Rosalind read:

"The Tiber is vicious. Only slight force is needed for its hooves to smash a man's face into pulp. The Tiber has one weakness. It craves the taste of the red Lasis. The black La-sis or the brown Lasis will not do, only the red Lasis. But the red Lasis, unlike the brown and black Lasis, is wily and reveals itself to the Tiber only when it can lead it to a covered pit. The red Lasis easily jumps the pit but the Tiber does not. It falls in and the Lasis sends fire spears into it until it is dead. A man must make friends with the red Lasis. Otherwise a man is destroyed by the Tiber. Sing to the red Lasis of your loyalty just as they sing to the Dragons of the Sallas Pond, and they will protect you."

Rosalind looked up. "It is like Sarimund is writing for a child-simple, basic, crude, if you will."

Nicholas sat on a sofa opposite her, holding a large silk pillow between his hands. He said as he tossed the pillow from one hand to the other, "Or he is writing an instruction manual and wants to make certain there is no misunderstanding. It is crude, you're right about that, Rosalind, and unfortunately it gives us no information at all that is helpful." And he wondered, as he had each time she read from Sarimund's book: Why is this so clear to you and not to me?

Grayson was rubbing his hand, cramped from writing so quickly to keep up with her. He said, "Or the Tiber and the red Lasis simply stand for something else-they're metaphors."

"Metaphors for what?" Nicholas said.

Grayson shrugged. "Perhaps concepts of the afterlife. The Tiber represents Hell, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and the red Lasis-well, Heaven seems a bit of a stretch."

"Maybe the red Lasis are angels," Rosalind said, an eyebrow raised. "They protect men, help them to survive. I don't know, Grayson; even though Sarimund writes simply, I can see the red Lasis leaping over a pit meant for the Tiber. I can even picture a fire spear."

"But note there's no description of them, it only tells the reader that the Tiber has hooves," Grayson said. "It's interesting too, you have words like 'Tiber' and 'Lasis'-foreign, strange words-but then there are words we know, like 'moon' and 'spear.' Read, Rosalind. I have a feeling this will change. I know it will change."

He dipped his nib pen into the inkwell on the floor beside him and nodded to her.

She gave Nicholas a quick look and felt her insides glow even brighter. She fully intended to marry this man-it was astounding and absolutely mad. So few days earlier she hadn't even known he existed. He was a stranger, she knew nothing about him, yet she knew, simply knew to her soul, that this man was the one for her. She thought again of what she'd said to him as they'd walked into the house earlier.

She'd looked up at him sadly, shoulders dropped, and sighed deeply as she'd whispered, "I hope no one believes me a failure."

That pulled him up short. "A failure?"

"Well, the fact is, my lord, you are not a duke."

His quick full laugh had made her want to jump on him.

Grayson snapped his fingers under her nose. "Come along, Rosalind, back from wherever you went. Why are you blushing? No, don't tell me. Read."

She studied the next sentence a moment, then raised her head."'This is strange. It's a new section, but there is no empty space between to mark the end of one and the beginning of the next. It also changes from narrative to first person." She read, "Idiscovered the Dragons of the Sallas Pond only eat every three weeks, and only fire rocks, heated for those three weeks until they're soft and glowing. They have never eaten a man. When men venture to the Pale they cower inside caves and build fires, but learn quickly that the flying creatures swoop down upon them to kill the flame. It is a frightening sight, the dying flames, the creatures sucking at the embers, the men screaming, but withal, the flying creatures do not harm men.

"The men who survive settle into the body of the Pale. Just as I did, they observe the Dragons of the Sallas Pond and see that their snouts are rich glittering gold and their eyes bright emeralds and their huge triangular scales, the sharp points glistening beneath the brilliant ice sun, are studded with diamonds.

"To the best of my knowledge, the Dragons of the Sallas Pond do not die. They exist for the now and the ever after. If a man holds himself perfectly silent, he will hear the Dragons singing to each other, perhaps telling about men, what very different creatures they are, foolish and lost and afraid. If a man has patience and can wait, the Dragons will determine if he is worthy, and if he is, as I was, the Dragons will teach him the rules of the Pale.

"For myself, their love songs moved me unutterably, for the mating of the Dragons of the Sallas Pond is for all eternity. They are your salvation. Never lie to a Dragon of the Sallas Pond. This is a rule of the Pale."

Rosalind stopped reading, frowning as she read again, silently, the last few lines. Grayson raised his hand and began rubbing it. Nicholas tossed the bright blue silk pillow to a brocade chair opposite him. He said, "Dragons of the Sal-las Pond-it sounds like a tale spun out of an incredible imagination. What is the Sallas Pond, I wonder?"

Rosalind said thoughtfully, "A sacred place, perhaps like Delphi. And Mount Olyvan could be Mount Olympus, could it not? My throat is quite dry. Should you like some tea?"

"Nutty buns?" Nicholas asked, perking up.

"Stand up, Nicholas. Let me see your belly first." He obligingly rose and waited for her to come to him. At the last moment before she touched him, she saw Grayson was gaping at her, his mouth open.

Nicholas said mildly, catching her hand, "I am thin as a pole, Rosalind, no extra flesh on me. Any man who allows himself to gain flesh in his belly is doomed, and will be spat upon. This is a rule of the Nicholas."

His words, spoken with such seriousness, undid her. Laughter spurted out of her. Grayson didn't know whether to laugh or to hit this man who was on such friendly terms with Rosalind. She'd thought to touch her hand to his belly to see if it was flat-what the devil was going on here?

"Oh, goodness," she said, "does the rule of the Nicholas apply to the ladies as well?"

"Indeed it does. Heed me, for I speak true. Should I check your belly, Rosalind? I proclaim you exempt from this rule when you carry my-when you carry a child."

Grayson leapt to his feet and opened his mouth, only to close it when he saw Rosalind's face. Her eyes were wicked. He knew that look. She gave him a bow as she walked to the bell cord and gave it a rug. When Willicombe appeared in the library a scant three seconds later, Grayson said, "Willicombe, were you waiting outside? Did you somehow fathom that we were starving?"

"I am desolated to announce there are no more nutty buns, Master Grayson. I heard Cook say the last three were stolen right out of her kitchen, and it so upset her that she was unable to prepare more."

"Oh, dear, I swear I am not guilty," Rosalind said.

"I suspect my mother," said Grayson. "Nutty buns are her weakness. And she is sly."

Rosalind sighed. "Is it time for luncheon yet, Willicombe?"

"Actually, Miss Rosalind, I was on my way in to fetch the three of you. Cook has prepared ham slices so thin you can see through them." While Willicombe spoke, he looked at Sarimund's book. Rosalind could see his fingers twitching. He bowed once again, holding it a long moment so the full effect of his bald head could be appreciated.

Rosalind watched Grayson carefully tuck the Rules of the Pale into his jacket as they followed in Willicombe's wake.

Nicholas said, leaning close to her ear, "I could not examine the flatness of your belly. Grayson would have surely run me through with that ceremonial sword over the mantel."