"What did she do with my heart?"
Lancelot took a step toward Nicholas, fist up. "You bastard, you don't believe my brother. He doesn't lie, damn you. Listen to him if you Wish to live."
"I'm listening, Lancelot, but so far it sounds like a tale Grayson Sherbrooke would write, perhaps set at Stonehenge. You said this was a dream, Richard?"
"I'm not sure, actually, I was in a sort of waking state, so not really a dream, no. More like a vision. A vision of something that will happen. I was alone, in my bedchamber at home, and time lost all meaning to me and then the vision came into my brain, clear and sharp. I could even smell the blood when she cut your heart out of your chest."
Nicholas looked at each of them in turn. He saw bone-deep resentment in Lancelot, a sort of academic interest on Aubrey's face, flat contempt on Miranda's face, and on Richard's face-cold fear. He said to his half brother, "You came to warn me because-?"
Miranda stepped forward, her expression now venomous. "She held up your heart, you moron, and she chanted foreign words Richard didn't understand. Your wife killed you! And you have the gall to question your brother's motives in coming to help you?"
Rosalind spoke. "Richard, what was I wearing in this vision?"
"A white robe belted at your waist with a thin rope of some kind. Its ends hung down nearly to your knees. Your hair was long down your back."
"You are certain it was me?"
"Yes, all that wild red hair, your blue eyes. It was you." He frowned. "But it was as if you were in a different time, in a different place. I don't know, that doesn't really make sense, but I know it was you."
Nicholas said, "So now she's a vestal virgin of some sort or a high priestess?"
"I don't know," Richard said finally. "I don't know. There were no priests hovering about, no one else, only the two of you, you bound on your back and her leaning over you."
"Do you know why I cut out my husband's heart?"
Richard, for the first time, looked uncertain. "I don't know that either," he said slowly. "All I know is that you did it." He looked at Nicholas. "You asked me what she did with your heart. She flung it away from her, as if it were refuse, then she rose and stood looking down at you sprawled at her feet, and she was rubbing her bloody hands together."
"Like Lady Macbeth?"
"No!" Richard shouted at her. "There was no real blood on Lady Macbeth's hands, only her guilt made her believe that, but your hands were covered with Nicholas's blood."
Rosalind said, "We did have an argument last night, and I admit I wanted to smack him with a book, but I didn't even do that. This ripping-out-his-heart business, that would require a dedication to something fanatical. Another time, another place, I think you said." And she thought of the bloody knife in her own vision, the white drops sliding to the floor off the tip. Where had the blood come from?
"Be it elsewhere and in another time, you still did it, I saw you do it!"
"My lord."
Nicholas turned to see Block in the doorway, looking stiff and proper, though his eyes were a bit on the wild side.
"What crisis is upon us now, Block?"
"The old earl's ghost will not stop singing lewd ditties. Mrs. McGiver requests that you order him to stop."
Nicholas turned to his half brother. "Would you care to attend the old earl's ghost, Richard?"
Richard gawked at him. "A ghost? You're saying the old earl's ghost is real? That is nonsense. There are no ghosts. My grandfather is in Hell where he belongs."
Rosalind, seeing that Nicholas was primed for violence, said, "Richard, why do you find a singing ghost more unbelievable than me dressed like an ancient priestess plucking out Nicholas's heart and offering it as a sacrifice?"
"Let us go to the drawing room," Nicholas said. "Block, tell Mrs. McGiver we will take care of the ghost."
The door to the drawing room was open. Outside in the entrance hall stood Mrs. McGiver and Marigold, both listening intently, neither of them looking particularly alarmed.
Nicholas motioned the group into the room, placing his finger over his lips to keep them quiet. Once inside, Nicholas said toward the wing chair, "I am here. Rosalind is here. Other relatives are hare as well. What is it you have to sing to us this morning, sir?"
A minute passed. Two.
Richard said, "It is as I thought. Servants are fanciful, they make things up, they-" A creaky old voice sang out,
I am tired of strife I am tired of trouble. He stirs the pot And it boils and bubbles.
Once he comes the danger's near. Once he acts then death is here. Go to the Pale and slay the source Else the future may change its course.
"Don't be afraid, it's merely the old earl," Mrs. McGiver said kindly to Miranda Vail and the three young gentlemen surrounding her, all of them looking sheet white and ready to bolt. "He loves to sing, you know," she added, all confiding now, "and usually he doesn't make much sense. What he just sang, now that wasn't lewd. A warning it sounded like to me. I wonder who this he is? I don't like the sound of this, my lord."
Rosalind didn't either. She wondered who this he was as well. How were they supposed to get to the Pale to find and slay this bloody source to keep the future from changing from what it should be?
Nicholas said into the dead silence, "Thank you, sir, for your fine song. Your rhyming was inspiring as well."
Miranda said in a choked whisper, "There is no one here. We are the only ones in this room. This-this ghost-he sings like this all the time?"
"This was a trick," Richard announced to the room at large, "some sort of absurd trickery done by a servant who is hiding behind the draperies. One of you doubtless made up those ridiculous words for him to sing." He strode across the drawing room as he spoke. "Where are you?" he yelled, shaking his fist. "Come out from your hidey-hole now, else
I'll gullet you." He pulled a knife out of his coat pocket and brandished it at the draperies. The draperies didn't move.
Richard flung them back. There was no cowering servant there. He looked behind each piece of furniture. He found nothing at all.
"Where are you, you bastard?"
An ancient moan came from the depth of the old wing chair before it toppled onto its side to the floor.
Miranda Vail screamed.
Rosalind, Nicholas, and his four relatives sat at the breakfast room table.
Rosalind said into the strained silence, a smile in her voice, "Let me assure you again that our ghost is harmless." None of them looked too certain about that; indeed, Rosalind wasn't all that certain either that Captain Jared was merely the singing messenger. She said, "Enough excitement for the moment. We'll have a lovely breakfast."
"I could not eat," Miranda said.
"I can," Lancelot said. "I'm hungry."
"You are so pretty sitting there daintily spreading butter on your muffin," Richard said to his brother. "Just look at you, the image of a romantic poet. As for your gluttony, you'd best take care else you will strain your trouser buttons."
"I am not pretty, damn you!"
Rosalind called out, "Block! We are ready for another breakfast course."
Aubrey said, "This is a lovely room. Are you certain the old boy isn't dangerous?"
"I don't think so," Nicholas said. "He makes no threats. He simply sings and occasionally sends his chair toppling to its side." He shrugged. "One becomes used to it."
"You do not believe me," Richard said, and he drummed his fingertips on the mahogany tabletop.