Nicholas wanted that book, wanted it badly, but there was nothing he could do. As he escorted Rosalind back to his carriage, Rosalind said, "How do you know of Magnus Sarimund, my lord?"

"We have watched a drunken juggler, listened to a group of young men sing to you, and I have even eaten part of your lunch. You should call me Nicholas, if you please. How do I know of Sarimund? Well, my grandfather visited the Bulgar. He told me he supped with the Titled Wizard of the East, as he is called, an ancient relic whose beard tip actually brushed over his sandals. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that Sarimund lived five years in the caves of the Charon Labyrinth with other holy men and wizards, the caves more dangerous than any other caverns in the Bulgar, what with their sheer abysses and knife-sharp stalagmites to stab the unwary, more dangerous than even a mad sirocco, he said. The Titled Wizard of the East told him that during the five years of Sarimund's stay, travelers who happened to venture too close to the caves were met by strange frightening visions and plagued by demons in their dreams. My grandfather asked him if wizards still inhabited the caves and the wizard gave him a smile that bespoke many things he couldn't begin to understand, he or any other human being, for that matter. The wizard said only, 'Of course,' and nothing more."

"Did this Sarimund really speak to ghosts?"

"My grandfather believed he did." Nicholas assisted her up into the carriage. He nodded to the man sitting in the driver's seat, a leather hat pulled low over his forehead. "Back to Putnam Square, Lee."

"Certainly, my lord."

Rosalind said, "He sounds like a gentleman."

"He is," Nicholas said, and nothing more.

"Why is he wearing that lovely leather cap pulled nearly to his nose? Why is a gentleman your servant?"

He gave her a charming smile. "It is none of your affair, Rosalind."

When Nicholas had settled himself across from her, Rosalind cocked her head at him. "All right, it is none of my business. Now, you swear to me this Magnus Sarimund was a real man?"

"Oh, yes, Sarimund was quite real, according to my grandfather. He lived in the sixteenth century, mostly in York, but also spent a lot of his time in the Mediterranean. On the islands, I suppose, though no one knows where exactly. It is said he had a hidden sanctuary there where he conducted his magical experiments. Then he journeyed to the Bulgar. When he came out, he went to Constantinople, to be welcomed by Suleiman the Magnificent. 'He wrote the Rules of the Pale there. I believe he had twenty or so copies made of his manuscript. It is indeed something of magic in itself to find one of the copies here. And that Grayson found it."

"Evidently the old bookseller made certain Grayson had it. And now it would seem that the old bookseller simply disappeared-that was very strange, Nicholas."

He said nothing.

"How odd that both you and Grayson know about the Rules of the Pale and this Sarimund." He merely nodded.

"Very well, keep your secrets. Did this Sarimund write other books?"

"Not that I know of, at least not that my grandfather said."

"And now the bookseller is gone," Rosalind shivered. "As if he never existed. You have read it, haven't you, Nicholas? You have actually seen another copy of the Rules of the Pale."

"Yes, I have. My grandfather said he found a copy in a dusty old bookshop in York where Sarimund had lived."

"Did he read to you from the Rules of the Pale? Discuss it with you? Do you remember what it said?"

"No, he never exactly read to me from the book itself, simply told me stories about Sarimund before-well, never mind that."

"Was your grandfather a wizard, Nicholas? You said he visited the Bulgar, he met with this old man called the Titled Wizard of the East."

Nicholas said slowly as he stared out the carriage window, "I cannot really answer that. I remember he knew things that most men didn't, he could tell me things about people's thoughts and feelings, but did he simply make it all up? I don't know."

"Did you live with your grandfather?"

"After my mother died, yes, I did. My father remarried, you see, and his new wife didn't like me, particularly after she gave birth to a son of her own. I was five years old when my grandfather welcomed me to Wyverly Chase, the country seat of the Vails since the sixteenth century. He was the Earl of Mountjoy, you see, and there was nothing my father could do about it, not that he wanted me to remain."

"You were only five years old."

"Yes. In the following years, my father and his new family rarely visited Wyverly Chase. I remember my father was angry he had to wait to come into the tide and my grandfather's wealth, though I knew he was very rich in his own right."

"But you were your father's heir. Surely that was more important than any dislike on the part of your stepmother. You were only a little boy, why-"

Nicholas merely shook his head at her and smiled. "Re-member our giant drunk juggler? Before we left the park I saw him snoring beneath a bench by the Serpentine."

"Very well, Nicholas, keep your secrets. But I will clout you if you are not more forthcoming in the future. The near future."

He reached over and lightly clasped her hand in his. He smiled at her, an intimate smile, one that made something very deep inside her stir to life.

How very odd, she thought later, that she knew to her bones that there would be a future. He was now in her life, and he would remain in her life.

An old man walked toward her, his long white robe brushing his sandals. A thick, twisted rope belted the robe, its frayed ends nearly reaching his knees. His beard was so long the tip nearly touched the hem of his robe. She saw large white toes. He smiled at her, his teeth shining as white as his toes. It was odd, but she wasn't the least bit afraid even though she was lying on her back on her bed and her bedchamber should be dark, but it wasn't. His skin looked soft and pale, as if he hadn't spent any time in the sun. He looked like a prophet, she thought, and he was here to see her. He bent down beside her bed, leaning close to her ear. She heard his voice, gentle as a soft whistle of a warm breeze. Iam Rennat, the Titled Wizard of the East. All know you will come into your own. You – He turned to look toward her door, his head cocked to one side, as if listening to something she couldn't hear, something coming here, to her bedchamber. He turned back to her, his beard brushing her shoulder as he leaned close once again. She heard his whisper in her ear, Obey the rules, obey the rules, obey-

Rosalind jerked awake, heart pounding, her nightgown damp with sweat. She jerked up in bed, her palms against her chest, trying to grab a breath, trying to bring herself out of that dream. The strange old man standing over her-no, he wasn't here, standing by her bed, his beard brushing her shoulder, there was nothing here at all.

She looked over at the thick shadows on the other side of her bedchamber that could easily hide something frightening-she sucked in her breath-no, she was being absurd. It was a dream, only a dream about the Rules of the Pale, and that wizard Nicholas had told her about, and her mind had spun it into that strange dream. How odd that she'd seen the wizard in the greatest of detail. Rennat-that was his name, an odd name that tugged at something deep inside her. Had Nicholas said that name? Perhaps so, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter; if he hadn't, that simply meant her mind had supplied it.

Obey the rules, obey the rules. Her heart thrummed, gooseflesh rippled her skin. She was not about to fall asleep again, not with those dreams waiting to leap out of the corner of her mind when she closed her eyes.