The Treasure Keeper

it?'

She met his eyes without turning her head. They were green, ghost green, against heavy black lashes. His lips lifted into that faint smile again.

'Oh, come. I'm dead anyway. Why keep secrets?'

'I have ... another Gift. I suppose it's a Gift. It's tied in a way to why I see you, I think. I have the ability sometimes to ... gather thoughts. Other people's thoughts. It doesn't always work, but tonight it did. It's how I knew for certain he was the driver for Hayden. How I knew he was also in the employ of the sanf.'

'You read his mind,' said Rhys. He didn't sound surprised or thrilled or even doubting. He sounded very, very thoughtful.

She pursed her lips and looked away. A long moment passed. The thrum of the city began to intrude upon their silence: the carriages and livestock and people along the Quai, and coffee and river water and baking bread from the early-morning cafes in St.-Honore nearby.

'Well,' the ghost said at last. 'You are one sweet delight after another, Zoe Lane. I don't recall your demonstrating any of these Gifts back at home. Did they all descend in a great big lump a few months ago, or is it that you're merely more cunning than that?'

Her fingers began a quick nervous tattoo against her knees; she stilled them by knotting them together.

'Does anyone at home know any of this?'

'My sister.'

'The council?'

'Of course not,' she flashed, then lowered her voice. 'Don't be an idiot. You were on the council, as I recall.'

'Yes, but—'

'Do you think I ever desired to be handed over to you on a wedding platter? A nice virginal sacrifice to your esteemed bloodline?'

'Zoe.' He stared at her, brows furrowed. 'How long have you been Gifted?'

She tried a third shrug, as nonchalant as she could make it. 'Years.'

His mouth dropped open. 'Years?'

At last she'd managed to surprise him. She felt a small, mean glow of satisfaction at that. It had been so long

since she'd seen him in any way other than that of adversary. Handsome Lord Rhys, sensual Lord Rhys, who'd wooed her with such persistence as a boy and delivered her first, scorching real kiss. The notion of marriage to him—actual marriage, forced or not— brought an unwelcome heat to her face, even now.

He began to laugh. It was small at first, growing deeper and softer, gradually shaking his entire body until he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose; finally he looked up at her from over his cupped fingers. 'You truly don't like me, do you?'

'You have made it remarkably easy.'

'I suppose so.' He swiped at his eyes. 'You know I always ...'

'What,' she said, sarcastic. She felt flushed now, embarrassed, and spoke swiftly to cover it. 'You always admired me? Adored me from afar? Burned with unspoken passion in the depths of your black heart? That must have been quite a burden. No wonder you masked your pain with all those other girls.'

'I liked you,' he said simply. And smiled. 'That's all. I always liked you so much.'

Ah yes, there it was. His full smile, as bright and warm and open as the sun. That heartfelt, laughing allure of his that tempted her to wicked thoughts, that implied all manner of deliciously exciting secrets to share. It was the first thing about him that had attracted her as a girl. It was the last thing she recalled of him as a woman; over the years, that quick comely smile had never changed. And no matter how hard she resisted, it always made her feel the same: like she was special. Like he saved it only for her.

A donkey somewhere outside released a loud bray. It was answered by another, even louder. She began to rub absently at the hairpin stinging her scalp.

Rhys lowered his gaze and gave a nod, as if she'd asked him a question, then straightened, brisk once more. 'You're going to have to go through that wallet. I'd do it myself, but .' He spread his palms.

She'd nearly forgotten; she'd stuck the wallet in her pocket. It made a heavy weight beneath her skirts.

'No time like the present,' he prompted, when she didn't move.

She unbent her legs and fished it out, her fingers sticking to the leather, smeared with dried blood.

Zoe set her teeth against the smell and opened it up.

Money, a great deal of it, louis andlivres and two deniers. A silver toothpick. A golden ring, a signet perhaps; the face had been twisted and mashed. A few folded sheets of rice paper. A small tarnished key.

Rhys reached for the papers. She noticed for the first time that he was dressed as if he was still living—real English clothing, a laced shirt with ruffled cuffs, an embroidered waistcoat of silver-gray with leaves of holly, brown breeches. Walking boots. All of them darkened as he was. Transparent but there. She'd seen him like this all along, from the very beginning, and had only now noticed. Even that wayward lock of hair still fell down his forehead, catching against his eyelashes.

'What's this?' One shadow finger trailing smoke tapped the paper, or would have; the pieces didn't rustle beneath his touch.

She lifted them, unfolded them, and narrowed her eyes at the minuscule print. They appeared to be pages torn from a book.

'It's in a language I don't recognize,' she said, scanning it. 'It almost looks like gibberish, but

'Yes?'

'It changes right here. See? It segues from gibberish into French. 'A guide for the detection and recognition of ...' ' Her gaze lifted to his. ' '... of the Drakon,' 'she finished, sober.

They read it in silence. When she finished she let her hand fall to her lap, the pages loose between her fingers, staring out at the rows of strutting peacocks decorating the far wall.

'Would you say my cheekbones appear 'hard'?' he asked, leaning over her, still reading. 'I mean, sculpted, certainly. Angular, I would accept. But hard. It sounds so coarse.'

'I don't think the situation calls for levity.'

'I am in all seriousness, I assure you. My good confidence rides upon your answer.'

'Your confidence has never needed any help from me,' she snapped. 'Don't you realize what this means?' She spread the papers across her skirts. 'What this is?'

'It's a death list,' he replied, very calm. 'Of course I realize. And it's a ruddy good one too, I regret to say.' He stroked his hand over hers, very brief contact; it felt like arctic fire, like needles of ice brushing her skin. 'Zee. Have you taken a close look at that ring?'

She had not. But he had dropped any trace of humor; he spoke gently now, and he did not move or reach for her again. And so by his very stillness she realized what it was, the ring. Even as she picked it up carefully and turned the face to reflect the sullen night beyond the windows, she knew what she was going to see.

A dragon. It was there, frozen in the mangled gold with wings outstretched, the letter D stamped deep into the metal behind it. It was the official seal of the Shire of Darkfrith, and the unofficial insignia of the tribe itself. Every male drakon received one upon the completion of his first Turn. Even ghost Rhys had a ghost signet upon the smallest finger of his right hand.

All three emissaries had worn one when they'd left the shire. The Princess Maricara, along with her news of two drakon slain, had brought their rings back with her.

Here, then, was the third.

She turned it over, lifted it higher, but if there were initials engraved upon the inside, they had been obscured when the ring was damaged. But three Darkfrith signets missing from their owners still meant the same thing: All three owners were likely perished.

'I'm going to sleep now.' Her voice sounded tiny, insignificant against the cavernous stretch of the open ballroom. She gathered the contents of the wallet and climbed to her feet.

'We don't know for certain—'

'No,' she said. 'Don't say it. Don't say anything. And don't follow me. I'm going to my room, and I'm—I'm