He had to have been using some subtle mental influence, she thought, for there were no other means of accounting it. Even Maria was looking away, temporarily engaged in some kind of intense pointless discourse with Mrs. Norris.

“Miss Price,” said Lord Eastwind, watching her from a partially turned profile, made into an exquisite reversed cameo by candlelight, dark on light. “You alone have a true glimpse into my being, and thus you must know why I am here.”

“Frankly, Lord Eastwind,” replied Fanny, gathering herself for the unexpected, while keeping her tone and expression steady, “I am very tired, and very unsure of your intent. The last time you appeared, unexpectedly, it was a noble and worthy rescue. I dare say, you saved us—and yet, how am I to know it had been real, and not a contrivance to appear chivalrous in my eyes?”

He gently said, “Indeed, it is something you may never know. You only have my word that it is so. That I have relinquished all control over my ancient servants. That my sole purpose of existence is to be with you, by human means.”

He paused, turning his face away from her in a complete profile, staring off into the distance, as though for once unable to face her, and gathering himself for something. And Fanny watched him, not daring to breathe.

“You have rejected me once,” he finally said softly. “I have no will ever again to trouble you, and I will never lose composure again as I had that day, in that moment at your ball—in this you may rest easily, for I keep my promise. But my feelings for you are the same. Indeed, they are eternal. For you, I have come here—one last time—to implore. My dear—my beloved. . . . There, indeed—I do not look upon you as I speak now, so that you may not think I use the power of my gaze to influence, for such occasionally happens even beyond my control.”

“East Wind . . .” whispered Fanny in reply. “Oh, what infinite sorrow! And yet—you must know my answer is the same. I am sorry—I grieve with all my spirit, for in one deepest part of my soul I will always love you. But in this life, we are no longer bound. You—do not belong here. You must cross into the mists and follow the boat of Osiris, for it lies waiting for you at the shore of the great river—”

She stopped speaking because he was crying. No facial muscle moved (he was a living mask of fired clay, smoothed on the surface yet brittle with time underneath). Yet tears of glass came slowly crawling down his dark cheeks, out of the corner of his eye—where she could see a shadow of ancient Egyptian kohl, drawn thick and wide and lovely. She looked and saw in his weeping eye, the Eye of Horus. And then she understood. . . .