Her carriage stood just inside, a lovely bit of work that she kept polished and new-looking for her rides to church and village. She had only the one coachman, who also served as groom, but he'd be asleep in the slave quarters now. The horses, a pair of matched bays out of the same bloodlines as my own Roily, were quite unguarded.

  The animals already sensed my approach, stirring in their boxes. I picked the quieter of the two and moved in next to him. His ears flicked back in doubt and he bobbed his head. I spoke to him soothingly and let him get my scent until he was used to me. It was not easy to stand there calming him while feeling so agitated. I was so close to relieving the ache in my throat and belly that the natural urge to hurry was hard to put off.

  Finally, he stood very still and I was able to go on. My earlier experience with Roily helped. This time my bite was more shallow, my control of the flow more certain. The effect of the blood, however, was the same and I gratefully drank my fill, relishing the warmth and rich taste. It was better than the sweetest water, better than the best wine, more sustaining than any food.

  And healing. Some of the grinding agony in my broken arm receded. It was yet far from being whole—the swelling remained—but the promise of recovery was there. I could even move the fingers again, though nothing more than that.

  The small wounds I'd made on the horse clotted over. The blood staining my mouth and chin was minimal; I could easily clean that off if I could just find . . .

  The stable door, which I'd left open to give me light to work by, was no longer empty. The Hessians stood there, their lanterns raised high. I dropped down, but the movement made noise and they came inside.

  Damn the men. Not put off by my dismissal, they'd doggedly returned, whether out of curiosity or a dedicated obedience to their commander to see that his orders were correctly carried out.

  I swiped at my mouth. Blood on my hand now. The damned stuff was everywhere. There was no time to brush it away, they were already coming around to look in the box.

  They stopped short as the lantern light fell upon me where I crouched in the straw. Each of us gave a start, they with surprise, me with sudden shame. I turned my face from them, but it was too late. They'd seen the blood, the eyes—which had flushed scarlet after my feeding. Nora's had always done so. "Blutsauger!" one of them whispered with awe and horror. The word had no meaning for me, but I knew the sound of fear. I raised myself and slowly faced them.

  The older of the two backed away, making a recognizable witch sign against me with his hand. He invoked God's name in a hasty muttered prayer and kept going. His companion was too shocked yet to move.

  "It's all right," I said, but it was hopeless to think I could calm them as I'd calmed the horse. I offered a placating hand, a wasted and foolish gesture. There was blood on it.

  The older one recoiled, shouted a warning at his friend, and fled. He crashed against the edge of the doorway in his haste, but did not stop. The noise got through to the other fellow, who started after him.

  I rushed up to the opening and watched them retreat across the yard and on to the beginnings of the lane. They'd probably run straight back to their company and pass along God knows what story. There was absolutely nothing I could do about it, either. I might possibly catch up with them, try to influence them, but what needed to be said to change their memories was beyond my limited German vocabulary.

  A black cloud settled about me, sinking into my brain, deadening thought, but not feeling. The impossibility of my situation was too much to bear. While Elizabeth had been with me, I'd been able to take hope from her, but now even her support looked to be no more than an illusion . . . a dream . . . a shadow.

  I live in the shadows and make shadows of my own in the minds of others. Shadows and illusions of life and love that fill my nights until something like this happens and shows them up for what they are.

  Now as I leaned wearily against the wall of the stable and stared inward, I knew what Nora had meant. Its exact meaning had been driven into me by those two terrified men with almost the same force as that musket ball. My desire to go back to the life I'd known was never to be fulfilled. I might create an illusion of peace for myself but it would be only that and nothing more. Sooner or later the unnatural aspects of my condition would encroach upon and destroy that peace. This instance was surely the first of many others to come. The weight of such a future was enough to crush me back into the ground again, back into the grave that had rejected me.

  Without thought or direction I left the stable and wandered out into a night that was my illusion of day. The only darkness for me now was from the heavy cloud that covered my heart and soul, weighed hard upon my spirit, and filled my mind. Even the careless glory of the stars filling the great sky with their light could not pierce or lift it.

  I walked and walked, hugging my injured arm. My path took me through fields and across the road. I lost track of time and didn't care. I met no one and was vaguely thankful. I wanted no one to see me, not even Father. I was too ashamed of what had happened to me, of what I'd become.

  Only when the sky turned unduly bright did I rouse somewhat from the self-pity that had such fast hold of me. I didn't wholly shake it off, merely thrust it aside out of mundane necessity.

  My unmindful walk had been in the right general direction. I was on my own land and not too far from the old barn. Elizabeth might even be there. I'd told her about it. Yes. I could bear to see her again, but no one else.

  The light flooding the sky increased, imparting clear vision to others even as it blinded me. My steps grew clumsy, uncertain. I staggered forward with greater speed, shielding my eyes and looking up only to stay on the path I stumbled over. The barn was only just ahead. I dived beneath the ivy hanging over the entrance and into the comforting shadows beyond with a sob of relief.

  Apparently I was not so far gone in my mood as to forsake life just yet. Had I stayed outside, I suspected the sun would burn me down to the bone. A musket ball was bad enough, but there were worse fates.

