CHAPTER ONE
Metal glinted in the pale spring sunshine-swords, knives, the polished rings on the tack of the oncoming horses. The invaders swarmed up the hill toward the house, sweeping the duke's guard aside like chaff. Gouts of blood splashed onto the sweet young grass, bright flowers of carnage, as the defenders fought and fell and died.

In the blink of an eye, a gray downpour replaced the sunlight. A different battle, a different day. This time the maimed,
the dying, and the dead lay sprawled across the front steps of the ducal residence. The young duke fought like a madman in front of the barred doors, his yellow hair plastered to his skull by the rain. At his side, an older man staggered backward and clasped his hands over the gash in his midsection in a vain attempt to stop his guts from spilling into the mud.

Another day, another variation of the same hopeless battle. In this one, the attackers set fire to the village first, and
blooded their swords on the cursing, sobbing inhabitants until the duke's guards arrived to take up the hopeless fight. At this very spot, where the road entered Albinville, a laughing man separated the young duke's head from his shoulders,

"Something wrong, Your Honor?"

The sergeant's voice snapped Phillipe back to the present. He had reined his horse to a halt at the edge of the common, his escort gathered uncertainly around him. Goats and cattle grazed on either side of the road and a wedge of geese honked overhead, reinforcing the utter normalcy of the scene. No armies, no swords, no blood.

Not yet.

"Just thinking, Sergeant Hervé." The visions taunted Phillipe, each grimmer than the one before. He shoved them back
below the surface of his memory and urged his horse forward onto the deceptively peaceful common. "I'm finished now. Let's go on."

* * *
"Hervé's back."

The kitchen fell silent. Zuli lifted the bowl of peas from the shelf and moved to the pantry doorway. From that safe
vantage point she could see most of the kitchen, including the wide double doors that led to the rest of the House.

Cook's endlessly busy hands had paused. Her son, Alain, stood in the arched entry, thumbs hooked in his wide leather
belt, his scowl deeper than usual. Cook pushed up the sleeves of her faded periwinkle undertunic and returned most of her attention to the pie crust she was rolling. "Go on, Alain. You're bursting to tell me. Who'd he bring then?"

"I don't know-but I can go down to the stable yard and see."

Cook snorted. "Not likely now, with extra mouths to feed."

"Ma!"

"Later. You've work here."

Alain stomped into the room. Although he was nearly eighteen, Alain had yet to acquire a wife. He blamed the delay on the sorry state of the duchy. Zuli suspected it had more to do with his sour disposition. The bench scraped across the stone floor as he took his seat at the table and plucked a turnip out of the pile. "It's not General Pratt. The guard on the wall would've recognized him." Alain jabbed his paring knife into the white root. "Probably another village elder, full of complaints. Who needs that?"

Cook glanced at him. "Mind what you're doing." Alain frowned, but his short, angry knife strokes slowed to a reasonable speed.

Zuli drew back into the shadows. The thought of disappearing entirely for a few hours tempted her. Unfortunately, she had nowhere to go, no way to escape from the duke's plans, however much she disagreed with them-and she had disagreed, enthusiastically and at length, the moment he told her about them. It hadn't done any good. She was his sister, and chatelaine of his house, but that didn't mean she could make him see a truth he preferred to ignore.

Cook abandoned the half-finished circle of dough and went to the window, wiping her hands on a corner of her once-white apron. Watery sunlight washed the wide wooden sill and caught in the specks of flour that dusted her forearms. "I don't hear anything."

"They're probably still crossing the common," Alain said.

The duke's steward entered the kitchen. Michel Pfingsten was a handsome man-in a stocky, middle-aged sort of way. His patience and unshakable confidence in the duke had kept the household staff at their jobs, despite their ever-diminishing hopes for the duchy's future. "Quite right," he said, answering Alain. "If you hurry, you can watch their arrival from the gate."

Half-peeled turnip in hand, Alain looked hopefully at his mother. Cook returned to her worktable and picked up the
rolling pin. "Do you know who Hervé's brought back with him, Monsieur Pfingsten?"

"Knowing the sergeant, he's brought back exactly the man His Grace sent him to find. Have you seen Mademoiselle? We have to prepare for our visitors."

"She was here a moment ago."

Zuli hugged the green-glazed bowl to her chest and drew back into the shadows. She had never wanted to be chatelaine to the ducal household. Her ambition, such as it was, had been to live in peace and obscurity on the family estate at Arvelo until the Goddess called her. Away from that sanctuary, the goddess mark emblazoned across her face guaranteed that no one could forget who she was, or feel at ease in her presence.

At his mother's brusque nod, Alain hurried past the steward and out the door. "What do you mean, prepare?" Cook asked. "The house is in good order, considering. You inspected the guest suite below His Grace's chambers only yesterday."

Pfingsten approached Cook's work table, his hands clasped behind his back. "We may need it later. For these particular guests, though, we can provide something more suitable."

"More suitable?"

The steward raised his voice. "Mademoiselle?"

"Here." Zuli stepped out of the pantry, into the light, and endured the torrent of swiftly concealed reactions: from
Cook, pity; from Pfingsten, a stern resolve to be kind. They pretended to look directly at her; she pretended not to notice the way their eyes refused to focus anywhere near her face.

"Were any of their belongings still in storage?" Pfingsten asked.

"Everything on your list. I aired the rooms yesterday."

"Rooms? Which rooms?" Cook demanded. "Whose belongings?" She crossed her arms over her narrow chest, the rolling pin resting against her shoulder like a guardsman's pike. "You do know who Hervé found, don't you?"

"We're opening the west wing, second floor. The ducal seer's private suite."

"No one's used those rooms for years."

"That won't matter to Phillipe."

"Phillipe!" Eyes widening, Cook set the rolling pin down right in the middle of the unfinished pie shell. "Oh, no. His
Grace wouldn't...."

"His Grace has." Pfingsten sat down on the bench and patted the space beside him. "It will work. You'll see."

Cook ignored the invitation. "I find that hard to believe, after all these years."

"I don't."

Hope glinted in Pfingsten's eye. Not a good idea. Zuli said, "Did either of you know Claude Hansard?"

Cook nodded without looking at her. "The old duke's seer. Yes, I remember him, Mademoiselle."

"Which is why you shouldn't be surprised," Pfingsten said, "that Claude's son has been summoned to be the new duke's
seer."
Cook remained stubbornly unimpressed. "You know as well as anyone what the old duke had to say about seers."
"And you know as well as anyone that we have a new duke, who's doing what he thinks is best for Montrouge."
"But, Phillipe -"
"- is a grown man now, not the boy you and I remember."
Cook's lips thinned. "You might have warned me."

