“Do you not remember?” His eyes, they were so bright-burning with the darkness now, so vivid in their hidden light, and he drew closer, closer. . . .

For a moment Fanny felt her vision swim and she saw glimmering faint images—memories, indeed—of an ancient sunlit place of brightness, of golden sand and rich verdant greenery among the desert, of blossoms lush and great as they cast their perfume on the wind. Standing upon a marble balcony next to him, she knew him, so dear to her—a beautiful young man dressed in linen and gold, with skin deep and dark as dates and warm loving eyes of the color of midnight. She felt his arms around herself in that dream, for they were standing gently entwined as lovers; and she was young and golden-skinned as himself, her hair a fall of night, her slender throat encircled in pearls and cascading glass and lapis, her eyes deep and soft as a doe, and their lips—

“Yes,” whispered Lord Eastwind. “You remember . . .”

Fanny slammed the impossible vision away, forcing herself into the present. Her head was swimming with dizziness momentarily, and all around, candlelight, cards, the soft laughter and sounds of merriment returned.

Casting his dark intense gaze down, Lord Eastwind was the one who suddenly looked away.

Fanny glanced down at her own hands and felt her cheeks, her face, indeed, all of herself, burn.

Mr. Crawford had completely missed the pointed exchange between Fanny and Eastwind while explaining something to Lady Bertram. Finally, taking the opportunity of a little languor in the game, he turned to Edmund. “Bertram,” he said, “I have never told you what happened to me yesterday in my ride home.” And Henry Crawford told him he had seen the small residence, Thornton Lacey.

“It sounds like it,” said Edmund; “but which way did you turn after passing Sewell’s farm?”

Crawford laughed it off, saying he was unsure.

“You inquired, then?”

“No, I never inquire. But I told a man mending a hedge that it was Thornton Lacey, and he agreed to it. At least I think he did, or that he was mending anything—he promptly got up and walked directly into the hedge, bumping at the foliage a few times, and I must say he had a dreadful case of parchment skin, shedding rather like a snake after a bout of at least three thousand years worth of desiccation.”

“You have a good memory.”

“Peeling skin can be indeed quite memorable.”

“No, what I mean is, I had forgotten having ever told you half so much of the place.”

Thornton Lacey was the name of his impending living, as Miss Crawford well knew; and she discreetly listened in on the conversation.

“Well,” continued Edmund, “and how did you like what you saw?”

“Very much indeed. You are a lucky fellow. There will be work for five summers at least before the place is livable.”