Analisa met with the housekeeper at the appointed time, and for the next two hours she concentrated on learning her letters. Her parents had seen no reason for her to know how to read or write anything except her name. She was a girl, after all, and a poor one at that. And likely to be poor all her life. Knowing how to read and write wouldn't help to put food on the table, or find her a good husband.
For all her stern bearing and sharp tongue, Mrs. Thornfield was infinitely patient with her pupil, and pleased with Analisa's eagerness to learn. They agreed to continue Analisa's lessons each afternoon at two o'clock.
"I shall send to the city for some lesson books, some easy ones to begin with," the housekeeper said briskly. "But now I have other duties to attend to."
"Of course," Analisa said, and then asked, somewhat timidly, "What shall I do?"
"Why, whatever you wish, child," Mrs. Thornfield replied. "Cook serves tea at four. Dinner is at eight. If that schedule is not to your liking, you must let me know, and I shall advise Cook."
"No, no, that's fine," Analisa said, horrified at the thought of disrupting the household.
"Very well." Mrs. Thornfield offered one of her rare smiles. "As I've told you, child, the house is yours for as long as you wish to stay. You may do whatever pleases you while you are here. You need not ask anyone's permission. If you wish to go into town, you have only to let me know, and I will have Farleigh bring the carriage around. Accounts have been opened for you at all the shops. You may buy whatever you wish."
Analisa could only stare, overwhelmed by a stranger's generosity, and by the house itself. Hers, for as long as she wished to stay? Why would anyone ever want to leave? Again, she wondered who Lord Avallone was and what had prompted him to offer her the hospitality of his home. And what he expected in return.
"Will there be anything else?" Mrs. Thornfield asked.
"No, thank you."
"Very well. If you should need anything, you have only to ring and someone will come to attend you."
So saying, the housekeeper left the library. Analisa glanced around the room. Three of the walls were lined from floor to ceiling with bookcases, and every shelf was filled with books. She pulled one off the shelf nearest her and thumbed through the pages, anxious for the day when she would be able to read the words. She replaced the volume and took down another, and then another. Her father had always told her there was power in words. Soon, she would have the ability to read and write more than just her name, something her mother and brothers had never learned.
She walked slowly around the room, her fingertips trailing over the spines of the books. So many books. Old ones. New ones. Here and there she found scrolls that were yellow with age. Had the mysterious Lord Avallone read them all?
She stopped at the window and looked out. She was lucky to be here, lucky to be alive. She lifted a hand to her throat, wondering, as she had so often, what the hooded stranger had given her that had caused such rapid healing, such a miraculous cure, when she had been so close to death. Ah, well, she would probably never know.
She glanced at the bookshelves again, her gaze drawn to a slim volume bound in blood-red leather. Taking it from the shelf, she opened the cover and turned the page, stared at the grotesque black and white image on the paper. The drawing was of a skeletal creature with long, bony fingers, sunken eyes, and fangs. She turned the page, revealing another horror: a body lying in a crude wooden coffin. A man stood beside the coffin. He held a sharp wooden stake over the heart of the corpse. There was a mallet in his raised hand. The next page showed a fanged monster hoveringover the bed of a small child.
She turned the pages, revealing one horrifying image after another, each one more grotesque than the last. She closed the book, wishing she could read the title. Perhaps she would ask Mrs. Thornfield later.
Leaving the library, she went into the parlor. At her request, Sally brought her a pot of tea and a plate of cheese and crackers. Analisa ate slowly, pretending the house was truly hers, that she really was the mistress of this fine manor, and not just some poor orphan allowed to stay on the sufferance of its owner.
Later, she wandered through the house. The servants' quarters were below stairs. The kitchen, pantry, parlor, and library were located on the main floor. The second floor held a number of bedrooms. She stopped counting after eight. All were furnished and immaculate; all had the feel of rooms long unused.
It was growing dark when she paused at the bottom of the stairway leading to the third floor. Dared she go up there? Mrs. Thornfield had assured her she could do as she pleased, go where she pleased, but, with each step she took, she felt a growing sense of unease.
There were no lamps to light the way on this floor. The only illumination came from a single narrow window to her right.
Chewing on the inside of her cheek, she took a few steps down the corridor. She put her hand on the latch of the first door on her left, waited a moment, and then opened the door. It revealed a large empty room. So did the door across the corridor when she opened it. There was only one other room on the floor. It was at the far end of the corridor behind a set of imposing double doors. As she drew closer, she saw that each door had the head of a snarling wolf carved into the wood.
Analisa walked down the corridor, her steps slow, reluctant, yet she was unable to turn back. Her footsteps made no sound, muffled by the thick carpet. Her hand was trembling as she reached for the latch. The door opened into a large dark room. It was Lord Avallone's room - she had no doubt of that. An enormous bed covered with a quilted black spread was located directly across from the doorway. A large chest, the drawers intricately carved, stood to her left; an armoire that took up most of the wall was on her right. There was an enormous fireplace in the corner.