"It wasn't my decision. His Grace wasn't certain that Phillipe would allow himself to be found. The only reason he took
me into his confidence was so that I could help Mademoiselle prepare the seer's rooms. No one bothered to remove the bigger pieces of furniture after the Hansards left, and we found some of their personal belongings in the west storeroom." He got up and beckoned to Zuli. "I sent to the stable for Lisle and Robert; they'll bring up the last of it. Don't worry; you'll have plenty of time."

"I wish we had more time," Phillipe said.

Roscoe clucked to his horse, moving it closer to Phillipe's roan gelding. Around them the last houses of the village had
given way to cow pasture, affording Roscoe his first uninterrupted view of Albin House. The complex of gray stone buildings, the heart of the Albin family estate and the seat of power in the Duchy of Montrouge, was every bit as impressive as he'd imagined it would be. The house itself occupied the top of the hill, its clear windows winking in the late morning sunlight; clusters of outbuildings, rough-cut fieldstone and weathered wood, flanked it on the east and west. To the south, behind the house, Roscoe could just make out one edge of a kitchen garden. A high wall, constructed from the same ebony-flecked granite as the house, encircled the base of the hill, its single set of heavy oaken gates open to the road.

"I thought you were looking forward to getting here," Roscoe said.

A wry smile lightened his master's sober expression. "Looking forward to it and being ready for it are two different
things entirely. Isn't that right, Sergeant?"

In front of them Hervé twisted in his saddle, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his plain, weather-worn features. "I
don't think I could look forward to anything I wasn't ready for."

"Do you have to see the duke right away?" Roscoe asked his master. "Maybe he'll be too busy. Maybe he's not even here."

"His Grace is in residence." Hervé pointed to the lone blue-and-white pennant fluttering from a pole atop the gate. "And he's not one to keep a visitor waiting."

At a nod from Hervé, the two guardsmen who had been their escort kicked their horses to a canter and rode ahead across the broad common. "This isn't like market day in Belleau, lad," Phillipe said. "There'll be no chance of losing ourselves in a crowd. They're expecting us-expecting me. I'm as ready as I'll ever be, I suppose." He sighed loudly. "Which isn't ready at all. Ah, well. Sooner begun, sooner ended. That's the way to look at it."

They drew closer to the gates. Roscoe gazed up at the walls, blank, ominous, unscalable. He thought he saw a flash of
movement at the top. The sergeant was right; the duke would have received plenty of warning of their arrival.

They passed through the gates and onto the grounds of the ducal estate. Roscoe straightened in his saddle, striving to
copy his master's erect posture. It wasn't easy, even after days of practice. Roscoe shifted from one hip to the other, trying to ease his stiff knees and sore backside. Phillipe didn't look stiff at all, though he was no more used to riding long distances than Roscoe was. The seer rocked gently with the roan's ambling gait, unperturbed by the tangle the breeze had made of his hair, or the sunburn on his long nose. No longer a youth-he had turned thirty in the spring-Phillipe managed to be dignified without becoming stuffy. He drove Roscoe to distraction sometimes, but Roscoe put up with the occasional aggravation. It was part of the adventure of serving a seer.

Half the village had gathered to observe their arrival; Phillipe's admonition to the contrary, the sloping meadow looked
much like a market fair. Adults chatted idly together, the men in rope- or leather-belted tunics of rust, olive, or moss over beige or buff breeches, the white-aproned women with their undertunics of mint-green, violet, mustard, or rose scattered among them like late flowers in an autumn field. A handful of children raced in and out among the clumps of adults, with hardly a glance to spare for the riders as they passed. Friendly voices called greetings to Hervé; wherever Roscoe looked he met unashamedly curious stares. Phillipe studied the villagers as openly as they studied him, his expression pensive. Roscoe couldn't tell if he recognized anyone or not.

Their guardsmen were waiting for them when they entered the stable yard, ready to take their horses. Weeds pushed up through the uneven dirt and flies buzzed around an untidy dung heap near the stable wall. A manure cart with a broken wheel occupied one corner of the yard, the center of an agglomeration of barrels, pitchforks, rakes, and feed buckets. The stable roof was badly in need of shingles. Roscoe's awe at being inside the private estate of the Duke of Montrouge faltered and collapsed.

Phillipe didn't seem to notice their shabby surroundings. He dismounted, handed his reins to Hervé, and started across
the yard toward the house, where a side door stood open at the top of a short flight of stairs. A dark-haired man aited in the doorway.

"Easy, boy," one of the guardsmen said, steadying Roscoe as he slid too quickly out of the saddle. "You didn't come all this way to break a leg now."

"Is that the duke?"

"Goddess, no. The duke doesn't meet guests in the stable yard. That's His Grace's steward, Monsieur Pfingsten. Go on; your master's waiting for you."

Roscoe hurried to join Phillipe. Together they approached the steward and stopped at the foot of the stairs. A narrow
crack marred the second step; flakes of chipped stone had been swept mostly out of sight in the corner between the stairs and the house. The door frame was weathered, graying wood showing through what might once have been a coat of white paint.

"Hello, Michel," Phillipe said.

A smile lifted one corner of the steward's mouth. Roscoe should have known at once he wasn't the duke. This man was at least ten years older than Phillipe, sturdily built, with strands of gray visible in his otherwise jet-black hair. His dark blue overtunic, edged in black, was no finer than any Phillipe owned. "In the name of His Grace, Bernard d'Albin, Duke of Montrouge, welcome to Albin House." The steward beckoned them forward. "Please, come inside. His Grace is expecting you."

They followed Pfingsten down a wide corridor. The only light came from a row of small windows high up on the outer wall. Tilting his head back, Roscoe examined the ceiling. After seeing the condition of the stables he no longer knew what to expect of Albin House itself, but to his relief, the roof-or at least this portion of it-seemed to be intact.

Near the middle of the hallway they came to the steward's office. A scarred desk crouched in the center of the room, its surface strewn with ledgers, boxes, a tray of ink pots and pens, and what looked like the pieces of a broken bit. Behind the desk sat a massive chair, its padding worn and faded.

Pfingsten closed the door. "It's been a long time, Phillipe. Or should I call you Honored Seer?"

Phillipe winced. "Only when absolutely necessary. Besides, look at you." He gestured at the cluttered desk. "Chief
Steward, of all things."

"Didn't think I had it in me?"

"Didn't think you wanted it. Groundskeeper, yes, or stable master. You always hated bookkeeping."

"I'm also very good at it-or so His Grace keeps telling me. What about you? You look well."

"Life in Belleau suits us. Doesn't it, Roscoe?"

"Yes, sir."

Pfingsten's dark eyes turned to Roscoe. "Roscoe?"

"My servant, my scribe, my invaluable assistant; my keeper, if you like. Remember old Lucien, who worked with my father?"

"I remember."

"Tell me about the duke. Does he really want me here?"

"He wouldn't have sent for you if he didn't."

"What decided him, exactly?"

