it is only a matter of—"

"Bless you," Edward said, seizing her hands. He noticed the bags standing alongside the sofa. "But you are leaving . . ."

"Only to find Emma," Olivia said. "I won't advertise that I am traveling alone with two unmarried gentlemen if you will not."

"I shall defend your honor with my life ... as I will defend Emma's."

"You are not troubled by the mysterious objection?"

"It is obvious to me that my fiancee is in some sort of trouble," he said fiercely, "and I shall do whatever is necessary to get her out of it."

"No matter what our investigation may uncover?" Kit asked.

"You haven't known Emma long," he said to his friend. "She has changed immeasurably since she returned from the Continent. Our marriage was desired by both our families, and we were engaged be­fore she went away for her health." He stared at the carpet. "I confess that I did not love her then. I found her spoiled and more than a lit­tle arrogant, but I was prepared to do my duty. I was not prepared for the woman who came home to Albion."

"I did not know her well in those days, either," Olivia confessed. "We are distant cousins but had few occasions to meet. Now it seems that everyone wishes to be near her."

"Yes," Edward said, "and with good reason. Generosity and love of life have replaced vanity and overindulgence." His voice softened. "She seems almost a different person."

"You love her very much," Olivia said, glancing shyly at Kit.

"More than life itself." He glared at the coals in the grate, which gave up their feeble attempts to blaze with a gasp of gray smoke. "That is why I cannot bear . . . might we leave soon?"

"Immediately." She hesitated. "Is there anyone you wish to in­form?"

"No. Better by far that Emma's family know nothing of this un­til.. . until we have found her."

"Very well. Give me a moment to speak with my maid."

Olivia hurried into the bedroom to consult with Alice and re­turned to find that the men had already taken up her baggage and were champing at the bit. Olivia's own coachman was waiting on the street, and the three of them climbed into the carriage as the last of the light faded from the overcast London sky.

Once they had reached the western outskirts of the city, Kit dis­appeared and made his transformation. The Black Dog burst from a thick patch of shrubbery, his great shaggy coat exuding steam, his red eyes burning with eagerness to begin the hunt. With a booming woof he bounded away, setting off on the Oxford road.

"What happened to his clothes?" Edward asked as the carriage set off after Kit. "Surely he didn't leave them in a pile behind the shrubbery."

Olivia laughed. "Hardly. He 'takes' his clothing with him . . . though what actually becomes of it I have no notion. It's magic."

"Of course." Edward sighed. "And I suppose he is tireless and can run for hundreds of miles without stopping?"

"Wild Magic is often that way, though it also possesses its share of disadvantages. I have reminded Kit that we are not quite so resilient. He knows we'll have to make frequent stops to change horses and take meals, though in Black Dog form he can be rather impatient."

True to her assertions, Kit ranged far ahead and returned fre­quently to eye his human companions with crimson glares of disap­proval. At High Wycombe the coachman and his passengers paused to change horses and share a quick meal. The moon had risen, and Edward supplemented its light with a ball of fire—a miniature sun that he held in place above the carriage. His magical strength was nearly spent by the time Kit finally came to a halt at Oxford's city limits.

"This is as far as my nose takes me," Kit said, emerging from be­hind a byre at the town's edge. He adjusted his spectacles. "There is a large train station here. It seems likely that she boarded once she was confident that no one followed her."

Edward, pale with exhaustion and fear for Emma, flung himself into a bout of furious pacing. "Can you track her on a train?"

"I fear not. But you mustn't give up hope, old man."

"And there must be some in town who saw her," Olivia said, "at least in the vicinity of the train station. We shall go at once."

"In the middle of the night?" Edward asked.

"There will still be people at the station," she said. "I doubt that any of us can sleep. I certainly could not."

The men agreed, and so they went on to the station, where—after an impatient attempt by Edward to intimidate the ticket seller— Olivia insisted upon asking the questions. Though she used all her charm, it soon became evident that the fellow was not being entirely forthcoming. His heartbeat was much too fast, and sweat flooded from his pores.

"He's lying," Kit said. "I could smell it from here."

"I'll get the truth out of him," Edward snarled, snapping a flame to life between his fingers.

Olivia winced. The last thing they needed was a hotheaded Lu­cifer getting out of hand. She placed her fingertips on Edward's arm.

"We shall learn the truth," she promised. "Why don't you and Kit wait here while I learn who else might have seen Emma."

With much grumbling and his friend's encouragement—for Kit well knew that Olivia could take care of herself—Edward con­sented. Olivia made the rounds of the station, finding a few employ­ees and a handful of passengers waiting for the next train. None of them admitted to seeing a dark-haired, pretty young woman travel­ing alone.

At last Olivia returned to the one man she knew had something to hide. The ticket seller was just as stubbornly uncooperative as be­fore, and Olivia finally resorted to bringing Kit along for motivation. One glance at Old Shuck convinced the terrified agent that he was best served by honesty.

"They said they'd pay me well if I kept me mouth shut," he said, mopping his forehead with a damp handkerchief. "They also said they'd be . . . most unhappy if I said aught about—"

"Who are 'they'?" Kit demanded.

"I don't know." The man squeezed his eyes closed. "Important toffs, they was, but they didn't want nobody to recognize 'em. I saw when they met the lady . . . just like the one you described, ma'am."

"She did not go willingly?"

"Not as I could see. They carried her off to their carriage, and—"

A streak of fire shot narrowly past Olivia's head, slipped through the window of the ticket booth, and dropped to the ground at the agent's feet. He yelped and danced wildly to put it out.

"Where did they go?" Edward said in a dangerously soft voice.