A large painting hung over the bed. She could just make it out in the faint light. It depicted a tall, dark-haired man gazing at his reflection in a quiet blue pool. The man in the painting bore an uncanny resemblance to the stranger she had seen in the hospital. Frowning, she took a step closer. The pool did not reflect the man's image but the image of a large black wolf with deep blue eyes. A whim of the artist, surely, for she had never heard of a wolf with blue eyes. But she had seen one, she thought, remembering the wolf she had seen running alongside the coach the night she arrived at Blackbriar.
A shiver swept down her spine and she turned away, suddenly eager to be out of the room, away from the painting.
She was hurrying down the corridor toward the stairs when she heard a voice call her name. It was a voice she could never forget, low and soft, dark as midnight. The voice of the stranger in the hospital. She paused in mid-flight and whirled around, expecting to see him standing in the hallway behind her. But no one was there. And then she heard it again.
Analisa.
She lifted a hand to her throat, troubled by a sudden image of the stranger bending over her, looking at her with the unblinking eyes of a wolf.
Filled with a sudden unreasoning fear, she flew down the stairs and ran into the parlor. Lamps blazed with light; a fire crackled cheerfully in the hearth. The air was filled with a wondrous aroma.
Breathing heavily, she sank down in a chair before the fire, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She closed her eyes, willing her heart to stop racing, her breathing to return to normal.
A short time later, Mrs. Thornfield appeared to announce that supper was ready.
The next six weeks passed swiftly. Analisa spent an hour each afternoon in the solar with Mrs. Thornfield, going over the lessons she had learned the day before. Mrs. Thornfield seemed pleased with her progress and even complimented her a time or two. Analisa basked in her praise, sparse though it might be.
Analisa's admiration for Mrs. Thornfield grew immensely. The housekeeper was busy from dawn till dark. Under her rule, the household ran smoothly and efficiently. In addition to her household tasks, which included the making of jams, jellies, and candies, she also gathered flowers and herbs that were used for cooking, or for the making of fragrances or potpourri. She made lavender bags for the linen cupboards, and also made herbal drinks and pomades. Since Blackbriar employed no steward, Mrs. Thornfield was also in charge of the marketing, and settling Blackbriar's accounts with the local tradesmen.
The midday meal was served at noon. Analisa took her meal in the breakfast room, finding the huge dining room oppressive and lonely. It still amazed her that she had the freedom of such a grand house, that there were servants to wait on her, to fulfill her every wish, her every need.
She passed the hours until lesson time by doing needlework, or studying a little more. Sometimes she took a nap. Sometimes she wandered the grounds.
There was an ice house and a milk cellar, and on the far side of the barn there was a dovecote. She had heard of them but never seen one, and she spent one morning exploring it. The ground floor was used for storing grain and feed, the upper level was filled with nests. The birds, and there must have been hundreds of them, were let out during the day and flew home at night. She didn't like to think of them being raised for food, but Cook's pigeon pie was simply too good to refuse. Still, after seeing the lovely birds, she did not ask for it often.
She explored the barn, too, taking time to pet the beautiful horses. She always took a handful of carrots or a couple of apples to feed them. She was especially fond of a pretty little gray mare that whinnied a welcome each time Analisa entered the barn. There was a brown and white cow with big brown eyes, a half dozen curly-haired sheep, a pair of goats, dozens of chickens, an arrogant rooster.
At two, she met Mrs. Thornfield in the library to study the day's lessons. She took tea at four, and then went walking in the vast flower gardens if the weather was fair, or, if the day was stormy, she curled up in front of the fire, listening to the rain. She loved books, loved to take a new one from the shelf each day and slowly turn the pages, picking out the words she knew, trying to sound out the ones that were unfamiliar to her.
Evenings were sometimes difficult. Often, while sitting alone in front of the hearth, she thought of her parents and her brothers, wishing they could be there with her. It would have been so wonderfultosee her mother clad in a fine dress, with servants to attend her; to see her father sitting at the head of the table, the lines of worry gone from his brow; to share her lessons with her brothers, see their delight as they learned their numbers and letters.
Her life would have been almost perfect had it not been for the nightmares that continued to plague her.
Every night she woke in a cold sweat, tormented by the sensation of being buried alive, of feeling the earth crushing her, of fighting for breath. She tried to brush it off, attributing it to being a stranger in a strange place, but the dream came more and more often, until she was afraid to close her eyes, afraid to go to sleep.
Mrs. Thornfield was the first to notice that something was wrong. "Are you ill, child?" she asked one morning.
"No," Analisa replied, smothering a yawn. "Why do you ask?"
"You have looked rather peaked these past few days. Are you sure you're quite well?"
"Yes, I'm sure."
