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crunch of her jawbone, felt the rush of air as the stone steps seemed to rise up to meet her, felt the first impact.
    Mercifully after that she had felt nothing.
    She had awoken to darkness and a fear that echoed with those prophetic words.
    It would never be over.
    Even now, safely hundreds of miles from him, his dark soul still stalked her. Every visit he came and renewed his vow. He had never yet tried to hurt her like he had in the tower. He was patient. He would wait till she came to him on her knees.
    But it would never be over while they both lived.
    Sometimes she wished that it would all end. Sometimes just the thought of another day in darkness made her retch into the chamberpot, but tonight her stomach felt strangely calm.
    She waited for a dawn that she would never see and tried not to think about the darkness. She found herself not thinking of ends. Instead her mind strayed to the warmth of Robert’s arms around her.
    It was the first night since the age of sixteen she didn’t scream.
     
    “Imogen Colebrook!” Mary exclaimed in horror. “Don’t tell me you slept there all night?”
    “No, I didn’t sleep at all,” Imogen murmured as she slowly straightened her cold, stiffened body.
    “I can tell that by the violet under your eyes.” Mary leaned over, took her face and held it up to the light of her candle, then let out an exasperated sigh. “Not that it makes much difference. You’re still an unearthly beauty, maybe just a might more fragile.”
    Imogen smiled slightly. “Don’t sound so disgruntled. You make a compliment sound like an insult.”
    “Well, I certainly meant no insult. You don’t insult a bride.”
    “Why ever not?” Imogen asked in puzzlement.
    “Because it brings bad luck,” she said authoritatively, and then ruined the effect by adding, “though God knows, most things seem to. To my way of thinking, what we be needing are things that bring good luck.”
    “Maybe if you’re nice to me, you might get a little bit of good luck.”
    Mary raised a brow but helped Imogen to a chair and began getting things ready for Imogen’s bath.
    “Did the priest arrive?” Imogen asked nonchalantly but couldn’t stop herself from stiffening.
    Mary didn’t answer for a second as she scrabbled to find the hairbrush.
    “Oh, yes, almost instantly,” she said finally. “Sir Robert can be a might forceful when he puts his mind to it. He had that lazy beggar Alice cleaning out the place, and setting up an altar table near the main room, and I don’t know what else.”
    Imogen froze for a second.
    “He plans us to be married downstairs?”
    “So it seems.” Mary’s voice was curiously neutral.
    “I can’t go down there, Mary.” Imogen’s voice rose in panic. “I’ve never seen down there. I can’t go down there.”
    She swung in her seat and made a grab for Mary’s hands. “You’ll have to tell him. Tell him. You must. We can be married here. It makes no real difference. Not to him.”
    “I don’t think he’s the sort of man you go telling things to. He’s the sort that seems to do most of the telling himself.”
    “Please,” whispered Imogen.
    Mary sighed, disengaging her hand. “I’ll give it a try once I’ve got you dressed.” She went to the chest at the end of the bed and began foraging for clothes. “But I don’t be liking my chances of achieving the impossible,” she muttered darkly.
     
    “No. I’m not getting married in some damn bedchamber.”
    Robert’s voice sounded calm enough, but Mary could clearly see the fury in his eyes. Still, she tried again.
    “I’ve told you that Lady Imogen never leaves her room, and she doesn’t understand why where you get married makes that much difference.”
    Robert stared into the black embers of the fireplace. He had spent his night sitting there near the hearth in his room, watching the fire slowly die. It had seemed like too important a night to just lose it to sleep. He had waited, and before the dawn had