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this place? Why should she take any interest in him in the first place?
But day was well underway, and Owain began to lose focus. His thoughts
wandered. Grudgingly, he took off his overcoat and kept it wrapped around his
sword as he placed them in the wardrobe. He felt, too, in the pocket of his
coat the tattered re-
mains of his commonplace book. There had been no free time to inspect it
further or to attempt to repair it.
There was time for little else this morning. Strug-
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Dark Prophecy gling to keep his eyes open, Owain lay down on the bed. Noticing
that there was no rug or chair in the room, he slid over and made room for
Kendall. She nodded appreciation but did not join him.
As the last of consciousness fled and his emo-
tional guard lowered, Owain remembered the brief second of hope beside the
Holy Thorn before he had turned and seen Isabella& .
Ah, hope is cruel.
As he closed his eyes, the day claimed him. As did the visions.
The next evening, even after waking, Owain did not feel that he had stepped
completely from the visions. The places he had seen Wearyall Hill, the tor
overlooking Glastonbury were uncomfort-
ably nearby. If he walked a few hundred yards out of this house, phantasm and
reality would merge.
Kendall was already up, though the rumpled blankets beside Owain told him that
she had rested at least part of the day. He watched her watching him as he sat
up. She was still very pale. He should feed her again soon. But what of his
desire to set her free? Why not begin now the painful process she would
undergo withdrawal from the lack of vampiric vitae, which currently imbued her
with preternatural strength and stamina? Owain ratio-
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190
nalized that he still needed her, but procrastina-
tion, he knew, would only provide excuses for further delay in freeing her.
She nodded good evening to him, and he knew he could not release her yet. His
current surroundings were too strange, too unpredictable. He might need her at
any sec-
ond, and without her he would feel completely devoid of anything or anyone
familiar. So much had changed so quickly.
Soon, he silently promised.
Soon.
Sitting in bed, Owain glanced around the room, at the cool stones and the
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hand-crafted furniture.
How many mortal mornings had he greeted simi-
larly? Except it was night now beyond these walls.
He could tell by the degree of responsiveness re-
turning to his limbs, his mind. The time of day was another detail that
Isabella could not control, just as she could not exactly reproduce the room
of
Owain s youth.
Now to find out what she is all about, he told himself.
He rose from the bed and washed his face with the water in the basin. Kendall,
seated on the bot-
tom step just outside the doorway, was situated so that she had been able to
watch Owain resting and see the door at the top of the steps at the same time.
How much sleep did you get? he asked.
She seemed caught off guard by the question but hesitated only briefly.
Couple of hours.
You sleep now, then. This definitely surprised
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Dark Prophecy
Kendall. By way of explanation he added, You may be up all day tomorrow.
But that s what I do, her slightly puzzled expres-
sion seemed to say. Are you sure? she asked at last.
Owain nodded. You ll know if I need you, he said, as he hooked his sword
onto his belt, then stepped past her and began up the stairs.
She s con-
ditioned to go days and nights on end with little or no sleep, he reminded
himself with a certain amount of irritation. But he recognized his own motiva-
tions. If he couldn t bring himself to release her yet, perhaps he could
shield her from harm.
He slid free the bolt and opened the door to find
Isabella seated at her kitchen table. Her hands were wrapped around the cup of
tea she sipped while she waited. Good evening, Owain.
He could not restrain a smile at her audacity. We have much to discuss.
I agree. Her eyes sparkled, but every once in a while her gaze carried a
hard edge as well. Do you require sustenance?
Sustenance& he repeated. Such a sterile word, don t you think? He stepped
closer to her.
Do I require sustenance
? Must I feed? Do I thirst for mortal blood? Do I desire a human sacrifice?
He placed both hands on the table, leaned forward very close to her until the
steam from her cup drifted only inches from his face. Let s not mince words.
Is that what you ask?
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192
Isabella s expression changed not at all. Nor did she flinch or draw back from
him. Very slowly, de-
liberately, she nodded once. Yes.
Owain stood upright again. At present, I do not. He could, of course, use
more blood not for many years had he exerted himself, or been injured, to the
extent that he had recently but he did not require it, and he did not choose
to reveal details of his feeding habits to this enigmatic woman.
Again, she nodded. Then let us go upstairs. We can sit in more comfort and,
as you said, we have much to discuss.
She rose, and Owain followed to the front of the house and up the stairs. Do
you live here alone?
he asked as they climbed the steps.
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I do.
No servants? No husband? No lover?
She paused at the top of the stairs and turned back to him. Boorishness does
not suit you, Owain.
Whereas forgery and fraud are so much more attractive? he replied at once.
Isabella continued without comment into one of the three rooms off the
upstairs hall. The room was simple and functional unadorned brick on the
exterior wall, white plaster lined with wooden shelves on the others. The
shelves were filled with various items: small clay urns; glass vases holding
dried flowers; decorative containers of different
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Dark Prophecy sizes and types. The items, though numerous, were not crammed
onto the shelves. Rather, each piece was situated as if in a precise spot.
Owain felt that he could be viewing a museum exhibit, or gazing upon the
worldly effects, the personal trinkets, of a dowager in her declining years.
Isabella sat in one of two plain, wooden chairs at a table near the left wall
and indicated that
Owain should take the other seat directly across from her. On the table
between them was an in-
teresting array of objects: a tall candle in a dark, wooden holder; a box of
wooden matches; at the center of the table, a shallow bowl that appeared to be
made of gold; and an earthenware pitcher.
Owain waited while Isabella struck a match and lit the candle, which sputtered
to life. Sickly sweet smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling.
Owain ap Ieuan, said Isabella, you have many questions for me, and I for
you. You do not know me, and you have no reason to trust me. You may even have
reason to distrust me, she added, cut-
ting off Owain, who had opened his mouth to say just that. But let me tell
you this: what I will re-
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