The cook, a stolid peasant woman, came to the rescue with tools and implements, and in a few minutes the door stood open.
Rafe strode inside. He saw Erzebet at once. She lay on her divan, her eyes closed, her head sunk deep into a silken cushion— its glowing purple a fitting frame for the proud, passionate face. Hastily he limped across the luxurious room, took up one limp hand, his fingers sliding to the wrist. The pulse beat steadily, and through her parted lips the breath came warm and vital.
Rafe drew himself upright, looked round the room with quick alarm. His eye fell on the open book at her side, the sprigs of vervain, ash, and basil that were strewn about her couch. He noted the three carved black-ivory bowls standing on the floor at her feet... where strange horrible little obje