The man shrank in on himself, trembling. "East, 'at's all I know. All I know."

"He's telling the truth," Olivia said. "Kit, we'll require your ser­vices again."

Fortunately, there was only one road leading east out of town. Once they had changed horses again and collected a hasty dawn breakfast of bread, cheese, and freshly picked berries, the Black Dog sniffed out the trail without undue difficulty. It led them to Chel­tenham and another set of fresh horses ... as well as an innkeeper who reluctantly admitted to having seen a number of "rough char­acters" with a lovely young woman headed east.

Edward was nearly beside himself, but Olivia managed to calm him before he set the inn afire. On they traveled through the morn­ing, skirting Gloucester and Hereford. Inevitably the road branched into any number of smaller lanes, and at each one Kit sat on his mas­sive haunches, pricked his long, silky ears, and sucked air through his broad, black nose until he had isolated the desired scent.

It was by such winding back roads—and after making several stops throughout the long day—that they came to the river Wye, which led at last to the border of Cymru. The hilly country was in­terlaced with pockets of dense woodland, secret valleys, and isolated farmsteads, any one of which could have concealed an abducted young woman and her captors.

Kit never gave up. He made clear that the others were to wait with the carriage while he ranged ahead. Olivia, Edward, and the coachman shared the last of their luncheon of sausage and meat pies and nursed the bumps and bruises of the long and difficult ride. Olivia kept up a steady patter of soothing conversation to distract Edward, who smoldered like a peat fire barely contained under the earth.

The Black Dog returned with the setting of the sun. He quickly changed and approached Edward with very sensible wariness.

"I've found her," he said. Edward leaped up. Kit gripped his friend's shoulder. "Steady, my lad. She's in the hands of several very competent-looking fellows, and there are guards outside the byre where they're keeping her."

"Is she hurt?"

"I was only able to catch a glimpse through a window, but she seems unharmed," Kit said. "She is bound, however, and they appear to be questioning her."

Edward rattled off a string of obscenities, hardly remembering to beg Olivia's pardon. "By God," he rasped. "I'll. . . I'll. . ."

"You'll remain calm, and we shall approach this as rational beings, not children," Olivia chided. She met Kit's gaze. "How many men did you say?"

"Ten, at most, including the guards."

"And we are three."

"I won't have the law involved in this," Edward said.

"No need," Kit said. "One of the Black Dog's most useful skills is the ability to arouse fright in most men . . . especially since he is of­ten a harbinger of death in myth and legend." He grinned. "Let me handle the guards. You and Livvy wait until I give the signal, and then we'll deal with the rest"—he pinned Olivia with a particularly meaningful stare—"when it's safe to do so."

Grim-faced, Edward pulled a gun from his coat pocket and checked it over carefully. Olivia shuddered, loathing the thought of violence and yet knowing it might not be possible to avoid it. She had no useful weapon like the men; she was no Puppetmaster to ac­tually influence the workings of the human body. But she did have the element of surprise.

Kit set out again. Olivia found a patch of soft bracken where she could rest her weary head and jarred body for a few regrettably brief moments. When she woke, Edward had disappeared.

Her own store of imprecations was considerably larger than even Kit would have believed. She spoke briefly to the coachman, in­structing him to stay with the horses in readiness for a hasty flight, and made her way by moonlight in the direction Kit had gone. A mile of stumbling over pebbles the size of boulders, and collecting a forest's worth of twigs and leaves in her skirts, brought her to an es­carpment overlooking a scattering of farmstead buildings, many col­lapsed and all dark save for faint illumination streaming from the byre. Olivia scrambled down the steep and rocky incline, landing on a very welcome patch of soft grass.

It was not difficult to tell where Edward had gone. Even as she made her way cautiously toward the byre, a hot light blossomed at one corner of the byre. Alarmed voices rose in the distance. Olivia ran.

She arrived to a scene of utter chaos. Men were fleeing the byre in all directions as the fire, spreading rapidly, consumed half-rotted timbers and thatch. The Black Dog bounded this way and that, his thunderous voice shaking the ground beneath Olivia's feet.

Olivia could think only of Emma, trapped somewhere within that raging conflagration. She darted for the byre's open door, dodged the wall of searing heat, and peered through the choking swirls of smoke.

Two figures crouched in the center, one male and one female. Just as Olivia was plotting her path to reach them, the man rose with the woman in his arms and raced for the door. Olivia retreated, and the three of them collapsed in a coughing, soot-stained heap.

A warm, wet tongue slurped across Olivia's face.

"Ugh. Kit, do you mind . . ."

The Black Dog grinned, showing massive white teeth, and trotted away. A moment later Kit returned.

"The men are gone. Are you all right?" he asked, including Ed­ward and Emma in his glance.

Olivia dragged her hand across her face. "I am fine," she said. "Emma?"

The young woman looked up, blinking, her dazed eyes catching the reflection of the suddenly dying fire. "Where . . . where am I?"

Edward held her in his arms, his cheek pressed to her hair. "She doesn't seem to know how she got here," he murmured.

"Her captors were certainly treated to a glorious announcement of our arrival," Olivia said crossly. "Could you not control yourself?"

Edward flushed. "I saw her through the window, and I couldn't bear—"

"Edward?" Emma turned in his arms. "Edward, are you really here?"

"Yes, darling. You're safe now. Those brigands won't bother you again."

Olivia knelt before Emma. "You aren't hurt?"

"I . . . no." She glanced up at Kit. "Did you all come after me?"

"You simply disappeared," Edward said, his voice growing stern. "What did you expect? That I would not take an interest?"

