All know you will come into your own. That's what the old man had confided to her, so close he'd been she fancied she could still feel his warm breath on her ear, and his breath- she'd swear she could still smell that light scent of lemon. Come into her own what? Rosalind sat very still, calming herself, her breath slowing, her squirreling brain righting itself.

She wasn't afraid, not really, since she knew ghosts-at least, that's what she called the voices, for want of anything better. She'd lived with them for years. Sometimes she heard them murmuring from shadowed corners, but more often they came like thick mist in her dreams, whispering, always whispering, but unfortunately she could never understand them. And she wanted desperately to see them, but never could. Rosalind wished her ghosts would say actual words, as Rennat had.

Then she could ask them what her real name was.

Enough of mad hoary old men with skinny gray beards dangling to their big white toes, their breath smelling of lemons. She felt restless, twitchy, and strangely cold as well. Rosalind put on a robe and slippers, lit a lucifer and touched it to her bedside candle, and went down the great wide staircase, her hand cupping the candle flame. She was going to steal some of Uncle Ryder's brandy. Her hand was reaching toward the doorknob when she saw a flickering light coming from beneath the library door. What was this?

She raised her hand to knock, lowered it, and quietly opened the door. She saw Grayson sitting at the great mahogany desk in the far corner, a single candle at his elbow illuminating what she knew was the Rules of the Pale.

The candle was nearly gutted.

She hadn't seen him since he'd left her and Nicholas at Hyde Park. He hadn't appeared at dinner nor had he come to the drawing room for tea. Since his writing hours were erratic, no one else had thought anything of his absence-but she had. His hair was disordered, his shirt open at the neck.

She lightly touched her hand to his shoulder. "Grayson?"

He nearly jumped out of his chair. "Oh, Rosalind, you gave me a royal scare. It's the middle of the night. What are you doing out of bed at this hour?"

"I had a strange dream," she said. "You're still reading the Rules of the Pale?"

"I can't read it, at least not yet. It's in some sort of code I haven't been able to figure out. Sarimund starts off in an old formal sort of English I can read. Then he tells the reader he has written the Rules in his own personal code and he doubts the reader will be able to decipher it. You can almost see him preening over his own cleverness, the bastard. I'd shoot him if he weren't already dead."

The book lay open on the desktop. She waved to it. "Why didn't you tell your parents about it?"

"My parents are very comfortably set in the modern day, you know that, Rosalind."

"They accept the Virgin Bride. Even though Uncle Ryder carps about it all being a bloody myth nurtured by the ladies of the family. You know as well as I do both of them believe in her."

Grayson shrugged. "Oh, aye, I believe in her too, this unfortunate young lady who's lived at Northcliffe Hall since Queen Bess was in full flower-but she's different. She's a ghost, long dead, yes, but she's not a chain-dragging ghoul out to terrify. She's part of the damned Sherbrooke family. Corrie tells me the Virgin Bride has visited the twins many times and they accept her just as they accept their nanny, Beth."

Of all the ghosts that hovered around Rosalind, the Virgin Bride wasn't among their number. On the other hand, she doubted the Sherbrooke ghost ever would visit her-she had no plans to marry a Sherbrooke and that seemed to be the prerequisite if you weren't of their blood.

Grayson threw down his pen. "When I read Sarimund's sniggering claim, I'll tell you I laughed. I truly thought I would be able to break his code. It's all written with what look like random letters, spaced apart like they're words, only they're not and I can't figure out how to make them into real words. I've spent the past"-he stared over at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece-"well, since this afternoon trying to figure it out, but I haven't yet succeeded. My brain wants to explode."

Rosalind frowned. "That surprises me since you've always been good at solving puzzles and deciphering codes and such."

"Yes, until now. It's fair to driving me to the edge."

"Does Sarimund use any proper names, or are the names in code as well?"

"Well, he did write one name-Rennat."

Her heart started up a hard drumbeat again. "Rennat?"

He nodded. "Yes, strange name, isn't it?"

Rosalind thought she would expire. "Rennat," she repeated, her voice a skinny thread of sound.

"It could be a dog, really, but it makes sense to me that if

Sarimund went to the trouble of not encoding the name, it must be a man, an important man."

"Grayson, my dream"-Rosalindswallowed-"that is the name of the old man who came to me in my dream. Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East-that's who he said he was."

Grayson stared up at her, then threw his nib pen at her. She snagged it right out of the air with her right hand. She always did. It had been a game between them for many years. No spattering ink since the nib was dry. Grayson said, "I can usually count on you for a better jest, Rosalind. Rennat came to you in a dream?-that isn't worthy of you. Come now, don't try to make me any more befuddled than I already am."

She opened her mouth to tell him it was no jest, but he'd already turned away, staring back down at the book. "May I look at it?"

He shoved the book over to her. "I'm so bloody tired my mind's decided you're my mother."

"In that case, I could smack you and you'd have to take it."

Grayson rose and stretched, waved her to his chair. Rosalind sat down and slowly drew the book toward her. She looked down at the small, spidery handwriting, the faded black ink still quite legible. She lightly touched the pages. "Sarimund never had it printed. So twenty copies were hand-copied?"

"That's what Nicholas said. I don't know. Mr. Oakby at Oxford never said. I don't think he knew either."

Rosalind looked down at the page and her heart nearly stopped. Grayson was wrong. It wasn't a difficult code at all. She reached out and touched her hand to his arm. "Grayson, it's easy. I can read it."

Grayson was so startled he spurted out the tea he'd just gulped down, and coughed. "No," he said, staring at her, "that's not possible. Stop it, Rosalind."

"Listen to me, for whatever reason, I can indeed read it. And I did dream of this old man Rennat, it wasn't a jest. I can tell you what he looks like. He spoke to me. Maybe that's why I can read this. It's not in old stilted English, either-it's in modern English. I don't know, maybe he's allowing me to read it easily."

Grayson carefully set down his teacup. He looked bewildered. "No, that's not possible, Rosalind."

"It's easy, I tell you. All you have to do is switch the third letter of each word to the front, or, if the third letter happens to be a vowel, then it goes to the end or near the end of the word. All vowels represent the seventh, thirteenth, nineteenth, twentieth, or twenty-fifth letters of the alphabet, and those consonants represent the vowels. All the u's are pointers to those words that are the subject-it's perfectly clear,

Grayson, in lovely, clear English, not stilted and no strange words from the sixteenth century."

"Yes, yes, you move consonants about and the vowels fail into place and-" He stared at her, shook his head. "Damnation, what you said makes no sense at all, it's all nonsense. Besides, if it did make sense, if that was the key, it would take hours to rearrange all those bloody letters."