"You don't know?"
"The mountains have been full of rumors since Maurice died. It's not easy to know what to believe."

"Last spring His Grace went to pledge his loyalty to the king. During what was supposed to be a confidential session of
the King's Council, one of His Majesty's seers described a vision of Albin House in flames, Bernard dead, and another man Duke of Montrouge."

Phillipe's expression didn't change. "When will it happen?"

"Before next midsummer."

"What does Bernard think of this prediction?"

"He wants to defy it, of course. But word got out, and now there's talk that he should step down, for the good of the
duchy."

"Talk? Among the other dukes?"

Pfingsten nodded. "Not to mention a few of Montrouge's barons, and a good many common folk. His Grace needs a way to calm their fears and regain their trust."

"Therefore, he decided to reinstate the position of ducal seer. Does he understand what he's asking, and what he might
get?"

"He knows he needs help, and he's running out of places to look for it. As for what he's asking, what having a ducal seer will mean...how could he understand?" Folding his arms, Pfingsten leaned back against his desk. "He hardly remembers your father, and the old duke certainly wasn't going to explain vision-seeking to him. You tell me, Phillipe. Can you save Montrouge?"

"I don't know. Just because I can see the future doesn't guarantee I'll be able to see a way to change it."

"Have you seen it? Our future?"

"I think," Phillipe replied slowly, "I'd better save that answer for the duke. When can I speak to him?"

"Now. He's in the great hall."

"I know the way." Phillipe opened the door. "Roscoe, stay out of mischief until I get back."

"Yes, sir."

After Phillipe had gone the steward pushed himself away from the desk and fixed a speculative gaze on Roscoe. "Do you have to stay idle to stay out of mischief, or can I give you some work to keep you busy?"

"I wouldn't mind something to do." As soon as he said it Roscoe wondered if he was about to become better acquainted with the stables, the scullery, or some other drab corner of the ducal estate. Then again, the prospect of just standing here, alone in an unfamiliar house, was worse than the thought of a make-work chore or two.

"Follow me." They left the steward's office and turned right along the corridor, away from the door to the stable yard,
then right again past the base of a curving staircase. The corridor opened into a wider passageway, with doors on both sides and yet another cross corridor leading off to the right. "Roscoe, let me ask you a question."

"Sir?"

"What do people say in Belleau, about the duchy? About the future of the house of Albin?"

Roscoe fidgeted with the leather thong that tied his purse to his belt. He'd speculated for hours on end, in the privacy
of his thoughts and in conversation with Phillipe, about what they would find when they reached Albin House. He'd prepared himself to be surrounded by strangers, to face curiosity or indifference or even hostility-but he'd never expected to find someone interested in the insignificant village he and Phillipe called home. "News travels slowly in the mountains," he began. "Most things we don't hear about until greatmonths later. We had word of the old duke's death within a lesmonth, but that was a special case. Sometimes there's talk, a few of the men wanting to join the ducal guard, but nothing ever happens."

"Why not?"

"Lambing season, or a storm, or a barn to be built." Loyalty to the House of Albin couldn't compete with the needs of
people's flocks and families. Not sure how much the steward understood of life in a small village, Roscoe concluded, "It's easier all around to leave the duchy's problems to the duke."

"Is that why Phillipe didn't come back as soon as he heard that Maurice was dead? Why he waited until the new duke sent for him?"

"I don't know, sir."

The black eyebrows lowered, then relaxed. "No. No reason you should."

A short corridor opened on their left. The pungent odor of cheese and fried onions set Roscoe's mouth watering. He
memorized the location of the kitchen for later. "Monsieur? Can I ask you something?"

"Whatever you like."

Roscoe silently apologized to his master if he was about to get himself in trouble, but the steward seemed genuinely
agreeable and Roscoe's curiosity had been growing for days. "Sergeant Hervé says that no one in Albin House or Albinville knows who Phillipe is, or what he can do. Is that true?"

"Not entirely. A few of us knew Phillipe when he was growing up here. We were all younger then-too young and unimportant to be aware of what passes between a duke and his seer. In that way the sergeant's right; no one's sure what your master is capable of. Not even His Grace."

"You mean how far he can see into the future, or how clearly? Things like that?"

They crossed another wide corridor leading off to the right and came to the foot of a second staircase, this one
consisting of two straight flights connected by a landing. From the next floor Roscoe could hear voices, a man and a girl, and what sounded like a large crate being dragged over stone flagging. "Things like that," the steward agreed. He pointed up the stairs. "That's where you're needed, Roscoe. Present yourself to Jean Monbiot, the butler. Tell him you're the seer's manservant, sent by me to arrange your master's quarters."

Halfway to the landing, Roscoe paused and looked back. "You're not coming?"

"Later. I'll tell Phillipe where to find you." Without waiting for an answer the steward moved on, disappearing from
view.

"Monbiot, the butler," Roscoe muttered. "One look at me and he'll know I'm not a manservant. Not that I want to be a
manservant. If those are Phillipe's quarters, I wonder where they plan to put me? Guess there's one way to find out. Brace yourself, Roscoe lad-and be quiet, before somebody hears you." Clamping his mouth shut and squaring his shoulders, he trotted up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWO
Holding the lantern above her head, Zuli scanned the storeroom one last time. The yellow light, dimmed by the dust they had raised, revealed a wardrobe with one door missing, two bed frames, a collection of broken-backed chairs and, draped on the furniture or piled thoughtlessly on the floor, a depressing number of faded, ravel-edged rugs and wall hangings.

"That's all, I think."

Behind her, Robert said, "Then we'll be getting back to the stable, Mademoiselle."

"Very good. Thank you for your help."

She didn't move until she heard the solid clumping of the men's boots recede past the turn in the corridor. Robert had
the knack of speaking to her without actually looking at her, acquired and perfected during his years of service in her family's household at Arvelo. Lisle, a lifelong resident of Albinville, had less experience with her and therefore less tolerance for direct conversation. Her brother wanted her to insist on the respect and obedience due his chatelaine. She preferred to settle for cooperation, and as little discomfort as possible for all concerned.

As she closed and locked the door Pfingsten's voice, echoing along the bare corridor, said, "Finished already?"

"Yes, sir," Lisle replied.

"Tell Olivier I want him to clean out another half-dozen stalls."

"More visitors, sir?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. Sharply, now."

The tap of the steward's footsteps, brisk and businesslike, grew louder as he turned the corner. Zuli hung her ring of
keys back on her belt. The footsteps slowed, stopped. "That didn't take long."

"There wasn't much down here." Zuli extinguished the lantern and replaced it in its niche. Like Lisle, Pfingsten had
known her less than half a year. Unlike Lisle, the steward hid his unease so well that she could almost imagine it wasn't there. "A chest of bedding, some rugs, one undamaged tapestry. The boxes, and a large crate, were all books."