"Oh, Edward." She covered her face with her hands. "I've made such a mess of things. If only you'd stayed away . . ."

"I'm sure we all have much to discuss," Kit interrupted, "but it would be best if we leave this place, as the fire is very likely to attract attention, and the men may return with reinforcements."

"An inn is out of the question—" Edward began.

"But I have another suggestion. When he died, my father left me a cottage not far from here. It is extremely modest, but it should serve to provide us with shelter and a bed tonight."

"A cottage?" Olivia said. "I never heard of it."

"I've scarcely ever been there, and not in many years," Kit said with a diffident air. "There may be an elderly caretaker in resi­dence, but no servants. I wish I could offer you better. . . ."

"I'm sure it will suffice," Edward said. "Lead on, my friend."

They hurried back to the carriage as fast as bruises and aching muscles would allow, only to find that Olivia's coachman had de­serted them. Edward admitted to some skill in driving, but since Kit knew the way, he took the ribbons while the others climbed into the seats and resigned themselves to another fast and uncomfortable ride.

"Who were those men, Emma?" Olivia asked once they were well on their way. "Can you tell us why they abducted you?"

Emma took a deep breath, and Olivia could see that she was con­sidering prevarication.

"You'd better tell us the truth," she said. "Nothing less will do, I fear."

"Yes." Emma fixed her gaze on Olivia. "I don't know who they were, as they always wore hoods or low hats, but one was an Inquisi­tor. He was the man I saw most often."

"An Inquisitor?" Edward said. "Why were they questioning you, Emma? Has this to do with what happened at the wedding?"

Emma pulled away from Edward and wrapped her arms about her chest. "These men . . . and quite possibly the man in the church . . . must have known that I have spent the past several years working for the War Office as a confidential agent at the Burgundian Court. My captors are almost certainly the enemies of Albion."

Edward paled. "A confidential agent? You?"

"Good Lord," Olivia murmured. "The mist begins to clear."

The tale spilled out of Emma as though she had no means or will to stop it. With every revelation Edward lost a little more color. Yet when it was finished and Edward recognized the extent to which his bride had deceived him, he forgave her with all his generous heart.

"My poor darling," he said. "What you must have endured, risk­ing your life for Albion!"

Emma looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.

As Kit had warned them, the cottage was an unprepossessing affair—a single-story house surrounded by an overgrown garden amid a few acres of rough land—yet it was certainly no laborer's hovel. Olivia supposed that it might have been used as a hunting lodge, or a country residence for men who desired to take holiday without their womenfolk. Kit went inside while Edward stabled the horses in a small byre adjacent to the house. Kit reemerged with a grim expression.

"It's somewhat the worse for wear," he admitted. "Old Dafydd, the caretaker, isn't here at the moment, but at least he left the place reasonably clean." Kit's cheeks took on a tinge of pink. "I can draw a bath for the ladies and prepare a meal of sorts. I do apologize for my poor hospitality."

"Don't be ridiculous, Kit," Olivia said. "Anything remotely civi­lized will be welcome under the circumstances."

Once they were inside, Olivia could see that the place had been long neglected in spite of its resident caretaker. Of course she knew a little about Kit's father . . . he'd been one of the old nobility and also a clandestine member of the Rebellion, which had exhausted his fortune and eventually compelled him to flee Cymru and settle in East Anglia. There he had met and married Sarah Brasnett, a vis­count's daughter of exceptionally good breeding, who had lost something of her reputation by joining her name to a man whose family blood ran hot with Wild Magic. In fact, the couple had lived and raised Kit in a condition of genteel poverty.

But Kit had always known he was loved, and nothing could take that certainty away from him.

He, however, was clearly out of sorts, and spurned Olivia's efforts to engage him in conversation while he prepared rooms for his fe­male guests.

What has come between us, my friend? she thought. We have always been the best of co-conspirators. Something troubles you, and it is far more than the state of this house.

She never found the right moment to ask him, for shortly he an­nounced that the yellow and blue bedchambers were ready for occu­pation. Once Olivia had seen to Emma's comfort, she retired to her own room, where she made a hasty toilette at the washstand and was glad enough to close her eyes after a night and day of rattling about in a coach, no matter how well sprung.

She woke to heavy silence and the aroma of brewing coffee. But­toning up her gown, she went down to join Kit and Edward in the tiny sitting room. They broke off their conversation at once. It was still the wee hours of the morning, a time for secrets, and Kit had a vaguely guilty look about him. Olivia vowed that she would not al­low herself to be hurt by Kit's behavior.

"I smell coffee," she said brightly. "I would dearly love a cup."

"You detest the stuff," Kit protested with a slight smile.

"I will have some, nonetheless."

She had barely taken her first sip when a bloodcurdling scream rent the air.

Edward shot to his feet. Kit dashed for the stairs, Olivia at his heels. She rushed ahead and blocked the way into Emma's room.

"Let me go in," she said. "If I require assistance, I will let you know."

"She needs me!" Edward protested. He lunged for the door, but Kit intercepted him, holding on with stubborn strength. Olivia went into the room and closed the door.

Emma was sitting upright in bed, her face streaked with tears. Her gaze was focused on some point above Olivia's head.

"Did you see it?" she asked in a whisper.

Olivia looked up at the wall. "See what, Emma?"

The young woman swiped her sleeve across her face. "I couldn't have imagined it. It was real. Just as real as . . ." She paused, her eyes acknowledging Olivia with guarded defiance. "You will think me mad."

"Not at all." Olivia sat on the edge of the bed and took Emma's hand. "You have been through a great deal. What is it you saw?"