  My steps dragging in the dust, I returned to the dark shelter of the stall. The only marks there were the ones I'd made earlier. I'd probably be secure enough for the day—at least until Elizabeth came the next evening. I was sorry she wasn't here, but it had only been a faint hope and I'd come to know the bitter difference between it and actuality. She was probably still talking to Father, poor girl.

  I sat with my back to the wall, trying to ease my arm and groaning over the misery. This time I would welcome the sleep the day would bring . . .

  . . . that whipped by without any knowledge that I had slept.

  My eyes had closed and opened. That was all it took and the hot hours of another late summer's day were gone forever. All my future days would be spent like this one. I'd never again see the clouds against the sun, never see its rise and set except as a warning or as an inconvenience that must be endured. No illusions, shadows, or nightmares, but no dreams either, nothing but this unnatural oblivion and its inevitable reminder of death.

  Whatever was to become of me?

  Did I even care?

  After a moment's sluggish thought, I decided the answer was yes. For my body, if not my spirit. Conscious or not, the enforced rest had done me much good. More movement had returned to my arm and the swelling was reduced. The pain was . . . noticeable, but not as bad as before.

  Then I forgot all about it as I became aware I was not alone. Standing but a few yards away was Elizabeth. Her face bore signs of much fatigue and strain, but happiness as well as she looked at me. She held a lantern and standing next to her was Father.

  A hundred years might have gone by since I'd last seen him in the library giving those final instructions to me and Beldon. He'd been so solid and concerned. And there'd been pride as well, pride for me, and for what I was doing. The kind of pride that always caught at my heart and made me pause and thank God that he was my father.

  Sweet heavens, but he's an old man, I thought with dull shock, looking at this now near-stranger who was staring back with such painful astonishment. His face was so lined, so gray, the lips slack and pale, his eyes so hollow. Even his body seemed to have shrunk, the straight spine bent, the shoulders slumped and their strength gone.

  I've done this to him.

  My sight blurred and swam. I didn't want to look at him. Didn't want to see him like this.

  "Forgive me," I pleaded, hardly knowing my voice, hardly knowing why I said it.

  He slowly walked over, knelt by me. I could just see that much through the tears.

  His hands tentatively touched my shoulders. They were steady and strong, making a lie of what I'd seen. Then his arms went around me and he pulled me toward him as he'd done often enough to give solace when I'd been very small.

  "Oh, my boy," he whispered, rocking me gently. "My poor, lost child."

  I said nothing, did nothing. My heart and mind began to clear as the realization dawned that he was yet my father and he loved me still, no matter what had happened or what was to come. All my sorrows, all my hurts were not so great that somehow he could not fail to help me bear them.

  In a hot flare of shame I abruptly cast off my self-pity and gratefully surrendered to the comfort and love he wanted so much to give.

  Elizabeth allowed us some moments for this precious communion, then came over and put down her lantern. Father looked at her.

  "I am sorry I doubted you," he said.

  She touched one of his hands and smiled wryly. "It's all right."

  "What's this?" I asked, straightening a little. Father gave me a last reassuring hug, then stood. From my seat in the dust I once again saw him as the child in me had always perceived him, saw him as he would always ever be to me: a tall, handsome man, all strength and energy and honor with wisdom enough to know that he was not wise.

  Elizabeth said to me, "I did mention that there was no way in the world . . . well, that it would not be easy."

  "She told me everything . . . and I did not believe her." Father regarded me with quiet amazement. "I'm not certain that I even now believe."

  I had some difficulty in swallowing. "Told you . . . everything!"

  "Yes."

  I felt my face go red.

  He smiled kindly upon my disconcertion. "Dear child, whoever this woman was, I'm ready to fall on my knees and thank her for what she shared with you. You've come back to us. I don't care how or by what means. You've come back, that's all that's important."

  I started to speak, found my voice had gone all thick, and tried swallowing again. This time it worked out a bit better. "It's just that this is still incredible to me, Father. I've doubts of my own, so many that I can hardly bear them. Sometimes I seem all right and then it overwhelms me and I don't know what to do."

  "I think you've been alone too much with yourself. It's time to come home."

  "But I'm afraid."

  He looked at me and seemed to see right into my heart. "I know you are, Jonathan," he said gently.

  That helped. With my eyes closed I could almost feel his love and understanding beating upon me. I welcomed it like the soft warmth of a fire against the bitterness of a winter night.

  "You've been through all the worst things already," he said. "Don't you think it's time to give up your fear?"

  He was right and I was being foolish. I opened my eyes, nodded shyly, then he reached down and helped me to my feet. A very bad twinge like the touch of a hot poker shot up through the top of my skull with the movement.

  "What's the matter?" he demanded, steadying me.

  "It's better than it was," I gasped. "But there's still some work here for Beldon." I cradled my injured arm in its sling. God, but that had hurt. It had been all right until I'd tried to unbend it.

  Elizabeth took up her lantern to see better. "What has happened to you?"

  "Didn't Lieutenant Nash send anyone over to give you the news?"

  "He did not. What news?"

  "I caught him. I caught Roddy Finch."

  In the looks exchanged I marked an astonishing degree of family resemblance between them.

