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As he paced the large bedchamber, he remembered that storm in the Pacific, near the Sea of Japan, when one of his sailors had nearly been swept overboard and Nicholas, through sheer luck-or something else-had managed to loop a rope around the mart's flailing hand, surely an unlikely feat, and haul him upright. The first thing the sailor had done was cross himself a good six times, others of his men as well, and none of them had ever looked at him again in quite the same way. On a very deep level, they'd feared him.
The candlelight flickered.
"Go away," he said.
The light calmed. That ancient old sea dog was ready and willing to keep him company, but not his wife.
He went to the adjoining room door and turned the knob. It was locked. She'd locked a door against him.
He knocked on the door. "Rosalind, let me in. I wish to speak to you."
Nothing.
"Dammit, I'm your husband. You will obey me. You will open this damned door now."
"I know well who you are, my lord. I, however, have nothing more to say to you. Go away. Good night."
His booted foot itched to break down the door. Instead, he walked quickly to the main door off the hallway. It was locked too. He felt like a fool. He stood against the opposite wail, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the locked door, and finally managed to calm himself. Let her stew. Let her get cold during the night without him to warm her. Let her be frightened of all the unknowns all by herself. Curse her.
When he finally fell asleep, alone and naked in that big bed, a heavy dose of fatalism settling into him, he realized what he wanted was to make her angry enough to try to murder him. He yearned for violence, violence he could handle, anything but her polite disinterest.
He thought he heard an ancient old voice humming and resolutely ignored it.
At exactly three in the morning, Nicholas sat straight up in bed at a deafening roar. Windows shuddered, the room rocked. Thunder, he thought, heart racing, it was only thunder. It was odd, though, because it hadn't looked to storm when he'd finally fallen into his bed. Another clap of thunder shook his had. Suddenly, a jagged sword of lightning struck directly into his bedchamber and he was bathed in light. Only thing was, the light didn't fade. It was as if a dazzling sun was trapped in his bedchamber. This isn't right, isn't right at all.
He looked toward the windows as he jumped out of bed. And waited, standing by his bed, but there were no more slashes of lightning, no more thunder to rattle the windows and shake the room, but still, the huge bedchamber remained pure white. And he thought, No, this is whiter than sunlight. This is something else entirely, only he didn't have a clue what was happening. The Pale, he thought, this is a message from Re
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He remained standing beside his bed, breathing hard, wondering what the devil was going on, trying not to let his imagination run wild and his heart slam out of his chest. Or perhaps-he said, "Are you here, Captain Jared? If this is one of your bizarre performances, stop it at once, do you hear me?"
No sound, nothing at all, just the empty stark white. Dead white, he thought, as dead white as the face of a bandit he'd killed outside of Macau the previous year.
He heard Rosalind scream.
He ran to the adjoining door, kicked his foot into the wood close to the lock, but the door didn't give. He cursed, then rubbed his injured foot. Not broken, thank God. He pounded the door. "Rosalind! Open the damned door!"
Suddenly, the door swung wide open and he was nearly blinded. The countess's bedchamber looked even whiter than his own vast room, the white light nearly blinding. He could see every corner of the room, every detail of the furnishings and draperies. Even the light layer of dust on the vanity table glittered the same dead white, as if encased in ice.
Rosalind stood beside her bed, a white nightgown covering her from neck to toe, her vivid red hair now as white as the room, tangling over her shoulders and down her back. Her face looked dead. He knew his face must look the same, and wasn't that an image to turn his i
"Rosalind? Are you all right?"
She didn't move, said nothing. She seemed unaware of him, seemed not to even hear him, much less see him.
He stopped cold when he neared her and saw she held a knife. It was dripping blood. Only, the blood drops were white.
She's been hurt, she's been-
He looked closely at her white face, at her hair still white as an old woman's. Why didn't the white fade away? Unless it wasn't natural. His wife holding a dripping knife in her hand was far from natural as well.
He looked down at the knife, saw the steady drip, drip, drip of white blood onto the carpet beneath her bare feet. Where was all the blood coming from?
He watched a white blood droplet splash on her left foot. White on white. It was obscene.
He didn't touch her, merely held out his hand. "It's all right, sweetheart, I'm here. It will be all right. Give me the knife."
She didn't look at him, didn't respond at all. Finally, she stretched out her hand to him. He gently uncurled her fingers from around the knife handle.
He realized soon enough that he'd seen the knife in the library beneath glass in a small case on one of the bookshelves, locked to the young boy who'd once tried to open it. Had it belonged to his grandfather, or had it gone all the way back to Captain Jared Vail? He didn't know. The knife looked vaguely Moorish, the blade curved like a scimitar, gems embedded in the ivory handle. He didn't remember what sorts of gems they were and couldn't tell now because they were utterly without color.
He raised his voice. "If it isn't you, Captain Jared, is it Re
To his relief, and, he admitted, to his surprise, the room went slowly dark, fading finally into the simple dark of night. He turned toward the window to see rain streaking down the windowpane. He realized there'd been no more thunder, if indeed thunder it had been. As for the strange lightning, no, lightning wasn't the word for it either.
He carefully laid the knife on the night table beside the had. It no longer dripped white blood, no surprise, since whoever, whatever, had stopped the magic.
He clasped Rosalind's shoulders in his big hands and lightly shook her. "Rosalind, come back. Everything's over now."
Slowly, she raised her head to look up at him. Her eyes, once dilated, were normal now, and blue once again, her hair vivid red, her face no longer the dead white, but still too pale. "Sweetheart," he whispered against her temple, "it will be all right. I'm here with you now. I can protect you, well, perhaps not completely. I nearly broke my foot trying to break down your door." He pulled her tightly against him, pressed his palm against her head until she rested on his shoulder.
Her breathing was slow. She said facing his neck, "I'm sorry about your foot."
He rocked her where they stood, kissed her hair, began to smooth out the tangles. "Can you tell me what happened?"
She pressed closer. He held her tight, felt her nails digging into his back. "It's all right," he said, and repeated it once more, twice.
She said finally, her voice thread thin, "I was dreaming I saw a man I'd never seen before. He was very handsome, Nicholas, like a golden angel, with the most beautiful pale blue eyes, but I knew there was darkness behind those pale eyes of his, and that sounds strange, but it's true. Too much darkness, and such intensity. I felt his intensity to my soul. Even though he looked at me he didn't seem to see me, didn't seem to know I was there, although I was standing right in front of him, on the other side of a huge fire. He was brewing something in a large pot and I thought he must be careful else the flames would burn him, for they were leaping upward, spewing, then fu