Emma shuddered. "A spirit. A particular kind of apparition that. . . that my maid, Kate, used to speak of."

Kate O'Brennan, as Olivia well knew, was the young woman who had met an untimely end on the Continent while she was serving Emma. Her tragic and unexpected demise had brought Emma home to Albion, but Kate's body had been left behind, lost in the Loire River.

"You saw a ghost?" Olivia asked gently.

"Not a ghost. A banshee."

"A banshee? The creatures that are supposed to appear when . . . when someone is about to—"

"—die. Yes." Emma shivered. "It is not the first time I have seen one, Olivia. The first time was at St. Bertram's . . . just before the young Eirishman fell down the steps and broke his neck."

Kit grunted as he pulled the massive book from the dusty library shelf and began to thumb the dog-eared pages.

" 'Banshee,'" he muttered. " 'Bean-sidhe. Eirish folklore. A spirit or fairy who presages a death by wailing.' "

"Do you mean that this 'bean-sidhe' killed the man in the church?" Olivia asked.

"Not at all. They don't kill. . . they only warn of impending death." He looked up with a frown. "That much is common knowl­edge to any student of magic. But from what I understand, they only appear to those of Eirish descent, particularly those of noble or royal blood."

"Emma isn't Eirish," Edward said.

"Some prefer not to advertise such connections," Olivia said dryly, stirring her cold coffee with a bent silver spoon. "There are but three possibilities: Either Emma imagined this apparition—"

"I don't believe it," Edward interjected.

"—there is hidden Eirish blood in either the Denholme or Brightwell lines, or this bean-sidhe is behaving very much out of character."

"And there is a further complication," Kit said, setting the book down on a side table. "The bean-sidhe is only supposed to appear when a loved one or member of the family is about to die."

"And Emma said that she saw the spirit in the church just before the stranger met his untimely end," Olivia said.

Edward sat up in his chair. "She had nothing to do with his death!"

"I was not implying that she did. She denies ever having seen his face."

Edward remained stiff as a poker. "She has no family in this house," he said, "But depending upon the definition of 'loved one' . . ."

"We gain nothing by such cheerless speculation." Olivia tapped the spoon against her lip. "Only Emma can make sense of this, and evidently she is not prepared to tell everything she knows."

"Are you suggesting—"

"If she was a spy for the War Office, there are doubtless many things she isn't permitted to reveal," Olivia said. "As soon as she is recovered, we must get her back to civilization and under the protec­tion of the Crown."

"If that is what she wishes," Kit said. "She tried to escape before. Apparently she doesn't believe that the War Office can protect her."

"There's no telling how many enemies she has, even here in Al­bion," Edward said. "I'll get her out of the country. We'll go to the Colonies if we must."

"I doubt that the War Office will simply allow her to leave," Kit said, "particularly once they've learned that she was abducted and questioned. If she has knowledge of state secrets—" He stopped, jerked up his head, and swung toward the door to the hall. Olivia could almost see the hair stand straight up on the back of his neck.

"Someone is approaching the house," he said. "Several men, from the sound of it."

Edward snatched the gun that he had left on a side table. Kit growled deep in his throat.

"I should have sensed them if they followed us," he said. "Unless one of them is a Dissembler. . . ."

"They are the same men?" Olivia asked, peering between the faded curtains.

"Stay away from the window, Livvy." He flared his nostrils. "I can't quite make out the scent." He glanced at Edward and then to­ward the stairs. "You stay with the women, and I'll go out and meet them."

"You should stay, Christopher. I can raise a firewall if they don't listen to reason."

Emma's Talent might conceivably be of some use about now, Olivia thought, if only she would reveal it. Olivia coughed behind her hand. "Gentlemen . . . though I am not well versed in the matter of fisticuffs or firearms, I do have a small skill that should free you both. I can set wards across the doorways, so that no stranger can enter without triggering an uproar."

Edward looked at her curiously. "But warding is a form of witch­craft, isn't it?"

Olivia blushed. "My great-aunt was a hedge-witch. She was con­sidered the black sheep in the family, but there was a time . . . when I thought I might follow in her footsteps."

"I never heard anything of this," Kit said, his voice strained.

Olivia looked away. "I suggest that one of you go out the back door and the other the front, and I shall set the wards."

With a doubtful grumble, Edward headed for the front door. Kit slipped out the back. Olivia stilled her mind and drew upon every­thing she had learned from Great-Aunt Celia. The spell came with surprising ease, reminding Olivia of what she had chosen to give up for the sake of familial duty.

She had no sooner completed her work than the wards chimed, indicating that a friend was attempting to pass. Edward gingerly stepped over the threshold, bolting the door behind him.

"It's the local constable," he said. "He has a dozen men with him, and he says he's come to arrest Emma."

"Arrest her! Why?"

"It's preposterous. They claim that she murdered Kate O'Bren­nan!"

"I did not do it," Emma said, jaw set and eyes bright with rebellion.

She sat erect on the edge of her chair, her hands clasped in her lap, every inch the earl's daughter and disciplined agent. Edward sat be­side her, clearly frustrated by her refusal to let him touch or comfort her. It was as if she had pushed him away both mentally and physi­cally ... as if they were complete strangers who had barely escaped the dreadful mistake of holy wedlock.

Edward had begun to entertain his own doubts. He had confessed as much to Kit, who in turn had warned Olivia of the strain devel­oping between them. But that seemed the least of their worries, given that the constable and his men were lined up directly on the other side of Edward's firewall, waiting for Edward's strength—and his magic—to fail. Kit had not yet returned.

