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bastard. No one ignored him, especially in his father’s home.
    He reached out to grab the underbutler’s shirt, but his hand cut cleanly through the man. He stared for a moment before his hand dropped like a cleaver to the block. What devilry was this?
    He reached for the next person who passed him, a pretty little debutante with upswept hair and a virginal white gown, and that too was like grasping a dream, fair and fleeting, his hand passing right through like a waterfall that kept flowing. He backed away. He was in a madhouse. Or a dream. He concentrated on waking up, but the scene continued to unfold. He drew back into the alcove, his feet taking him back as far as he could go.
    Something passed over his body, and the next thing he knew, he was staring at a dark paneled wall.
    He crouched and rotated, searching for threats. The interior of the mahogany and gold-encrusted study came into focus. A memory of his grandfather filling ledgers with numbers and ordering men to his bidding flickered through his head, then fled down the waterfall.
    Two men strode through the door. “I don’t need this now, Reston. You promised it would be done. And we can’t meet here.” Gregory Penshard threw something on the desk. Valerian’s father would have his head for the treatment.
    “And so it is. The doctor wishes to conduct more experiments. You don’t escape from the doctor.” The other man, unfamiliar to Valerian with his dirty blond hair and muddy brown eyes, spread his hands.
    “Yes, but closure is more important.”
    “And closure you will have.” The unfamiliar man suddenly went from conciliatory to threatening. “We provide a service. You pay the fee. Do you want to take it up with the doctor? Make a visit yourself? Provide a target for wagging tongues to ask questions?”
    Penshard’s lips tightened and Valerian could see his distant cousin’s hands turn white. “No. Just see that it’s done.”
    A crooked-toothed smile ringed the blonde’s mouth and he looked affable once again. “Excellent. I will take this nice draft and be on my way.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Your lordship .”
    Penshard’s tightly clenched lips fully disappeared from view. As soon as the other man exited, he swiped a hand along the desk, scattering the papers.
    His father would have his distant nephew’s ballocks in a vice for that. And for presuming a title when he had none.
    Valerian had never liked Penshard. That he had somehow wormed his way into Abigail Smart’s good graces just made him more irritating.
    “Fool,” Valerian said scathingly. “What the devil do you think—”
    But Penshard strode from the room as if Valerian weren’t there. The shock at being ignored once again turned into something much closer to unease.
    How had he entered the room without using the door anyway? He turned and stared at the wall behind him. It connected to the ballroom, from where he’d just come.
    He put a tentative hand against the wall and felt it give way. He stumbled through to the other side.
    For everything that was holy and wise…he stared into the crowded ballroom as a man passed right through him.
    “I say, Norton, damn breezy in here,” the man said to his companion as they maneuvered the edge of the crowd.
    Valerian stared at his fingers, then at the rest of his body. A sharp look verified that everyone else seemed quite capable of touching each other—couples embraced on the dance floor, a flirtatious tap with a fan, a warm shake of a hand.
    He…he was the odd one. He wasn’t…real.
    The orchestra played a cacophony of notes and jarring chords, the high-pitched cackles of the matrons, silly giggles and whimpers of the girls, the crowing of the men—Valerian lifted his hands to his ears, only slightly reassured that he could touch himself.
    What had happened to him? He tried vainly to remember, but events and memories started to slip and whirl faster, flowing into a miasmic whirlpool, sucking him in, drowning