When Marianne rose to dress for dinner, the Duchess caught her hand and, with a startling change in manner and tone, said, "You have not forgotten? You will keep your word? It will not be long now…"

"I know." The fingers clasping hers were so thin and cold they felt like fleshless bone. Marianne repressed a shudder. "I – I will do my best. Are you not coming downstairs tonight?"

"No, I think not. I am a little tired. I want to save my strength for tomorrow." The Duchess smiled – a strange, shadowy smile. "We will have a grand dinner party and all dress in our best. Won't that be splendid?"

"Yes, indeed," Marianne managed to say. When she was outside the room she wiped her fingers with a fold of her skirt; but the icy touch still lingered on her flesh.

At two o'clock in the morning Marianne finally abandoned her effort to sleep. She had been tossing and turning for hours, watching the shadows lengthen as her candle burned down, and listening to the hiss of sleety snow against the windows.

Dinner had been a miserable affair. The brisk north wind had found cracks and crannies in the paneling of the dining room that had never before been apparent, and Marianne had shivered in her formal gown until the doctor sent a maid for her shawl. She could not meet Carlton's eyes. Whenever she tried, they narrowed with such diabolical amusement that she was afraid he would say something about the encounter between herself and the vicar. He was in a particularly exasperating mood, baiting the doctor, insulting Horace the cat until Lady Annabelle finally threw her napkin at him and retired in a high dudgeon, and even committing the unspeakable faux pas of speaking to the footmen as they passed the dishes. And after dinner, when Marianne tried to speak alone with the doctor, longing for the solid comfort of his conversation, Carlton refused to be dismissed. He suggested music and made her stay at the piano until bedtime.

She had hoped the dreary weather would help her sleep, but it was no use; the knowledge of what the next day would bring twisted in her mind like a sharp knife, destroying peace. Twenty-four hours from now, she told herself, it will be over. But that was no comfort, for who knew what the denouement would bring, and what unwilling role she would play in bringing it about?

She got up at last, lighted a fresh candle, and started to look for the doctor's brown bottle. She did not like sleeping medicine, but tonight she would have been tempted to swallow a cup of hemlock if someone had assured her it would bring temporary forgetfulness. She searched in increasing frustration until she remembered that Carlton had made off with the medicine and had never returned it. That made her stamp and use some of the squire's swear words. If the hour had not been so late she would have gone after it, but she could imagine Carlton's comments if she crept into his room in the dead of night.

Parting the window curtains, she peered out into the dark. There was nothing to be seen but a blowing curtain of snow. An icy draft blew against her through cracks in the molding and she let the curtain drop.

There was no sense in going back to bed. Wrapping herself in a comforter, she poked the fire up and settled down with Carlyle. He had put her to sleep once before, perhaps he would perform the same office again.

Sleep came upon her so subtly that she did not sense its approach. It seemed to her that she was still sitting by the fire, her head bent over her book, though its print had become a meaningless blur, when a smoldering brand in the fire broke and sent up a last spurt of flame. In the brief illumination she saw a figure sitting in the chair opposite hers.

Such is the nature of dreams that they carry an emotional atmosphere independent of their content. The most innocent-seeming dreams can cause the dreamer to wake in a sweat of terror, and nightmares of death and horror do not always alarm. So Marianne was not frightened, even when she recognized the neat black skirts and little lace cap and the face of Mrs. Jay.

The vicar's widow was smiling. She looked vigorous and healthy and many years younger than she had looked when Marianne last saw her. As Marianne started to cry out, in pleased greeting, the elderly lady lifted a warning hand. Nodding almost coquettishly, she sketched a brief gesture in the air… and disappeared.

Marianne rubbed her eyes. Her lower limbs, which had been tucked up under her, had gone quite numb. She staggered to her bed. This time she fell asleep at once.

Dreams are all very well, but their influence does not last long. Marianne awoke with a lingering memory of happiness and peace; but as soon as she came fully awake the knowledge of what was to happen that night swept over her like a great salty wave.

The weather was so bad that even Henry had to admit it was not a good day for sledding, so they spent the morning in the schoolroom finishing the battle of Waterloo. This time the victory almost went to Napoleon, thanks to Roger Carlton, who turned up in midbattle and demanded to be allowed to play. He was given the Austrian troops and managed them so successfully that the Iron Duke had to fight for his life. At last, however, the British lion roared triumphant over the field, and Henry sat back on his heels with a sigh of delight.

"That was splendid! Let's do it again."

"Not until my wounded have recovered,"

Carlton replied. On hands and knees, his hair hanging over his brow and his sleeves rolled up, he had entered into the game with enthusiasm, shouting orders in fractured German and imitating the agonies of the wounded. "They need nourishment, and so do I; it is time for luncheon. You are coming down, are you not, Miss Ransom?"

Before Marianne could answer, Henry scrambled to his feet with a glad cry. "Mama! I won, Mama; the British won!"

"Wonderful," Lady Violet said, smiling. "Miss Ransom, Mr. Carlton – how good of you to play with Henry."

"I enjoyed it," Marianne said truthfully.

"Run along and wash for lunch, Henry." Lady Violet ran caressing fingers through her son's hair. "Mr. Carlton, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak to Miss Ransom for a moment."

So that is how you do it, Marianne thought, as the two male creatures obeyed without an argument or a backward look. I wonder if I could learn. But perhaps it takes generations of aristocratic blood, or some such thing.

She started to scramble to her feet, but Lady Violet put a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't stand, I beg you. I will not keep you long; I only wanted to apologize for not accompanying you to church Sunday. You are a kind person. You have been very good to my son. I hope… I hope that from now on we can be friends."

"I would be so glad," Marianne exclaimed, quite overcome. "I need a friend, Lady Violet, I do indeed."

"I wish I could help you." The lady sank into a chair and looked thoughtfully at Marianne. The girl was pleased to see that she had abandoned the defensive gesture of hiding her face with her hand. "I know what is happening; but I do not know what to do about it."

"Did you know him?" Marianne asked.

She did not have to name names. They both knew to whom she was referring. Regretfully Lady Violet shook her head.

"I have heard a great deal about him, of course. But he had been dead for over five years when I married Henry's father and came here to live."

"I wish I knew what to do," Marianne murmured.

"I am hardly the proper person to ask," Lady Violet said, with a faint smile. "I have not managed my own life so well as to venture to offer advice to others. But if I were to advise you, Miss Ransom, I would tell you to leave this place. There is a curse on the Devenbrook family. No one knows it better than I. You will only fall victim to it yourself if you attempt to fight against it."