She sat up beside him. "I can't believe I forgot about it. You believe Sarimund has removed the veil from them as well as freed the pages from the shorter book?"
"We will shortly see, won't we?" He fetched the book from the top drawer in his dresser.
She sat in the large comfortable chair in front of the fireplace, and Nicholas stood beside her, his hands outstretched to the sluggish flame.
Her fingers trembled as she thumbed to the end of the book. She looked down at the writing, then up at Nicholas.
He said, "You can read it now. It would make no sense if you still couldn't."
She looked down again, cleared her throat, and read:
This is the end, I can offer no more help since I promised not to meddle.
You are a gift, Isabella, never doubt that, you are brave and true, your honor bone deep. Many times, I have found, a gift is a debt to another.
I have but to warn you not to trust anyone or anything, be it a god or a goddess, a wizard or a witch. Do not accept what you see for it may not be real at all. Those in the Pale fashion lavish illusions and violent phantasms to drive the unwary mad. Be disbelieving. Be cautious.
But know that evil cannot touch you. Good-bye, my sweet girl. You must sing, never forget to sing.
Sarimund
Rosalind stared down at the last page for a good long time before she raised her face to her husband's. "My name is Is-abella."
He looked at her thoughtfully, stroking his long fingers over his chin. "It is a beautiful name. I wonder how Sarimund knew your name was Isabella some three hundred years before you were born."
"If that is indeed my name in the present day. Why didn't he tell me my last name as well?"
"Since we are speaking of magic, then we are naturally speaking of obfuscation. I now believe that to make a proper magical pronouncement, you must be infuriatingly murky; you must litter ambiguous metaphors over the landscape; and you must spice your pronouncements with otherworldly words that don't fit into any comprehensible framework. You must unveil only half clues, a lame bit of garbled nonsense here and bit of misdirection there. And withal, we simply must accept it.
"And as for Captain Jared's dreadful rhymes—if his ghost would show himself but once, I would wring his bloody neck. Hmm, I wonder if my hands would go right through his neck. I wonder if there are more rules—vital rules—that Sarimund is still hiding from us."
Rosalind cocked her head to one side. "Being a wizard, you would know, now wouldn't you?"
"If I am a wizard, then you, madam, are a witch." And he began pacing the bedchamber, his cloak billowing about his ankles. He said, "I am a simple man. I am, I really am. And I like the name Isabella."
"That must mean I am Italian. Oh, curse Sarimund, why didn't the moron write down my full name? Ah, yes, that would mean breaking a magic rule. You know, Nicholas, I'm thinking one must study obscure texts to think magically."
"Leave me out of it. All I want to do is to stride over my acres, watch my lands flourish, give Clyde free rein to jump over that fence at the back of my northern border, watch the barley and rye grow tail, and make love to my wife until I am unable to move. Ah, if we are blessed, to fill the Wyverly Chase nursery." He heaved a sigh. "Don't look alarmed and tense upon me. I have no intention of attacking your fair person." He brushed his fingers through his hair, making it stand straight up. "Well, I most certainly will think about how you feel when I'm deep inside you, but not now. Now I want this over with. Behold, madam, a patient man. Come lie with me."
And so they lay next to each other, again holding hands, a blanket pulled over their cloaks and their booted feet. Their talk dwindled. Rosalind was on the edge of sleep when she heard Nicholas say, his voice low and deep, "If we do not survive this, Rosalind , know that I love you. Like the Dragon of the Sallas Pond, you are my mate for life. I pray we will survive this journey, that we will enjoy a nice long
life."
"I love you too, Nicholas. It would seem I've loved you all my life—no matter which life. It is amazing how you make me feel, how you make me want to skip and jump and sing and perhaps play a rousing waltz on the pianoforte."
He basked. This incredible woman he'd dreamed of for so many years actually loved him, despite—despite what? He wondered, and frowned. But he didn't ask because suddenly, all words, all thoughts faded from his brain and he fell asleep instead.
Suddenly both of them jerked straight up in bed.
"What the devil?"
"I don't know," Rosalind said, and clutched his hand.
They watched as the smoldering ashes in the fireplace suddenly ignited, as if fanned by an invisible hand. The flames roared upward, making a loud whooshing sound, as if all the air in the room were being sucked into it. The flames whipped up and out, and the sound of a high wind filled the room.
Nicholas cursed and grabbed her against him. He yelled, "Don't let go of me, whatever you do, don't let go of me. Do you hear me?"
She nodded, unable to speak, only stare at the roaring flames. The sucking sound became even louder. The flames turned bright blue, then the blue deepened into a rich royal blue. They watched the big chair whip round and round until it disappeared into the whirling vortex. The gigantic flame seemed to swallow the chair. But how could that be? They'd watched the vortex actually suck the chair into the fireplace, but it was too large to fit, surely it was. Yet it didn't matter, the chair was gone. The blue flames roared, leapt upward as if trying to reach the sky, and the sound of it was like the cackle of a hundred mad witches.