The Treasure Keeper

Just then someone called for a paper. He turned around and sold three copies before he knew it, and by the time he looked back for the lady, the alleyway was empty.

But—there was her gown, all tumbled in a heap by the refuse. And shoes. And a straw hat, and a shawl, and a real book bound in blue, just tossed on top.

He was able to sell it all for a tidy sum the next day to old Therese at the Hotel-Dieu in Montpellier, except for the book, which he presented to his mother.

She thanked him very sweetly for it too.

* * *

She wasn't here.

Granted, he wasn't precisely sure where here was. Or even when. The one true certainty Rhys had was that although the symphony still echoed around him, he was no longer in the assembly hall in Soho. The chairs and musicians and sparkling chandeliers had all vanished. If he concentrated hard enough, he could dim the music, but it took a great deal of effort that usually ended up leaving him drained and weary.

And when he was weary, the music hall rushed back in full bloody glory. He was growing to loathe the combination of rose, mauve, and cream.

But he was getting better at fending it off. Right now, for instance, he stood by a road somewhere—a townish sort of road, narrow and shadowed, one he'd never seen before. Definitely not Darkfrith. If this was his imagination, he supposed he deserved some credit for the details: the cobblestones were convincingly grimy; the gutters choked with garbage; the buildings were slaty and tall and streaked with damp; the people wore coats and shawls and hats and walked very quickly past him with their heads bowed or their faces turned away. A rat was picking through a mound of putrid something beneath a yellow-leafed shrub in a pot by an open door; apparently it was the only thing willing to see him, because it kept throwing him beady, distrustful glances as it rummaged. When Rhys took a step toward it, it turned and scuttled back through the darkness of the doorway.

He'd discovered rather quickly that he couldn't move much farther than that. A few steps in any direction, that was all. No matter how strongly he leaned or shoved, he was essentially fixed in this ruddy spot.

Everything was tinted blue and gray, as if it were raining, but it was not. There was nothing bright around him at all, not even the sun in the sky, which was how Rhys knew that Zoe Lane wasn't nearby.

Zoe alone shone with color.

He'd found her twice now. Just twice. And the second time had been so different from the first, he could not help but think that perhaps that first time, together with her in the hall, with the light, and the musicians—perhaps he had dreamt that one. Because the next time he'd seen her she looked different, for one thing. Not so polished, not so alabaster-perfect. She'd looked ... almost human.

Which was ridiculous. Apart from the members of his family, she had to be the most absolute model example of the female drakon he'd ever known. She was stunning and always had been, blindingly so. She was intelligent and stubborn and completely unafraid of convention. Had she inherited the ability to Turn into dragon, he could only imagine the terror she'd have stricken into the hearts of the men of the shire.

Not that she hadn't accomplished that anyway. He hadn't known a single boy their age who hadn't boasted of at least trying to kiss her. She was their unspoken grail, their adolescent hope and despair; remembering it now, he wondered if she'd even realized how many grubby fights she'd inspired. Young love was a wild and capricious creature, and Zoe, with her sparkling eyes and swift graceful step, seemed to have them all tethered to her lead without even trying.

But Rhys had loved her first. And he'd gotten that first kiss. He knew it, because she'd told him so herself when it happened. It had been in the forest, and they were all of thirteen, and he was going to prove to her that he could Turn, because at that time, there seemed to be nothing more important in the world than that she know his secret.

So he'd done it. And he'd stayed that way, an emerald dragon in the emerald woods, letting her circle him in their hidden clearing, leaves and sweet grasses ripe with summer beneath their feet. She'd held her skirts with one hand and allowed the other to trail along the ridges of his spine as she walked deliberately all the way around him.

Her touch had felt like fire. The most teeth-clenching, unbearable, and exciting fire. It ripped through him like nothing he'd ever felt before, not even his first Turn. Somehow he'd managed to follow her only with his eyes; the clearing was small and Rhys the dragon was not. She'd finished her circle and met his gaze and licked her lips and smiled, and his willpower went to ash.

He'd Turned back, very quickly, and kissed her hard on that smile before she could stop him or draw away.

She'd done neither, though. Zoe had only closed her eyes and puckered her lips in return, cool and composed against the fever in his blood.

In that instant he loved her so much he thought his heart was going to explode.

When he'd pulled away, panting, her smile grew wider and her long lashes lifted. He was drowning in exquisite dark depths.

'It was wetter than I thought it would be.'

He heard himself say, faintly, 'What?'

'My first kiss.' Her head tipped as she gazed up at him; a lock of hair that had come free of her cap curled against peach-blossom skin. 'Shorter too,' she added pointedly.

So he'd kissed her again.

That was Zoe. Never shy about hitting him over the head with the truth.

He needed that now. Rhys ran his hands through his own hair, staring around him at the unknown road, baffled. He needed some truth, some clarity at least.

Hell, he must be dreaming the whole thing. Because the second time he'd seen her, she'd also been somewhere definitely not Darkfrith—and he could think of no reason why she wouldn't be safely cloistered in the shire. But she'd absolutely been in another place, somewhere cleaner and more stylish than his grimy little road, and the people surrounding her had been no one familiar at

all.

Coffee cups, wineglasses, trees overhead. He'd heard voices but only as a slur of soft babbling sound; no words. No meaning. And again, no depth of color, but for her. Zoe, with her ivory hair and roses in her cheeks. And painted lips. And a dress this time of verdant green. A matching ribbon on her hat. She looked like springtime in the middle of drab winter, and even if he'd wanted to, he'd have been unable to tear his eyes from her.

She'd seen him too. No one else had—there had been no rodents on that crowded little patio— but Zoe had seen him. And he thought . he thought perhaps she'd even felt him. He'd almost felt her. Almost felt the warmth of her shoulder, the texture of her sleeve. Her eyes had grown round as saucers as she'd stared back at his reflection in the window glass.

But something moved behind them, and she'd started—and vanished. He'd been encased instantly in darkness again, the cursed music. After trying very, very hard, he'd appeared here, on this dismal little street. He could summon nothing else.

He couldn't Turn, either. Not to smoke. Not to dragon.

He was stuck.

Rhys sat down on the sidewalk across from the shrub and contemplated its faded yellow leaves. The dull gray human men and women brushed past him as if he were invisible. As if he were a ghost.

All those years of practicing his stealth, and now he could barely frighten a rat. The irony of it seemed almost humorous at first—and then most definitely not.

To hell with this.

Rhys narrowed his eyes at the shrub. His breathing began to slow: gently, watchfully, the whispered whoosh whoosh whoosh of blood through arteries and veins gradually overtaking the bright terrible music that soared at the edges of his being. If he could just relax enough, focus enough on what he knew of her—her shape and scent and colors, her eyes, her lips, that long-ago kiss burned into his soul—he was sure he could find her again .

But he must be caught up in some sort of bizarrely tangled dream after all. Because when Rhys thought he