"Only one tapestry?" Pfingsten's fierce eyebrows drew together, the scowl directed not at her but back along the
corridor. "They'll need more with winter coming."

"Only one fit to hang today. I sent the others and all but two of the rugs to the sewing room. One of the wall hangings
may be too rotted to save. The rest are frayed or mildewed in small sections, easily mended."

"You and Simone spend too much time mending."

"I'm sorry, Monsieur Pfingsten, but you said it yourself. Winter is coming. We have to mend what needs mending or do
without."

"I wasn't criticizing you, Mademoiselle. You shouldn't have to do any of the needlework at all. This is the ducal
residence. You should have a room full of needleworkers under your command, creating new tapestries, not mending old ones."

Another fine dream. The steward nurtured a persistent fantasy of Albin House renewed, the ducal family respected, the
power and prestige of the entire duchy restored. Too bad daydreams didn't get rugs mended or yarn spun or food on the table. Pfingsten and his duke were two of a kind: impractical to a fault. Zuli kept the thought to herself, and said only, "Yes, Monsieur."

He cleared his throat. "Not a particularly useful observation, was it? We don't have a proper staff, and complaining
about it only wastes time neither of us has to spare. My apologies, Mademoiselle."

Fixing her gaze on the lavender satin toes of her soft shoes, she started down the corridor. "That's all right."

He walked with her along the quiet hallway, around the corner, and into the central section of the house. "When will the seer wish to inspect his quarters?" Zuli asked when they reached the wide passage that ran across the back of the main building, connecting it and both wings to the kitchen.

"Soon." Pfingsten indicated the nearest serving entrance to the great hall with a meaningful tilt of his head. "He went
in to speak with His Grace a few minutes ago." For a long moment the steward contemplated the closed, dark-paneled door. "Well. We'll know soon enough. Excuse me, Mademoiselle." Without quite looking in her direction he strode off toward the east wing.

Zuli hesitated. She had so many things to do. One set of visitors at a time was strain enough on the house's limited
resources; now it seemed the steward was expecting the arrival of even more guests. Where should she begin? Sewing room? West wing guest quarters? Kitchen? None of those options appealed to her. For nearly two lesmonths, ever since Sergeant Hervé departed for Belleau, she'd been awaiting-dreading-this day. To spend it hidden behind several years' accumulation of needlework, or ensconced in a corner of the kitchen, seemed hardly fitting.

Simone hurried out of the kitchen with a teapot in each hand. "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle." She bobbed her head in greeting, eyes averted.

"Teapots?"

"Monsieur Monbiot sent for them, Mademoiselle."

"I see." Jean must have gotten the seer's chambers in satisfactory order, or he wouldn't be spending time on teapots.

"Have you seen him yet, Mademoiselle?" the girl continued, curiosity overcoming her usual shyness.

"The seer?" Zuli guessed. "No."

"He's in the great hall right now."

"So I understand." Zuli felt her interest stir in response to Simone's eagerness, and made her decision. "You go help
Monsieur Monbiot. I'll be along in a few minutes."

A delighted smile flashed across the servant's face, quickly hidden behind another obedient nod. "Yes, Mademoiselle.

Zuli turned left, into the west branch of the corridor that surrounded the great hall. When she reached the front foyer it was empty, the hall's wide double doors closed. All the better; she didn't have to worry about the duke seeing her as he made for the shadowed niche on the northeast corner of the hall. Within, a narrow stone spiral wound up to the second floor. Bunching her skirts in one hand, she ran up the steps and emerged into the clutter of the musicians' gallery. Forgotten banners, more chairs in need of mending, and dusty music racks were shoved against the walls closest to the stair. She slipped soundlessly among the neglected items, keeping to the shadows, until she reached her favorite vantage point.

From her position at the end of the gallery Zuli could see the length of the cavernous room. Her baby brother, head of
the House of Albin, Duke of Montrouge, stood in solitary splendor on the dais at the south end of the great hall. The long, snug sleeves of his undertunic-soft, snowy cambric-were visible beneath an overtunic of summer weight, aquamarine lambswool. For this special occasion he'd donned his best surcote, made of floor-length cobalt-blue damask lined with ermine; from his belt, a wide silver chain studded with sapphires, hung the family's two-century-old ceremonial sword. Despite long hours devoted to training with the guard captain, Bernard remained as slender as a youth. His straight, flaxen hair and guileless visage contributed to the impression that he was younger than his twenty years. It would have helped if he could grow a proper beard.

"You see the difficulty, Your Grace."

Zuli switched her attention to the speaker, and frowned. She'd heard tales of seers throughout her childhood-most of
them, admittedly, about Claude Hansard, once the trusted advisor, later the banished enemy of Uncle Maurice. In the stories the seer was always a terrifying figure of mystery and power; in her child's mind she'd imagined wild white hair, flashing eyes, and a thunderous voice suitable for exchanging shouted insults with the old duke. Whether she'd once heard Claude Hansard described that way or had invented the image for herself over the years, his son looked nothing like what she'd expected. This seer-alleged seer-was tall and thin, his voice a pleasant tenor. His brown, dirt-stained overtunic and kersey breeches could have belonged to a carpenter or dairyman; his calf-high leather boots were scratched and worn.

"But that's the only way to change the future," he continued. "You'll have to think the unthinkable-and then do it."

Bernard fingered the wisps of golden hair adorning his chin. "How long will it take? To assure success."

"I can't assure success. I see the future, Bernard. I don't control it." He spread his arms, the gesture at once humble and decisive. "I'm not sure anyone can control it."

"I never could get straight answers out of you."

Zuli blinked; informality from her dignified brother? Her surprise deepened when Bernard sighed, gathered up his surcote, and sat down on the edge of the dais. The duke beckoned his guest forward. "I remember you, Phillipe."

Hansard sat beside her brother, leaned back on his hands, and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I wondered if you
would. It was a long time ago." From a distance Zuli found the man's face unremarkable, its most prominent feature a long, high-bridged nose. "Fourteen years last summer, since my family left Albinville."

"Do you remember the day we met? You took me in front of you on your horse. We went to the river and you taught me to fish."

Hansard gave a short, dry chuckle. "Do you also remember falling into the pool below the ford and arriving home soaking wet? Your uncle didn't know whether to praise me for saving your life or beat me for endangering it in the first place!"

"You were my first friend. You spoke plainly to me, told me the truth the way no one else did. The way few have since. You were the only adult in my life who didn't treat me like a child."

"Not an adult. Older than you, but still a boy. Believe me, I valued your friendship as much as you valued mine."

"I never forgave Uncle Maurice."

Hansard cocked his head. "For banishing us?"

"For banishing you. I didn't know or care if my uncle and your father fought-until their obstinacy interfered with my
life."

