The Treasure Keeper

I'm not good enough or kind enough or patient enough to wait for Hayden any longer. It's been over three years now without any promise of a wedding date. I cannot change what's in my heart.

But I was so nervous to speak to him, my hands shook. It was very hard to give him back his ring.

Naturally, Hayden was a gentleman about it all. He kissed meadieu, very gently, on the cheek.

August 24, 1779

Sunny. Scattered Clouds.

It's been so dry this year, so dry and warm. I remember how I used to watch the clouds. I was younger then. I dreamed more. I suppose I believed in more as well.

August 25, 1779

Gray day. Clouds thickening.

Cerise wants me to go up to the manor house for the Tribal Socials the marchioness hosts every month for the singles of the shire.

I told her exactly the truth. I'm twenty-six years of age. How foolish would I look surrounded by a flock of giddy adolescents?

She seemed about to grow teary again so I forced a smile and told her not to worry. I was well and happy alone. I didn't mind being an Old Maid (!!) and that matrimony and children were for the wildly beautiful and good, like her.

She gave me a very curious look. She said, 'You are beautiful.'

I laughed and replied, 'You're my sister. I cannot rely upon your opinion.'

She sat up straighter. 'Zoe. You're beautiful. You're probably the most beautiful woman in the tribe, more beautiful even than the marchioness.'

I laughed once more. What else could I do? But it only angered her further, so I lifted my hands in surrender.

'Cerise! You yourself once told me how odd I am. My eyes are too dark, my lips are too big. Even my hair is this peculiar colorless color. I have mirrors. I can see the truth. I'm far too strange-looking to attract that sort of notice from men.'

She was quiet a moment. She was staring at me hard, the way she does when she's trying to understand one of my jokes, or a pun I thought particularly clever. We were in the tavern after closing, seated together beside the fire. A fine gentle glow danced along our skirts. Finally she said, 'Are you blind? Really, truly? Are you blind?'

'No,' I said.

'Then I must suppose you are merely stupid. No wonder Hayden walked away.'

That made me blink! I stood. But she was Cerise, ever Cerise, and she did not give quarter.

'No one courts you because you frighten them. You have this severity about you. This ice-cold perfection. But there's no question of your looks, Zoe Cyprienne. You're a diamond. You're a pearl. Haven't you noticed how all the males who come to the tavern stare at you, how they quiet when you're near? I've spent my entire life longing for half your charms, insane with the knowledge that you knew how much more fair you always were. Now ... I can't believe you don't know it. Are you jesting with me? Because it's not amusing in the least.'

'No,' I said slowly, gazing down at her. 'I'm not jesting.'

We locked eyes. Hers are such a lovely whiskey-gold. I always wished for eyes like that. 'You're an idiot,' she said.

'On that,' I said, 'we agree.'

January 5, 1781

Cloudy. Light snow.

Went for a walk today. My legs were restless, and the blue-dark cloak of Nothingness seemed to hover uncomfortably close to the cottage. I needed to leave.

Blackstone Woods are perfumed and dense; one can nearly always find a path there to follow without running into company. The snow fell in tiny glimmers, sideways, embedding into the tree trunks, throwing sparkles across my shawl. It was silent and empty and starkly serene. Within an hour snow encrusted my skirts and began to fill my boots.

I paused to rest in a clearing of rowan and oak. It's one of my most favorite places in the shire. In spring it's carpeted in grass and clover. In the summer it flowers with bluebells and red campion.

The snow picked up, still sideways. I lifted an arm to admire it, inspecting the individual crystals caught upon my sleeve, in the woolen weave of my mitten. Then I took off the mittens, both of them, and raised my hands to the flakes.

My fingers were rosy with the cold. I spread them, watching the white little dots hit my skin and melt into moisture . and I realized it was happening again .

The snow struck my hands. The snow melted. And every place there was a drop of water—I was gone. I had vanished.

I stood very still and let it happen. I waited until my hands were entirely wet, and I still felt the cold, and the sting of falling ice. Yet my hands were invisible. Except for the rush of frost from my breath, I could see straight through them.

Invisible.

Have I lost my wits? This is not a drakon Gift; I've never heard of such a Gift. This is surely something else.

Perhaps I've been alone too long. Perhaps my mind has bent.

February 18, 1781

Cloudy. Dry.

I seem to have some control over it. I seem to be able to Will it or Not. Mostly.

Tonight I stood before my bedroom mirror and splashed my cheeks with water from the basin. This was my Twenty-Second experiment, and nothing happened, as usual. I was relieved. And I was discomfited. I had imagined that moment in the woods or I had not: Either way, it did not bode well for me. And then, as I was staring at my reflection in the glass, I noticed my eyes growing darker and darker—they are already black, so I don't know how else to describe it. And then —yes! It happened again. My cheeks and nose and chin were gone. Only my eyes and my forehead remained.

As I watched I saw that I actually began to flush visible once more, even though my face was still wet.

I Willed it.

Oh, God. Should I tell anyone? Is this a New Gift or an Ancient One? What does it mean for my future?

I know the Council edicts. Sweet mercy, we all know them. Save for the marchioness and her daughters, female drakon have been unable to Turn for generations. Now any female of exceptional Gifts is considered tribal chattel, to be given to the Alpha or his line. She will be wed and bred into his family, and to hell with whatever she thinks about it.

The marquess is already wed. His eldest son is engaged. That leaves just Rhys Langford. Arrogant, rake hell Lord Rhys, with his long dark hair and mocking green eyes. Rhys, who cannot help but send me a gloating grin every miserable time we cross paths. He's always escorting some starstruck lass; obviously I'm still the Old Maid.

Bugger. I'd rather take my chances alone. If I can avoid water I can hide this. I'm certain of it.

May 1, 1781

Happy Birthday.

The tribe on edge, worse than I've ever felt. The Marquess and Marchioness of Langford have broken our most fundamental law and stolen away to the human world, to hunt Lady Amalia. Luke Rowland—sent to find and parley with the Transylvanian drakon —has been missing without word over four years