The Treasure Keeper

now. The man sent after him, Jeffrey Bochard, has also disappeared.

The deep blue cloak follows me about. If I pause too long, it sneaks up on me. If I try to sleep, it slithers up into my dreams. This afternoon it caught me in the parlor between footsteps: wrapping close at once, vanishing the world. Suspending me in silence and fear and anger and worry. I heard the men's names. I felt their families' despair. I felt—I know not. Whisper brushings, their spirits? They seemed so lost; it was dreadful.

And then the cloak dropped me back into the parlor, and I finished my step, and there was a knocking at my front door.

I did not want to open it. I knew who it was, and why he had come.

What have I done? I can't bear to see him depart alone in his heart, as those other two did. I can't bear to have him think I never cared. I always did. And if this isn't love, well—does it matter? He deserves a wife. He deserves a reason to make it back home.

The Council will not send a married drakon man, so we'll wed after he returns from his mission to the Carpathians. Hayden promised.

And after that, I'll tell him of the dark cloak. Of the Gift. After. Journal Conclusion

I'm very sorry, Cerise. I know you're going to read this and worry. I would, in your position. Although I think perhaps we've only recently begun to be real friends, I've never doubted the bond between us. And so I begin this final entry with my apology.

This is my sad, roundabout way of keeping you in my life, even if it's merely through memories scratched on paper. I've always been hopeless at organizing, as you know, and so there was never any chance I would manage to pen an entry every day. But I believe most of the important events of my past few years have been recorded here. Enough to give you insight into what I'm about to do next.

You know Hayden left the shire, and you know why. Calm, loyal, meticulous: He was considered our last good hope of reaching the Zaharen drakon and brokering a peace with them. And everyone in the tribe knows now that the Zaharen sent us their princess Maricara in turn, bringing her horrible news. That the sanf inimicus, those human hunters, have discovered us, have killed at least two of our three emissaries—although we don't know which two.

That they've breached the shores of England. That only weeks ago they kidnapped and tried to kill the princess herself, and Lord Rhys. At least Maricara escaped, though heaven knows what happened to Rhys. We've had no word.

The princess claims that Lady Amalia and her husband Zane, still in hiding, are working covertly against the hunters. That Lia was the one who recently stole little Honor Carlisle from her home here. That Zane has infiltrated the sanf by pretending to be one of them.

I admit it was that last bit that sparked my mind and opened my eyes. If Zane, a human, not even one of our kind, would risk his life to help protect us .

I'm far from impulsive. I hardly need mention that. I tend to consider matters very carefully before taking action. How often have you complained about how long it takes me to select even a pair of garters for my stockings? You above all will realize how much I've mulled this over and over.

My position in the tribe is low, as is my influence. If I thought it would do an ounce of good, I would go before the Council and tell them of my Gifts, offer myself as anapparatus belli against this group of Others who have possibly murdered my fiance. But I think we both know how fruitless that would be. I'm female; I'm unwed; I might still breed. Nothing I could say would persuade them to view me in any fashion beyond those three overwhelming facts.

They would lock me away, by force if need be. They would do whatever they thought they must to keep me bound to the shire. Our history speaks most eloquently for itself.

I used to think the Council was a faction of stuffy old men, bleating stuffy old rules out of lethargy, or just blind fear. Time has tempered my opinion. Now I better understand why they've held so tightly to our traditions. We do need to stand united against these hunters. We need every weapon at our disposal, which is why I must go. I cannot Turn, but I have these Gifts. I am a weapon.

I never told you—or anyone—that after Hayden left, he would send me a note every week to let me know where he was, that he was well. It was something I required of him, and to his credit, he never failed me until his communications with the tribe ceased entirely. His last note placed him nearly to Paris, en route to Dijon. I'll start there.

I shall leave up to you whether or not to share this journal with anyone else in the tribe. I said good-bye to you and the children tonight in your beds, although you never saw me. It was a test, and I passed. So I must no longer delay.

No need to reflect upon all the horrors of tribal punishment should I get caught. We both know the consequences for disobedience of the laws, so suffice it to say, I do not plan to be caught.

I wish I could better explain to you why I'm doing this. I wish I had the wit or the words to describe to you why I'm chancing nearly all that I love with this decision. I must make do with this: You have always been the other side of me, my twin, my friend and rival. I've watched you blossom as a wife and mother without a scrap of envy. Yet it would be a lie were I to write here that I did not long for the same as you. Hayden was that promise for me, that hope. He was the key to my future here in Darkfrith: my husband and helpmate, the father of my children.

You will not be surprised, I think, when I tell you that I've always felt slightly apart from all the rest of the tribe, just a step out of tune with everyone else. Hayden offered me the chance to find my place in the music here. For perhaps the first time, I felt that with him, despite my differences, I could belong.

I do not know if this is the definition of true love. All I know is that I must find him. I must discover what's happened to him. I will bring him home again if I can.

For ages we've been instructed to guard our place here, to grow our roots into this soil. But against our will we've been thrust into this new age; the human world has evolved without us. The marquess and his wife, Lady Amalia, Luke, and Jeffery—all scattered to the winds.

And now Hayden has vanished. Rhys has vanished.

I'm going to vanish too.

Be safe, Cerise.

Forever love,

Your twin, Mlle. Zoe C. Lane

August 1, 1782

Chapter Two

Paris

September 1782

He'd been following her for three long blocks down the Seine. She did not walk quickly, which was one of the things he noticed first about her. Her pace was slow, often uneven; a demoiselle who perhaps had partaken of too much champagne with her dessert.

And shewas a demoiselle—or at the very least, a demimondaine. The sheen of her gown—satin without question, glimmering taupe by the smoky light of the street lanterns. The coat of fine sky-blue velvet she wore over it, edged with silk tassels that swayed in time with her oddly graceful gait. Even her hat, wide-brimmed and elaborately feathered, ropes of paste pearls draped around the band, the bow tied smartly beneath her chin. If she was a prostitute, she was an extremely successful one. Everything about her spoke of Means.

No question, there were other pigeons to be found tonight. With its theatres and operas and vendors, the musicians playing ballads on the bridges, Tuileries was always the most likely place in town to bump into a careless soul who didn't keep a firm hand on his purse, especially after the shows let out. But there was something about this girl, some compelling, mysterious pull from her . once she'd caught his eye, he found he couldn't look away.

She had a reticule over her left wrist, blue like the coat, with nice thin satin cords. Good enough.