"All lives are connected, Bernard. What we do today has uncountable consequences for tomorrow. That's a lesson you'll have to learn, if you really expect to use my visions to help the duchy."

"Teach me, Phillipe. Accept my appointment. Be the Seer of Montrouge."

"Are you sure Montrouge wants me?"

"I'm the Duke of Montrouge. What matters is what I want."

The slide of cloth shoes on stone distracted Zuli from the conversation in the chamber below. Simone, of course. She
stood at the top of the stairs, peering into the cluttered gallery. Light from the hall's high windows revealed an uncertain
frown on her delicate features. Zuli stole a last glance at the dais and moved toward the girl. "What is it?" she whispered.

"The seer's chamber, Mademoiselle. Monsieur Monbiot asks could you come right away, please?"

Now what? Zuli left the question unspoken. In silence she allowed the servant to lead her down from the gallery and
around the hall, toward the entrance to the west wing. Knowing Jean, he might pull her away from her eavesdropping for any number of reasons, from an infestation of snakes to a last-minute compulsion to rearrange the seer's sitting room bookshelves. Whatever the problem, he wouldn't be satisfied until she gave it her personal attention.

The ground floor of the west wing remained quiet. Dust motes danced in the thin streams of sunlight falling from narrow
windows high up on the outer wall. No dust was visible on the stairway to the second floor, which had been scrubbed from top to bottom. Even the carved pine shutters on the landing windows had been repaired. Zuli followed Simone up the stone steps and a dozen paces down the hallway to the open door of the seer's chambers.

She entered the unoccupied room ahead of the reluctant Simone. At first she could see nothing amiss. The south-facing
windows were open to the warm afternoon air. The makings of a fire had been laid on the newly-swept hearth, ready to be lit against the chill that would descend with nightfall. Furnishings that had been in storage since the banishment of Claude Hansard were arranged in their accustomed places, or as close to them as conflicting memories allowed. The desk and two straight-backed chairs stood near the windows, while the overstuffed chair and low sofa had been pulled in front of the hearth, a shared reading table between them. Bookshelves lined the walls, except in the corner near the bedroom door, which was occupied by a huge wooden wardrobe. One of the wardrobe doors hung slightly ajar.

Jean popped out of the bedroom. Indignation shone in the perspiration on his bald head and quivered in the lift of his
double chin. "I will not be held responsible for this. The matter is out of my hands." Zuli came farther into the room and sniffed. "What's that smell?"

"Herb balls." The words came from the vicinity of the desk. Zuli fought the urge to flee as the owner of the unfamiliar
voice emerged from beneath the desk, his hands full of tattered cloth. "At least, they used to be balls." The stocky young man had the unfinished look of a colt, broad-shouldered and awkward, unconscious of his strength. His sage gray tunic, buff breeches, and unadorned boots matched the seer's in cut if not in color; his short black hair was combed flat against his head, the fringe in front almost touching his eyebrows. As his eyes found hers and widened in dismay she saw that they were an unusual shade of dark blue.

She ignored the boy and turned her face toward the butler. "Jean, what happened here?"

"Madame Charbonneau's cat has given birth. There, Mademoiselle." He pointed at the wardrobe, revealing several sets of bleeding scratches on his plump hand.

The dark, protected space would have seemed an ideal nest site to the expectant cat. Almost ideal-which explained the destruction of Simone's sachets. "I suppose camphor can't be good for kittens. You tried to remove her?"

"What choice did I have? The seer will be here any moment and Madame Charbonneau has yet to respond to my summons."

"Mademoiselle, I tried to tell him." To his credit, the young stranger had already recovered from his first, stunned
reaction to her appearance and did a better job of meeting her eyes than Jean, who'd known her all her life, ever managed. "My master won't mind about the cat."

"A litter of kittens does not belong in a wardrobe!"

Zuli addressed the boy. "I'm sorry. I don't know your name." He was fifteen, or at the most sixteen years old. The trace of downy fuzz on his upper lip hinted that his beard, once it came in, would be as dark as the hair on his head.

"Roscoe, Mademoiselle."

"I'm sure your master is an understanding man, Roscoe, but have you looked in the wardrobe?"

"No, Mademoiselle."

"I think we should. Jean, Simone, you are excused."

The butler's gaze flicked from the offending wardrobe to a spot in midair somewhere behind Zuli's left shoulder. "Monsieur Pfingsten will not consider these accommodations acceptable for the seer."

"I'll discuss it with him. Thank you, Jean."

She waited until the two servants were gone before approaching the wardrobe. The narrow gap between its doors allowed fresh air and light into the towering wooden box, but gave a clear view of only a tiny portion of its floor. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior she caught a hint of movement.

Roscoe crept up to peer over her shoulder. "Do you see her?" he asked softly.

"I think so," she whispered back.

"There! She's kind of curled around the kittens."

"They're so tiny." Three, perhaps four shapes nestled within the protective curve of the cat's body. In the darkness of
the wardrobe, against their mother's smoke gray fur, only an occasional wriggle of movement betrayed their presence.

"A few hours old, I'd guess. A day, at the most."

"Newborn kittens? In that old monstrosity?"

The inquiring, faintly skeptical voice shattered the enchanted moment. Zuli straightened her shoulders and turned.
Phillipe Hansard pulled the chamber door closed behind him, gave the rest of the room a swift, curious glance, and approached the wardrobe. His homely face was clean-shaven, a poor grooming decision for a man with such a weak chin; his eyes, deep-set and a little too close to his high, straight nose, were hazel, shading to green. At close range his brown, wavy hair revealed undertones of coppery-red. "You haven't disturbed them, have you?"

"No, sir," Roscoe replied.
"Good lad." He offered his servant a preoccupied half-smile. "We'll worry about renegotiating living arrangements with
the new mother later. Put our clothes in the second bedroom for now; that'll be your room."

"We're staying?"

"For a day or two. His Grace insists." Hansard left the wardrobe to point through the door leading to the chamber's inner rooms. "Just through there. When I was a boy I kept a good-sized storage chest under the window. It looks like someone saved most of our old things; see if the chest survived, too." As soon as the boy was gone Hansard returned to the wardrobe. He met Zuli's gaze, his expression courteous. "Forgive me. We haven't been introduced but I feel I already know you. One of the hazards of my profession. I see people in visions without knowing if I'll ever meet them face to face. Are they your kittens?"

"No. She's the kitchen cat." She was so stunned by his bizarre behavior that it took her a moment to interpret his casual remarks. "What do you mean, you feel you know me? We've never met."

"I realize that. Don't look so nervous. I've seen you several times, and you're always happy."

"Happy?" Zuli felt the heat rise in her face. Still the impossible man standing before her didn't flinch or withdraw or
look away. He gave no indication that he'd noticed her deformity, much less been repelled by it. If he'd seen her before-how, if he hadn't been to Albinville in years?-it might explain his lack of surprise upon meeting her, but nothing explained the easy way he continued to converse with her.