"We believe you, my dear," Olivia said. "However, it is evident that something has led the authorities to judge you a suspect. If ever there was a time for frankness, it is now." She sighed at Emma's stub­born expression. "Were you aware that there were questions sur­rounding Kate's death? Was this the objection the Eirishman was about to raise at the wedding? And what of the men who abducted you? Can you tell us no more about them?"

"I remember nothing of the questions they asked me, and little of the men themselves. I have told you all I know."

"All you are permitted to say . . . is that it?" Edward asked. "Dar­ling, your future, possibly your life, is at stake. Whatever it is, I will understand—"

Emma cut him off with shockingly cold precision. "Even if—as Edward believes—this constable is genuine, the timing of his arrest cannot be coincidence."

"I had reached a similar conclusion," Olivia said. "But why are these men so eager to take you, Emma? If they are Albion's enemies and foreign agents, how can they be so blatant in their approach, even in a place as isolated as this?"

"They must be using Talent to disguise their purpose from any who might interfere," Edward said, "just as they used it to cloud Emma's memory of her interrogation. Some among them must be highly placed, in Albion or abroad. Their confidence suggests that they have the advantage on their side."

"I fear you may be right," Olivia said. "Whoever they are, they surely won't wait forever." She glanced toward the window. "What can be keeping Kit?"

Edward touched her shoulder. "Christopher can take care of himself."

Perhaps he could, Olivia reflected, but he also had a wild streak that even she could not predict. She muttered something about find­ing tea in the kitchen, armed herself with a poker from the hearth, and ventured out the back door.

Edward's firewall still stood unbreached, though Olivia knew that Kit must have found a way to pass through it unharmed . . . another peculiar and occasionally useful Black Doggish talent, no doubt. To her eyes and ears it rose as a solid wall of flame, perhaps four feet in width, its upper edge licking at shoulder-height. It would burn most men and women, Talented or not, as effectively as a real fire, though this one made no sound and relied on no solid fuel that Olivia could detect. It would falter when Edward had exhausted his magical strength.

She made her way around the house just inside the wall. At the front of the cottage clustered a group of men. Olivia took a firmer grip on her poker and approached the fire.

"You," she called. "Constable. I am Lady Olivia Dowling."

A stout, thickset man broke away from the others and strode to­ward her, pausing only when the heat grew too intense for him to bear. He shielded his face with one broad hand and peered through the leaping flames.

"Lady Olivia," he said. "It would be best for everyone if you would encourage your companions to give themselves up. Lady Emma is assured of a fair trial under the law."

Olivia smiled. "I'm certain that Lady Emma would be more in­clined to cooperate if she had not already been kidnapped and questioned by persons unknown." She cocked her head. "Yours is an honest face, Constable. I'm sure you have no knowledge of such activities."

"I do not, my lady." He glanced behind him. "Can you name the men who committed this alleged act?"

"Unfortunately, I cannot, and Lady Emma was subjected to a Tal­ent which impaired her memory of the event. You can see why she is not keen to trust anyone at the moment."

"Nevertheless, I am the duly appointed representative of the Crown, and I—" He stopped as a man came up to join him, and bent his head to listen to the other's low-voiced words. He straightened. "Under the law, I am permitted to take any action necessary to serve my warrant, and . . ."

Olivia didn't hear the rest of his speech. Her attention was riveted on the man who had spoken to the constable ... a man whose face was hidden under a low-brimmed hat and high collar, a man who walked with a slight limp that no one but an Anatomist might re­mark. She released her breath and allowed her Residual gift to take command of her senses.

She scanned down the length of the man's right leg and found the healed fracture, the peculiar pattern of the break, and the thickness of long-healed tissue where the bone had penetrated flesh. She re­membered when the accident had happened. She had been there, along with her father, on the day that the dashing Sir Valentine Crowley—for whom she had nurtured a devastating childhood infatuation—had tumbled from his horse at a flying gallop.

She made her decision in an instant. "Sir Valentine," she called.

He stopped in the act of turning away, his heartbeat reaching a fu­rious velocity. She felt the blood surge into his muscles.

"Sir Valentine. Do you not remember me? Olivia Dowling?"

He faced her slowly under the constable's curious eye. "Lady Olivia," he said without inflection.

"Sir Valentine?" the constable said, clearly surprised. "When you came to me about Lady Emma, I'd no idea who you—"

"It would have been better if you hadn't recognized me, Olivia," Valentine said, "but I didn't know your grandmother had died."

"She hasn't," Olivia said, bewildered. "I seem to have obtained some of her Talent Residually. It is a mixed blessing. . . ." She trailed off, well aware that something was badly amiss. "Why should I not have recognized you?"

He sighed, his shoulders rising and falling, and tipped the brim of his hat. "What do you want, Livvy?"

"An explanation. Why have charges been brought against Lady Emma? How are you involved in this?"

Silence. Then the constable made a low, startled sound, and Olivia saw the gun pointed at his chest.

"I had hoped it wouldn't come to this," Sir Valentine said, "but it seems there is no help for it now." He met Olivia's gaze through the fire. "Tell Lady Emma, Lord Edward, and your friend Mr. Meredith that we will not be going away until she gives herself up. We have the numbers and the Talent. We—"

His sentence ended in a soft oomph as the constable lunged for the gun. The weapon's report boomed and echoed. A body sprawled on the earth, and it was not Sir Valentine's.

"A pity," he said. "But you must understand that we will have Lady Emma sooner or later, and it will go easier with her if you surrender."

