As Alec passed the door of the haunted chamber they’d shared the night before, curiosity got the best of him. Steeling himself for whatever lurked beyond the door, he went in and stood for a moment in the middle of the room. The side window was securely fastened, however, and the cool air smelled of nothing more sinister than the ash in the fireplace. His flickering candle set shadows jumping in the corners, but their sad visitor was nowhere to be seen.

Shaking his head, Alec went downstairs to the library. There were four dusty volumes on the shelves, and two of them were ancient and written in what looked like some form of Konic, a language he had little grasp of. They were fragile, as well; bits of parchment flaked off as he opened one and turned a yellowed page. Leaving these for Seregil, he examined the other two. One was a thick ledger book filled with many years’ worth of farm records, mostly to do with horse sales. The last and most promising was bound in fine red leather stamped with silver patterns around the edges, but with no title on the spine. It proved to be a journal kept by the last Skalan master of Mirror Moon. Or mistress, rather; on the first page he found NETHELI Ä SERA MALIA KALA OF MIRROR MOON inscribed in slanting, spidery script; both the names and the language were Skalan. The Skalan nobility had adopted the Aurënfaie style of naming since the time of Idrilain the First, who’d taken one of Seregil’s forebears as Consort. Phoria had changed the fashion by decree before her death, but there was talk of going back to it now.

Netheli had been an avid journal keeper. Lengthy passages were written in the same slanted hand, and illustrated here and there with fine ink drawings, mostly of shells, birds, sea creatures, and other natural objects. Turning to the back, he saw that the last entry was dated nearly two hundred years ago. That seemed promising. Tucking the volume under his arm, he went back to his bedchamber.

Seregil was as he’d left him, his breathing soft, his brow cool and dry.

“What goes on in that head of yours?” Alec murmured, brushing a stray strand of soft brown hair away from his lover’s cheek. Seregil sighed and turned his face to Alec’s touch, but didn’t wake.

Settling in the armchair with his book, Alec pulled the candle stand closer and flipped the pages. At first he paid more attention to the drawings than the hard-to-read text. Netheli ä Sera had painted, as well, and he discovered several delightful miniature scenes. One was recognizable as the view from the front of the house over the pond, and another looked like Deep Harbor as it must have been centuries ago. There were several studies of children’s faces, with blue eyes that seemed to look at him over the years with disconcerting interest. Near the front of the book he found another portrait, this one of a man who was clearly Aurënfaie, with the fine features and high cheekbones of his race. The artist had only hinted at clothing—some sort of black robe, thought Alec—but the face and head were painted in loving detail. His hair was a lighter brown than Seregil’s and braided in the front into long, thin plaits on either side of his face. But he had the same storm-grey eyes; Lady Netheli had captured the color perfectly. The entry associated with it was brief but ecstatic.