“Oh, Bram, forgive me, it’s my fault. We are so far from the cemetery, or my home, and in a public place, in daytime … I never imagined Willoughby would be so bold, so reckless as to harm you here. I should have realized…”

“But, from what I recall, you told me the spirits are stronger at nighttime. That they cannot do a great deal alone, other than haunt and scare people, unless…”

“Unless they are being manipulated or assisted by someone in the Land of Day. Which is precisely what must have been taking place. The Sentinel was very close. I could feel him, as soon as he began to work through the Dark Spirit he revealed his presence.”

“He was here? In the crowd?”

“Possibly. Or at least, here in the gardens.”

“And he is here still?” Bram asks, looking about the flower beds and shrubbery, trying to imagine evil lurking unseen somewhere even now.

“He is not spellcasting or communing with a spirit, so he will be easily able to mask his presence.”

“Good Lord, Lilith, he could be anywhere. He could be anyone.”

“He could.”

They fall silent for a while, before Bram shakes his head. “I need to walk. I can’t sit still.”

“Do you feel quite well?”

“My heart is leaping, but don’t worry. I’m perfectly well.”

“Your poor hand,” she says, kissing his bandaged fingers gently.

“My left, fortunately, not my painting hand. It will heal soon enough.”

Lilith moves forward and slips her arms around his waist, leaning against his warm, strong chest, putting her ear against his heart so that she might listen to its uneven rhythm. It is a gesture of such affection, such intimacy, here in the open, in this public place, that Bram feels tears sting his eyes. He blinks them away and turns to enfold her in his arms.

“Perhaps we should run away to a wild place,” he says, contriving a smile. “Somewhere far away where no one knows us. Where we can just be Bram and Lilith, the disheveled painter and his beautiful muse.”

“That would be wonderful,” she agrees, but in the way a person does when they are entering into a fantasy, a dream, rather than putting a plan into action.

Bram steals a chaste kiss, meaning only to be tender, but she takes his face in her hands and holds him, returning his kiss with a passion that shocks him.

“Come away with me,” she says.

“You have a tropical island in mind?”

“No, but I could take you to Radnor Hall.”

“What?”

“To our estate in Radnorshire. I’m serious, my darling. Why not? There is nothing wrong with organizing a weekend party.”