Sickness clutched at Olivia's stomach. Her blood turned to ice, and she clenched her fists in impotent fury. "Who are you, Crowley? What are you? Did you abduct Lady Emma?"

"The less you know, the better for you."

But of course she could already guess. "My captors are almost cer­tainly the enemies of Albion," Emma had said. And here was one of them in the flesh.

"If you will kill a man in cold blood," Olivia said, "murder him . . . why should we believe you will not do the same to us?"

"Because you have no choice." He raised the gun. "Lord Ed­ward's firewall may hinder a man, but it will not halt a bullet."

Olivia stared at the gun, her mouth gone dry. "The others must know I am gone by now. They will have heard the first shot. Edward and Emma are both resourceful; they'll get away—"

Sir Valentine gestured to the henchmen gathering at his back. "Even if my men fail to catch them," he said, "your friends are sure to submit when I inform them that you will bleed to death if I do not send for a physician immediately." He took careful aim. "It won't kill you, my dear. There will be time—"

A mass of black fur and muscle soared out of the air on the other side of the firewall, crashing into Crowley with a roar like an oncom­ing locomotive. A chorus of yells and snarls beat against Olivia's ears.

"Kit!" she cried.

The huge head swung toward her, and Crowley's gun cracked. The Black Dog's growls snapped off in a shriek of pain. Sir Valen­tine's underlings summoned their courage and began to close in. Sir Valentine heaved himself up, face and neck streaked with blood, eyes wild. He aimed at the crouching canine.

Olivia had no thought for herself, no doubts about what she could and could not do. She closed her eyes and envisioned Sir Valentine's body ... his heart pumping the fluid of life, his stomach busy with digestion, his muscles tensed to kill. A strange darkness overwhelmed her, a bitter new knowledge that bubbled to the surface of her con­sciousness like some noxious gas beneath still, dark waters.

She gave a little twist to the image in her mind, shifting molecules with the force of her will. Crowley's agonized cry was more terrible than anything Olivia could have anticipated. Sir Valentine dropped the gun and doubled over, clutching at his belly. The henchmen stared from him to Olivia, blanched as one, and fled.

The strength drained out of Olivia's legs like hot air from an aerostat. She struck the ground with enough force to empty her lungs, and as she struggled to breathe she took in the bizarre tableau of a gibbering Sir Valentine, a bloodied and limping Old Shuck, and an unnamed constable rising from the dead.

"There, now," the lawman's voice floated through the firewall. "You'll be fine, my lady."

Olivia got to her knees. "But you ... I saw you—"

"I thought it best to play dead," the constable said, relieving Crow­ley of his gun. "He only nicked me on the shoulder. Not as good a shot as he believes. And as for your friend, here . . ." He regarded the Black Dog with wary respect. "He is your friend, I take it?"

"Indeed." Olivia still felt a spot of nausea, and a distant horror at what she had done, but there would be time to deal with that at a more suitable moment. "Kit! Can you come over to me?"

The Dog growled, plunged through the firewall, and abruptly vanished. Kit stood in his place, his clothing only slightly askew. Blood welled from a wound in his right leg, rapidly soaking the black wool of his trousers.

"It's nothing," he said gruffly "It didn't hit anything important." He felt for the spectacles that no longer sat on his nose. "Blast it, I lost them. Pardon, Livvy."

He sounded immeasurably weary and hurting, but he was alive. "We must get you inside at once," Olivia said. "And your arm must also be seen to, Constable."

"It's Greaves, my lady," he said. "At your service. I'll secure Sir Valentine while you lower the firewall. And we'll need reinforce­ments to round up Sir Valentine's lackeys." He squinted at her thoughtfully. "Begging your pardon, but why did Sir Valentine con­ceal his true identity when he presented me with the warrant for Lady Emma's arrest? Why does he want her so badly that he'd shoot us to take her?"

"I suspect I know only part of the story, Greaves." She told him of her belief that Sir Valentine had abducted Emma once, and that he or one of his men was an Inquisitor intent on gaining some coveted information that only she possessed. "The rest may be beyond my province to explain, but we shall have answers eventually."

She tore off a wide strip of her petticoat and bandaged Kit's leg while Greaves handcuffed the weeping Crowley. She and Kit plod­ded back toward the house, where Edward met them.

"Thank god!" he cried, extinguishing the firewall with a twitch of his fingers. "We heard the shots, but Emma fainted just when I was about to look for you." He offered Kit his shoulder. "What the hell is going on?"

Olivia explained as best she could, finishing as Greaves joined them. The constable deposited Sir Valentine in the pantry and braced the door closed with the heavy kitchen table. Greaves re­mained behind while Kit, Edward, and Olivia entered the sitting room to find Emma perched on the edge of the settee, herlips curled in a mocking smile.

"What have we here?" she asked. "Two dogs and a bitch limping in with their bedraggled prey. You timed your rescue exquisitely well, Eddie dear."

"Emma?" Edward said, leaving Kit in an overstuffed armchair. "Are you all right?"

"Better than I've been in months." She stretched her arms high above her head. "So well, in fact, that I have no intention of going back."

"Going back?" Olivia echoed. "Emma, we have the man who ab­ducted you, and the others have fled. You're safe—"

"Safe." She laughed. "If it were left up to Eddie, I'd be dead. For­tunately, I have the competence he has always lacked." She smiled at her stunned fiance. "Did you think I'd willingly marry you for any­thing but your money, Eddie dear?"

Olivia approached Emma as she might a mad dog. "What is wrong with you, Emma?" She narrowed her eyes, aware of a raging turmoil inside the other woman, a battle every bit as ferocious as the one that had taken place outside. "No," she whispered. "It isn't. . ."