"Very happy. How are your children? Or is it only one child so far? I'm afraid I don't know their names. I don't even
know your name."

Cool outrage rushed through her. How dare he? The sheer effrontery of it banished her momentary confusion. "You've
mistaken me for someone else, Honored Seer. I have no children."

He shrugged that detail aside. "Your pardon; I must be misremembering my dates. I admit it's been a few years since I saw you...."

"We've only just met."

"Yes." His patient, be-kind-to-the-poor-cursed-girl smile made Zuli want to hit him. "That doesn't change the fact that I have seen you before. In my visions."

"A seer's visions are nothing more than fanciful stories designed to manipulate the desperate and gullible."

His meager jaw dropped. "Fanciful-young woman, the ability to see visions is a gift of the Goddess!"

That argument would have been more convincing if Zuli believed that the Goddess troubled herself with human affairs. As it was, she swallowed her anger and said tightly, "I will never have children. If you'll excuse me."

She brushed past him and escaped into the corridor before he could invent some other attractive lie. Children? Hollow
despair rose like bile in the back of her throat. The cruelty of the man, to use her loneliness against her! What had he seen in her expression or behavior that marked her a fool? Inexperienced, yes, she would admit to that, but naive? Hardly

So much for the legendary truthfulness of seers.

At the bottom of the stairs she turned left, away from the kitchen and great hall and any chance of encountering other
people. She sped along the west wing corridor, past unused sitting rooms and an extra servants' dormitory. The door at the end, heavy and rarely used, wouldn't creak open until she settled her shoulder against it and pushed with all her weight.

Once outside Zuli wrestled the door shut, then continued leaning against it while she caught her breath. If she stepped
around the corner someone would see her, and she would be called back to her duties, back to the demands of the day. As if this were just an ordinary day! Resentment stung the backs of her eyes. Goddess, what was she going to do? Tell Bernard that his childhood hero was a fraud?

She moved restlessly away from the house, into the uncropped meadow. Perhaps she wouldn't have to say anything. If all of Hansard's predictions were as flagrantly unbelievable as the idea of her having children, he'd be lucky to last a lesmonth under Bernard's roof. He'd be lucky to escape with his head still on his shoulders, once the extent of his mendacity became clear.

Zuli reached a low boulder lurking in the grass a third of the way down the hill. She sank down with her back against the sun-warmed stone, pulled her legs up under her skirt and clasped her arms around them. Below the steeply sloping meadow, beyond the wall, the road curved through a mile of common grazing land before it disappeared among the cottages of Albinville. As she gazed at the peaceful scene a group of riders emerged from the village, followed by a closed carriage. Zuli groaned and rested her forehead on her knees. Only one of their neighbors would use a closed carriage on such a mild afternoon. Lady Claire. Poor Bernard.

A jingle of harness and the steady clop of hooves drifted across the fields. Zuli rose and started back to the house, not
to the side door from which she'd come, but along the path leading to the garden and the back entrance to the kitchen. Perhaps if she made herself indispensable to Cook she could avoid eating in the great hall tonight. Every time Lady Claire visited, Bernard ended up in an argument with the woman; she was as shortsighted as Uncle Maurice, whose misjudgments had almost destroyed the duchy. The presence of the seer wasn't likely to improve the situation. Zuli harbored neither respect nor affection for the old duke, but as bitter and unproductive a ruler as Maurice had been, it seemed that in one area at least he'd been absolutely correct.

You can't trust a seer.

CHAPTER THREE
"A misunderstanding?"

Phillipe closed the door and came back into the sitting room. "No, an idiot. Namely me." He rubbed one hand over his
face. "What was I thinking?"

"You weren't." Roscoe picked up one of their saddlebags and propped it in the corner of the sofa.

"You're right," Phillipe admitted. "I know better than to give a prediction without checking my facts."

Roscoe carefully lifted one of Phillipe's velvet overtunics out of the saddlebag. "It wasn't a bad prediction. Most
people are grateful to hear you've seen them in a happy future."

"She doesn't seem to believe I can see anything."

"Maybe you misremembered."

"Only the timing. The visions themselves were quite clear."

"Always the same?"

Phillipe wandered over to his father's desk. His desk, now. He laid both hands flat on the smooth oak; the scent of
polish, recently and vigorously applied, lingered above it. "Two or three variations. Close enough to the same not to matter." He turned around and sat on the edge of the desk, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing his ankles. "How much did you hear?"

Roscoe divided the contents of the saddlebag into neat piles on the sofa and reading table. "About you seeing children,
and her not believing she's going to have any. You don't have to tell me; it's confidential, don't repeat it to anyone, including her."

"Good lad."

Roscoe carried a stack of clothes into the bedroom. Phillipe leaned back on his hands, contemplating his surroundings.
Odd. As much as he tried to ignore it, the feeling wouldn't go away. He was home. He wondered what his father would say, to see him now. Phillipe Hansard, Ducal Seer. Seer to a duchy without allies and a duke without heirs. A duchy with no future-unless he could find one.

A knock at the door brought Roscoe running. "Are you accepting visitors?"

"The alternative would require getting up and going to hide in the bedroom. Too much bother. See who it is."

Roscoe tugged his shirt straight and opened the door. "Good afternoon, Monsieur Pfingsten."

The steward entered, smiling when he saw Phillipe. "You're staying?"

"For a few days."

The smile vanished. "Phillipe, His Grace is in trouble."

"I know."

"You have to help him."

"I'm not sure that I can."

"His Grace has every confidence in you."

"His Grace hasn't seen the future. I have."

"Which is why you have to stay."

Phillipe sat forward and propped his hands on his thighs. "Fourteen years, and you're still the most mindlessly stubborn
person I've ever known."

"I'm also right."

"Time," Phillipe said pointedly, "will tell. Thank you, by the way."

"For being stubborn?"

"For all this." He indicated the clutter of boxes and furnishings. "I almost feel as if I've never been away."

"Don't thank me. Henri must have put your father's things in storage without the duke's knowledge."

"He was a good man." A jumble of images-boyhood memories of the old butler and a smattering of more recent
visions-flitted through Phillipe's head. "He died a few months before Maurice, didn't he?"

"You heard about that?"

"I saw it." Phillipe tapped the side of his head. "In here. Visions are much more reliable than rumors."

"That will please His Grace. He's had his fill of rumors." The steward regarded him thoughtfully, and Phillipe waited for
another question on the subject of visions. Instead his old friend said, "Speaking of butlers, Monbiot is still waiting for you to demand different quarters."

"Why would I do that?"

"Something about surroundings unfit for the ducal seer."

"The cat," Roscoe offered from his place near the door.