  "That's how I was hurt," I added, which did not really explain anything.

  This, of course, inspired many, many more questions from both of them about my most recent activities. Our slow walk back to the house fully occupied me with the effort to provide answers. It helped to keep my mind off the pain.

  "They'll hang him, you know," Father said thoughtfully when I'd finished.

  "Yes. I'm sure they will."

  He said nothing more after that.

  While Father and I waited near the stables, Elizabeth went ahead with the lantern to make sure that the way was clear. By that, her task was to get any servants out of the hall leading from the side door to the library. The other members of the household, Beldon, his sister, Mother, had forsworn social activities for the time being and could be counted upon to be in their rooms at this hour of the evening.

  Beldon, I knew, had been especially hard struck with grief over what had happened to me. I asked after him and was told he was as well as could be expected.

  "He loves you, you know," Father told me as we waited.

  I nodded. "Yes, I'm aware of it, and I'm sorry for him that he does since I cannot return it as he would wish."

  "He understands that, I'm sure."

  "He's quite a decent fellow, though."

  "He is. It was very bad for him being a doctor and yet unable to help you."

  "He did what he could," I said. "I remember that much."

  Father went all still. "Did it . . . was it . . . ?"

  I instantly guessed what he was getting at and constructed a hasty lie, the only one I'd ever told him, but one he needed to hear. "I felt no pain, sir. It was very quick. Be at ease on that."

  He relaxed. "Thank God."

  "What about poor Beldon?" I coaxed, hoping to shift his mind down a different path.

  He shook himself. "Perhaps Elizabeth can tell you more. My memory fails me. It was the worst day of my life and I never want to see its like again. I fear even now that this may be a dream."

  "Elizabeth said something like that last night, but I am still here."

  "Yes," he whispered. "It is a miracle, it must be. God has been merciful to all of us."

  I shrugged uneasily, feeling myself to be the one person least able to offer an opinion on the subject. Once again I thought of Lazarus. Had he suffered this sort of confusion of heart? I was not inclined to think so. Doubtless his faith was greater than mine; besides, there had been people around to explain exactly what had happened to him. His resurrection had been a miracle. Mine, I wasn't so sure about.

  Elizabeth's figure appeared in the side door and motioned for us to come inside.

  The hall was dark—to them, merely dim for me. We hurried to the library and Elizabeth swept the door shut behind us. Father guided me to the settee near the dormant fireplace and made me lie upon it.

  "Some brandy?" he offered.

  I found myself stammering. "No . . . that is . . . I mean . . . I can't."

  He swiftly and correctly interpreted the reason behind my distress and shrugged it off. Elizabeth had, indeed, told him everything. "Light some more candles," he told her. "I'm going to get Beldon." Before leaving, he paused by the cabinet that held his liquor and poured a good quantity of brandy into a glass and placed it ready on a table.

  "The doctor will need it," Elizabeth explained when he'd gone.

  I laughed a little, but with small humor. By God, he certainly would. I felt the need of it myself, but the scent of it, faint as it was, turned my stomach. "When did he finally come home?" I asked, to distract myself from the smell.

  "Late this afternoon. He was in an awful state. He'd been out since the . . . services looking for the . . ."

  "The rebels," I said, hoping that would help her.

  Her mouth twitched with self-mockery. "For the rebels, then. He'd been with a group of soldiers led by Nash's sergeant for most of the time. They went right into Suffolk County, turning out every farm and hayloft along the way. They never found anyone, of course."

  "That's hardly surprising. Those uniforms make people very nervous. I should think any rebels ran the moment they clapped eyes on 'em."

  "So they did. Beldon came to realize it and decided to strike out on his own."

  I was dumbfounded. "But that's terribly dangerous."

  "He seemed not to care. It didn't do him much good, anyway, and in the end he came to no harm. When he gave up and dragged home at last, he was all done in. He must have slept the day through. Jericho took a tray up to him earlier, but Beldon sent him away."

  "Have you talked to Jericho about me?"

  "No."

  It was to be expected. She would have been occupied enough talking to Father. "After I sort things out with Beldon, I must see him next."

  "It'll be all right, Jonathan." She'd heard the weariness creeping back into my voice.

  I managed a smile for her. "How were you received when you arrived at Mrs. Montagu's?"

  Her manner stiffened. "I understood why you had to go off, but I'm not sure I'm ready to forgive you for leaving me like that."

  I started to protest or apologize, whichever was required most, but she waved it away.

  "Never mind, little brother." She'd been lighting candles all the while, and placing them throughout the room, filling it with their soft golden light. Though the curtains were drawn, cutting off any outside illumination I might have taken advantage of, this was a token return to normal sight for me and I relished it. No wonder Nora had been so fond of candles.

  "How did it go for you?"

  "It was not easy. Father was frightfully annoyed and the soldiers alarmed him. Under those circumstances I couldn't just blurt out my news to him. Thank God for Mrs. Montagu. She sort of tucked me under one wing and took me away while Father tried to talk with the soldiers. They didn't make much headway as I think his German isn't much better than yours. By the time he'd finished, I had some tea in me, which was a great help."

  "What did you say?"

 

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