"What's the matter, darling? Cat got your tongue?"

"Who are you?"

"That is what I wondered for some time." Greaves stood in the doorway, Sir Valentine's gun in his hand. "Fortunately, Lady Emma was happy to tell me once we were alone." He grinned. "Now per­haps we can finish our interrupted conversation."

"Greaves?" Edward said. "What nonsense is this?"

Kit stirred in his chair, and the pistol swung toward him. "No nonsense," he said grimly. "But I think we have made a serious error in judgment."

Emma stared at Greaves. "You fool," she breathed. "We could have been allies, if only you'd been patient and not let your fears of exposure overwhelm you."

"Exposure," Olivia said. "Then Greaves is . . . both he and Sir Valentine—"

"Are Burgundian agents," Emma finished. "They made fools of you all."

"Sir Valentine has run off, the filthy coward," Greaves said. He gestured with the gun. "All of you, over there with Lady Emma."

"She isn't Lady Emma," Olivia said.

"You're wrong," Emma said. "The one who occupied my body was the imposter." She glared at Edward. "The one you almost mar­ried. The one who tried and failed to kill me."

Edward's mouth dropped open in shock. Kit growled. A great many things began to make sense to Olivia.

"It was Kate," Emma said. "Kate who seized my body when her own was dying."

Greaves clucked reprovingly. "But it isn't that simple, my dear, and you know it." He turned to his captive audience. "You see, dear Emma was indeed a very skillful Albian agent at the Burgundian court. . . and also my lover. I had been a confidential agent for Bur­gundy working in Albion until a year ago, and it was her task to dis­cover what Albian intelligence I had collected during my time here. But she forgot her sense of objectivity and became infatuated with the subject of her observation. She was persuaded to transfer her al­legiance to Mother Burgundy. Quite a coup for me-"

"Liar," Emma hissed. "I have never seen you before yesterday."

As Olivia watched in amazement, Greaves's face melted into a completely different visage, and his stout body lengthened to aristo­cratic lines. Emma gasped.

"Serge," she said.

"You are not the only one with a useful Talent, my dear."

"He's a Pretender," Kit muttered.

Serge bowed. "That is my particular skill, as Emma's is—" He gave a grunt of surprise, and his body began to shake. The gun twisted in his hand as if it had developed a life of its own.

Olivia glanced at Emma. She was smiling in bitter triumph, and there was no further doubt in Olivia's mind.

"Puppetmaster," Olivia said. "You are a Puppetmaster!"

"Very astute of you," Emma said. "While Serge's Talent may be dramatic, mine is ultimately more useful. . . particularly when I need to rid myself of witnesses who might interfere with the new life I shall make for myself in Albion." She stroked her lower lip. "Who shall I start with first? The big Dog?"

Slowly, fighting her silent commands with rigid muscle and clenched jaw, Greaves turned his pistol on Kit.

"No!" Olivia cried. "Kate!" She stepped in front of Kit, who tried to shove her out of the way. He lost his balance and stumbled. Greaves aimed anew.

"No!"

The voice was both strange and familiar. Emma closed her eyes, and when she opened them they shone with blessed sanity.

"It's all right, Lady Olivia," she said. "I have control again." She stared at Serge. "Tell them the whole story, Beaumarchais, or I shall let Emma shoot you."

The Burgundian's mouth worked, but his face was pale with re­lief. "Oui," he said hoarsely. He looked at Olivia. "All I said before was true, but I . . •" He swallowed. "Lady Emma did plan to defect to Burgundy but her scheme was uncovered by her maid and fellow agent, Kate O'Brennan ... a very skilled Eirish commoner with several Residual knacks of use in our profession. Emma well knew that Kate would try to stop her, and so she resolved to kill the girl."

"Go on," Kate said coldly.

"However, when Emma wielded her Puppetmaster talent in an effort to murder Kate, the maid showed remarkable strength and will for one of her station. Emma lost control of her own Talent. At the instant of Kate's death, a bizarre transference occurred."

"Their souls," Olivia said. "Their spirits. . . changed places."

"Not entirely," Kate said, her voice heavy with memory. "My body died, but I fought for survival. And I did survive ... in Emma's body."

"I did not know at the time," Serge said, gazing at the gun that had so easily turned against him. "Kate played her part so well that I never suspected that Emma existed only as a shadow in her own body. She asked for my help in disposing of Kate's body, and we threw it in the Loire. But when Emma changed her mind about de­fecting, I knew something was wrong." He sucked in a deep breath. "I followed her to Albion, knowing she might have been playing the double agent all along. My Albian sources revealed that she resigned from the War Office immediately upon her arrival. But as long as she remained at large, her intentions unknown, she was a threat to any Burgundian agent in Albion."

"And that is why you abducted her," Kit said. "But why did you wait so long after she returned to Albion?"

"Because I did not realize how complicated matters had become until a former lover of Kate's, one Eamonn Lyons, visited Emma at her father's estate to question her about Kate's death. My informant there overheard the interview—an informant who is now safely back in Burgundy." He smiled bitterly. "Lyons was himself an ex-agent, and a man of considerable gifts. He recognized some unique mannerism that convinced him of 'Lady Emma's' true identity, and he accused her of a cruel deception."

"Lyons is the man who objected at the wedding!" Olivia said.

"Oui. He believed that Lord Edward was about to marry an im­poster. This knowledge inspired us to act when the opportunity pre­sented itself, as it did when Lady Emma fled London. And so I learned the singular facts of the case."

"Were you the one who 'assisted' Lyons in falling down the church steps?" Kit asked.