"The cat," Pfingsten agreed.

"I like cats. I like these rooms." Why make a fuss when they'd only be here a few days, a lesmonth at the most? Not
wanting to start that argument again, he said simply, "I'm not moving. Will he be terribly disappointed?"

"He'll get over it."

"Good."

Pfingsten's gaze took in the boxes of books stacked in the center of the floor and the clutter Roscoe hadn't finished
clearing from the sofa. "I'm glad that's settled. I have enough to worry about, with half the population of the district coming to dinner."

"I take it that isn't an everyday occurrence."

"No. Cook says the last time she had to prepare this much food was for the old duke's funeral. Then people came to get a look at their new duke; tonight they want to see a living, breathing seer."

"I hope the kitchen staff won't hold this against me."

Pfingsten laughed. "They might have, if it weren't for Roscoe. He made a good start for you, refusing to help Monbiot
evict the cat. Cook's got a soft spot in her heart for that animal, Goddess knows why. Maybe it's respect for a creature as ruthlessly efficient as she is."

Roscoe said, "I thought the cat belonged to someone named Madame Charbonneau."

"That's Cook, to you or me. Jean Monbiot's the only one who calls her by her name. Believe me, she prefers 'Cook'."

Phillipe waved Roscoe toward the door. "Go introduce yourself. See if she can use an extra pair of hands tonight. While you're there, offer to bring some food and water up to the nursery."

"Yes, sir."

"I'd better get to work, too," Pfingsten said, following Roscoe to the door.

"One question."

The steward's bushy eyebrows quirked upward. "Only one?"

"Dozens, but one will hold me for now." The sound of his scribe's footsteps receded down the corridor. "Who was the young woman who helped Roscoe protect the kittens from Monbiot?"

Pfingsten's smile faded. He closed the door. "Mademoiselle?"

"I offended her, although I'm not sure how. Who is she? How long has she worked for Bernard?"

"You don't remember her? You were here when she was born. Zuleika d'Albin. Bernard's older sister."

For a long moment all Phillipe could do was stare blankly at the other man. "That's not possible," he managed at last.
"She died in childhood."

"She was supposed to die. As you saw, she hasn't. Yet."

"The house was in mourning for days." He got up from the desk. In his too-vivid memory he heard the angry,
incomprehensible words, felt the stiff linen of his mother's surcote crumple in his fist as he huddled next to her on his bed. "The afternoon she was born was the first time I heard my father shout at the duke." He shut the harsh images away, focused instead on Pfingsten's concerned face. Deep lines descended from either side of the straight nose, disappearing under his close-trimmed beard, where gray hairs mingled with the black. When the duke's niece was born, Pfingsten had been a beardless stable boy. "Odd, the things a child notices. I couldn't have been more than eight years old."

"You were seven. I was twelve."

Phillipe gazed at his boots, eyes half-closed, and let the memories come again. "The duke sent his sister and the baby
away. Dad was furious. The duke's sister-what was her name?"

"Mirelle."

"Mother told me that the baby was deformed and wouldn't live long, which made His Grace so unhappy he couldn't stand to keep her in the house. I always thought if Maurice was upset, how did her parents feel?" He snapped his fingers and looked up, meeting Pfingsten's troubled gaze. "Mirelle's husband was Frederick Bissau, Baron of Arvelo."

"That's right."

"I don't know that I ever laid eyes on the man."

"You probably didn't. Maurice blamed him for the child's condition, and wouldn't allow him anywhere near Albinville.
That's why Bernard spent all but his earliest childhood here, instead of growing up in his parents' house as they wanted him to. His Grace didn't want to risk any negative influence on his heir. It was," Pfingsten concluded dryly, "a point of disagreement between the duke and his sister."

"What was wrong with the girl? Why didn't Maurice accept her once she'd recovered?"

"She didn't. Hasn't. I thought you said you met her."

"Yes."

"Then you saw her face."

An oval face, framed with a few wisps and curls that had escaped being drawn back and pinned in a practical bun with the rest of her dark brown hair. Wide eyes, also brown, flashing with anger-yes, and shame, that was the other emotion he'd seen there-the moment he mentioned children. For years he'd been seeing those eyes, warm and laughing, in his visions. Of course he'd noticed her face, unmistakable in its familiarity, not to mention -

"That's her deformity? She was disowned, exiled, abandoned, all because of a little skin discoloration?"

It was Pfingsten's turn to stare. "You're serious, aren't you? Her appearance doesn't frighten you."

"Of course not. Don't tell me she frightens you."

"Frightens, no," the steward replied, too quickly. "I'm sorry for her. I suppose I even like her, in a way. But you can't
deny she's goddess-marked, Phillipe. Discoloration like that must be connected to other things wrong with her, things no one can see. The stain isn't confined to her face, either. Monbiot says it covers most of one arm and leg, her back-"

"How would he know?"

"He served the family at Arvelo; he was there when Mirelle first brought the baby home."

"She seems perfectly healthy to me."
"Seems. She's spent her whole life waiting to die, Phillipe. It's what everyone expects. Call her goddess-cursed or
goddess-chosen, the fact remains, she could fall over dead at any time; next year, next week, tomorrow. That's not what I call healthy."

But I've seen her. Happy, playing with her children. Phillipe's mind raced. It was clear now why the girl had been
shocked at his suggestion that she might do something as ordinary as marry and raise a family. He didn't need his inner sight to know she wouldn't appreciate it if he shared that particular set of visions with anyone else. "Why did Bernard bring her here?"

"Not his best idea, was it? Not with neighbors and subjects alike insisting there's more wrong with Montrouge than can be accounted for by Maurice's poor husbandry. Reminding everyone that his only sister is goddess-cursed-goddess-marked," he corrected himself, "is hardly going to inspire confidence in the House of Albin."

"I was thinking," Phillipe said, "of Mademoiselle d'Albin herself. Does she want to be here?"

"What choice does she have? She's completely alone. Mirelle died five years ago, the baron two years before that. I
understand the estate's in shaky condition-like the rest of the duchy. Bernard invited his sister to Albin House and made her his chatelaine because, sensible or not, convenient or not, it's right. If it weren't for her-misfortune-Montrouge would be as much her inheritance as it is Bernard's. Not to mention the fact that he seems genuinely fond of her."

"What does everyone else think?"

Pfingsten hesitated. "Cook accepts her. Some of the staff she brought with her from her mother's house, like Monbiot,
have known her all her life. They still look after her, and defend her when necessary."

"Defend her?"

"From the close-minded. The callous."

"I wonder," Phillipe said slowly. "How many people beyond Albinville know that Bernard's sister still lives?"

"If they didn't know before, they'll learn soon enough. Your presence is going to attract attention, and visitors. I hope
Bernard knows what he's doing. And now," Pfingsten stepped determinedly into the corridor, "if there's nothing else, I'll leave you to your unpacking. I have to get to work."