"You may lay that death at the feet of Sir Valentine. He did not wish any outside interference until we had properly interrogated Lady Emma."

"Oh god," Edward groaned. "I cannot believe any of this."

"It is true," Kate said. She met his gaze bravely. "I had intended to explain as soon as I returned to Albion . . . but when I met Emma's parents, I couldn't bear to tell them the truth about their daughter. And then ... I met you. And I grew to love you so dearly that I could not... I couldn't bear—" She bowed her head. "I know it's over between us. I can only hope that one day, you'll—"

She stiffened, and her eyes glazed with shock. "Forgive her," she said in that other voice, and laughed. "No need for such extreme measures, Eddie. Kate didn't quite kill me when she took my body, but I was too weak to fight for it. . . until Serge's interrogation set me free. Now I'll keep what's mine."

Once again the gun wavered in Serge's trembling hand.

"Fight her, Kate!" Olivia commanded. "If you were strong enough to endure once before, you can do so again."

"Her previous victory was a mere stroke of luck," Emma snarled, but Olivia saw that her forehead was beaded with perspiration and her jaw worked with effort.

Olivia moved closer. "Kate," she said, "whatever guilt you may feel, whatever horror at taking Emma's body, remember it was not you who attempted murder—"

"Silence!" Emma shouted.

"—and would just as willingly murder everyone in this room," Olivia finished.

The gun in Beaumarchais's hand pointed toward Olivia. "You bitch," Emma hissed. "That is exactly what I shall do."

"Not this time. Kate!"

"I—" Kate-Emma made a strangled sound. "I cannot—"

"She cares too much," Emma said. "That is why she, and all of you, will die."

With growing despair, Olivia realized that Emma was winning the battle. Her will was too strong, too ruthless. And no one but Kate could defeat her.

"Good-bye," Kate whispered. "Forgive . . ."

"No" Edward said, standing to face her. "Don't you dare leave me."

Her eyes opened wide, reflecting the ferocity of the struggle for survival. "Edward ... I love . . ."

"I love you more than life. I will not let you go, do you hear? Come back to me!"

Tears spilled down Emma's cheeks. She half-rose, shaking vio­lently. "You . . . love me . . ."

"With all my heart."

Emma's body jerked like an Animator's mannequin and collapsed to the carpet. Kit sprang to take the gun from Serge's limp fingers. Edward rushed to Kate's side.

"Kate! Kate, do you hear me?"

The limp form stirred. "Edward?"

He stroked her cheek with his fingers. "My love ... is it you?"

"Emma is gone," she whispered. "I am Kate. Kate O'Brennan."

"I didn't know why I fell in love when . . . when you returned from the Continent," Edward said, clasping Kate's hands in his, "but it was real. As real as you are now. I love you, Kate ... if you will still have me."

Kate wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes. "If you can forgive such a terrible deception. . . ."

He took her in his arms. "It is you I loved—your soul, your brave and generous spirit—never Emma."

"But your family . . . I'm a commoner, of Eirish blood—"

"And that," Olivia said to Kit as she abandoned her eavesdrop­ping, "explains in part why she saw the bean-sidhe."

"But only in part," Kit said. "Something badly frightened Eamon Lyons in St. Bertram's. He, too, must have seen the banshee. Re­member, it's supposed that only the Eirish of noble blood can detect them."

"Then perhaps Kate has even more secrets than we have guessed." Olivia sighed. "The girl will have a great deal to sort out, especially since she has resolved to tell the full story to the War Office and Emma's family. Sir Valentine and his allies must be apprehended. And Kate doubtless bears some guilt for the death of her Eirish

friend in St. Bertram's."

"But it wasn't she or the bean-sidhe that caused his death." "No, but if she'd told him the truth, he might not have died at all." "Perhaps. Or perhaps it was simply his time." He frowned. "And

what of the bean-sidhe she saw here at the cottage? Whose death did

that portend?"

"Don't you see, Kit?" Olivia asked. "It was Emma's demise the

bean-sidhe foretold ... the end of the murderess who lingered on to

corrupt Kate's new life. That was justice indeed."

". . . if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

An expectant, almost painful hush descended over the nave of St. Bertram's-in-the-Fens. Kate and Edward, kneeling at the altar, did not move a muscle. No one spoke.

The bishop released a gusty breath and rushed through the re­mainder of the ceremony at record speed.

"With this ring I thee worship," Edward intoned, his face radiant with happiness. "With my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

The congregation bowed its collective head in prayer. As the final hymn reached its conclusion, Olivia took Kit's hand.

"I think very well of Edward for putting love above every other consideration," she said. "In the end, he brought his family to see things his way. And now it is done, all right and proper."

"I doubt very much," Kit said wryly, "that those two are contem­plating propriety at the moment."

"Why, Kit!" Olivia smiled, noting the twinkle in his eye. "I never knew one could have such unseemly thoughts."

"Oh, I have them often enough." He cleared his throat. "The world would be a much happier place if love could overcome every obstacle in its path."

"But it can, my dear. Who should know that better than the world's most formidable canine?" "Woof," he said with a grin. "Woof," she said, taking his hand.

SUSAN KRINARD is the author of fourteen fantasy romance novels, several novellas, and two epic fantasy novels. Susan graduated from the California College of Arts and Crafts with the intention of be­coming a science fiction cover artist, but fate led her in another direc­tion when her first manuscript was acquired by a major publisher. Born and raised in the California Bay Area, Susan now makes her home in the "Land of Enchantment," New Mexico, with her hus­band, three mixed-breed dogs, and a cat named Jefferson.