The steward left. Phillipe wandered restlessly from desk to window to hearth, tracing his fingers over chair backs and
along empty shelves. His Grace Bernard d'Albin, Duke of Montrouge, had a sister after all. That changed everything. The laws of inheritance were based upon matrilineal descent. From the minor merchant with a shop and two wagons, all the way up to the king himself, a man passed his property and position to his sister's son. If he had several sisters and a horde of nephews, all the better. That gave him a wider field from which to choose his heir: ideally, a man well suited to wield authority, who had one or more sisters of his own to continue the family bloodline.

Like everyone else in the kingdom, Phillipe had been under the impression that Bernard was an only child. Maurice's
insistence that his only nephew inherit the position of duke had been incomprehensible-until now.

Bernard had a sister. Given what Phillipe had glimpsed of her future, the implications were enormous. He would have to seek further visions of her, soon; first thing in the morning, unless Bernard had some objection.

Phillipe crouched in front of one of the storage boxes. The lid had already been loosened; a quick jerk freed the last of
the pegs holding it in place. Leaning the lid against the side of the box, he carefully removed the topmost book. Its weight, the pebbly texture of the leather cover against his fingertips, the dry scent of paper, brought another rush of bittersweet memory; the thrill of the first time he was allowed to open one of his father's journals, and the disappointment of not understanding one word in ten of what was written inside.

The book fell open easily in his adult hands. He read a few lines. Years of experience with his own vision-seeking and
its results enabled him to identify the contents: vision logs. After a quick glance at the date on the final page he put the book aside. He needed the most recent volumes, written in the last greatmonths before his father left the old duke's service.

The journals had been packed carefully, but in no particular order. Sitting cross-legged on the bare floor, he tried to
look at each one only long enough to determine its age, but it was difficult to resist the invitation of his father's firm,
angular handwriting. "Twenty-two years," one passage began. "Mirelle's daughter in the garden. Twenty years, the barn fire. Seventeen years, a summer morning, Maurice shouting at Landahl-why does he have to become such an irascible old man? Fifteen years, ten, six-family." Although the single word revealed nothing, Phillipe turned the page. It was the same shorthand he used in his own journals for incidents involving Roscoe. He refused to speculate on what his father may have seen concerning his family in that long-ago vision.

Then again, maybe he wouldn't be able to avoid it. He turned a few more pages, skimming the loosely grouped paragraphs. The word recurred, not frequent but persistent: "family." With one exception that proved the value of the rule, Claude Hansard had never inflicted future knowledge on his wife or son. He made sure Phillipe understood his reasoning, and took seriously a seer's commitment to discretion and confidentiality. Most people, most of the time, were better off not knowing their futures.

The luxury of ignorance. "Eleven years-bedroom in a cottage. What village, and why is Lucien there?" Phillipe checked the journal's date-yes, this one was from several years before their departure from Albin House. He knew what had been in that particular vision, as clearly as if he'd seen it himself. He had seen it, although in reality rather than beforehand; their cottage in Belleau, sunshine a bright blanket across the bed where he'd found Lucien's body, the morning after the old man died in his sleep.

Closing the book, he put it aside for later study. He had no choice. He would study it, weigh each word, ponder every
detail, learn to work through unpleasant memories and disregard the hints he might glean of his own future. If he had to become seer to the duke he would need every scrap of knowledge he could find, whatever the source, whatever the price.

He emptied one box and started on another, enveloped in an expanding cloud of fine dust. The sun, dropping toward the horizon, slipped below the clouds, its golden glow brightening the room. Phillipe stacked the books around him, vision logs in one place, notes and commentaries in another, those he would read first close at his side. Halfway through the contents of the second box his hand closed on a volume larger than the rest. Pulling it into the light he let it fall open, and his whoop of relief echoed against the room's bare walls. Faces, at last! He flipped through page after page of sketches, all captioned with at least a few words, sometimes whole paragraphs in his father's hand. Portraits and landscapes, interspersed with dramatic scenes, some of the latter half-finished, the result perhaps of a single vision. A few, floor plans of buildings or rooms, were his father's work, but the rest were in the clear, vivid style he recognized as Lucien's.

A knock at the door disturbed his concentration. "Yes?" he called absently.

"Honored Seer, dinner is about to be served."

Phillipe looked up from his book. The timid face of a maid peaked around the edge of the door. "Thank you. I'll be there shortly."

She didn't move. "Your servant said you would want this." She inched into the room, carrying two buckets, one gently
steaming.

"Just take them into the bedroom." He closed the sketchbook, got to his feet, and sneezed. The opened boxes and piles of dusty books still called to him, but they would wait; Bernard would not. He smiled at the servant as she emerged from the bedroom. "Is Roscoe making himself useful downstairs?"

"Oh, yes, Honored Seer."
"Good. That will be all."

He watched her make good her escape. So much fear, and he hadn't even done anything yet.

Memories stirred with every move he made as he prepared to go down to dinner. His cleanest clothes were nothing compared to the fine brocade and velvet his father had worn at the height of his influence with the duke, but he laid them out on the same bed his parents had used, his best blue shirt bright against the russet quilt. He washed in his father's basin, dressed in front of the mirror inside his parents' wardrobe door. His face, at least, remained his own. He didn't have his father's wary expression, the bitter dread that had grown behind Claude Hansard's eyes during those final greatmonths of constant battle and recrimination. The bitterness had taken root and established itself and never gone away, not even after Claude moved himself and his family to Belleau and-officially, at least-left the concerns of the duchy and the responsibilities of vision-seeking behind forever.

Not forever. Now they're mine.

Except that I don't want them.

He left his chambers and descended the stairs, letting the aroma of roast pig and baked apples guide him. The lamps had been lit, their light warming the hallways. Bernard and his sister stood below one lamp, engrossed in earnest conversation. Phillipe stopped before they noticed him. He studied the siblings, trying to see Zuleika d'Albin as a stranger would. Against her pale complexion the wine-colored mark was as vivid as a bruise, or a half-healed wound. The dark stain started somewhere under her hair. It spilled across her forehead, around one eye, and down the right side of her face to vanish beneath the collar of her gown. Both ears were the color of normal skin, but tendrils of the mark reached up the side of her nose and blurred the right-hand outline of her lips. For those unaccustomed to the striking contrasts between light and dark, her expression might be difficult to read.

Phillipe gave up. He couldn't see past his long familiarity with the girl, a laughing presence in visions that were
otherwise too often grim.

Although the kitchen entrance was closer, using it would require passing the quietly arguing pair. Instead, he turned
left and followed the corridor around the outside of the great hall. He slowed as he approached the main double doors,
straightening his overtunic one last time. Saying a silent prayer to the Goddess, he cleared his throat and stepped into the hall.