"You must tell me if something is amiss," the housekeeper said, frowning. "My Lord Alesandro will be most displeased if he returns and finds that you..." She took a deep breath, as if she was aware of saying more than she should.
"I'm quite well, truly," Analisa said. "It's just that I haven't been sleeping well."
"The bed is not to your liking?"
"Oh, no, it's most comfortable. It's just that..."
"Yes?"
"Well, I've been having the most disturbing dreams."
"I shall bring you a cup of hot milk," Mrs. Thornfield said, obviously relieved that Analisa's wan look was the result of nothing more serious than a lack of sleep.
Later that night, after drinking a cup of hot tea laced with milk and honey, Analisa sat in a chair by the window, gazing out into the night, wondering how long she would be allowed to stay before the master of the house returned. Where would she go then? Though she had been in the manor only a matter of weeks, she was rapidly growing accustomedto having servants wait on her. How easily she had grown used to being waited on, she mused; to having her meals prepared for her, someone to make her bed, draw her bath, dress her hair. She had no responsibilities, no duties, no worries. She had onlytosay she wished for something, and it was hers. But the master's return would quickly put an end to that, and she would be on her own again, with no place to go, and no one to care for her.
She shook off her melancholy mood. She was young. She was healthy and strong again, thanks to the stranger in the hospital, and the good food and care she had received at Mrs. Thornfield's hands. Other young women managed to survive on their own, and so would she...
Analisa.
His voice. She heard it so clearly in her mind that she glanced over her shoulder, expecting to see him there, surprised to find she was alone in the room.
Analisa.
Hardly aware of what she was doing, she stood up, drew on her robe, and left her chamber.
Her slippered feet made hardly a sound as she made her way through the quiet house and out the back door. Compelled by an impulse she could not deny, she moved down the narrow stone-lined path that led through the gardens and around the decorative hedges, past the pretty little lake that shone like a dark mirror in the moonlight, past the maze, until she came to the far end of the property. Tall trees grew here, arranged in a wide circle, and in the center of the circle there was a raised tomb made of white marble.
A bright beam of moonlight shone down on it, illuminating the writing etched into the stone. She leaned forward, sounding out the words.
"Here lies Ale-Alesan-Alesandro de Avallone. Born the seventh day of June in the year of our Lord 1435. Left this world the twenty-second day of Jan-Janu-January, 1469."
Below that were the words "I am not an answer to a prayer - nor a whisper - nor a dare - I am but a thought - across time."
She ran her hand over the cold stone, wondering if the Alesandro who had so generously given her the hospitality of his house had been named for the man buried here.
"Alesandro." She murmured the name aloud, liking the soundof it.
"Analisa."
It had been no voice within her head this time, and she whirled around, her heart leaping into her throat when she saw a man standing in the shadows. A man she had seen before. A man she would never forget.
"You," she murmured.
He moved out of the shadows and into the moon's light. He was as tall and lean as she remembered. Clad all in black as he had been in the hospital, he seemed to be a part of the night itself. A long cloak fell from his broad shoulders. Silver moonlight played over the sharp lines and angles of his face.
He took a step toward her, and she stumbled backward, afraid without knowing why.
His eyes burned with a familiar deep blue flame as he gazed at her.
He held out his hand. "Analisa." His voice was a whisper, a caress, a command.
Unable to help herself, she moved toward him even though every instinct she possessed screamed at her to run away.
And then she was standing in front of him, staring up at him, helpless to move, to resist. And he was bending toward her, his gaze swallowing her up, until she felt as though she were drowning in the heated blueness of his eyes. She felt her limbs grow weak, felt herself falling, falling, into the never-ending depths of his eyes...
She was warm and pliant in his embrace, helpless to resist his call. He had told himself he would never do this again, yet, like her, he was unable to resist. Her life force had called to him every night she had been here, in his house. He had been deep underground, seeking the sleep of his kind, and yet her essence, her nearness, had permeated his soul. Even wrapped in the arms of the earth and trapped in the darkness, he had heard her footsteps as she walked his land, heard the rhythmic beat of her heart. The siren song of her blood had called to him in soft tones of desire and insistent hunger, until it had drawn him from the depths of the earth to her side.
And now he stood poised above her, about to do what he had vowed never to do again. His gaze held hers captive while he listened to the seductive call of her heartbeat. She was his, to do with as he wished. His, for this night, or for every night as long as she lived. His. He had but to take her.
"Analisa." He whispered her name, and it echoed back to him on the wings of the night.
Analisa. Analisa. Analisa.
She stared up at him, mute, helpless, and he knew he could not take her by force, knew that as much as he craved her sweetness, as much as he needed it, he did not want to take her life's blood by force or by trickery. He wanted it as a gift, freely given.
One kiss, he thought; one kiss would do no harm. Her eyelids fluttered down as his mouth sought hers. Her lips were warm and soft and tasted of chamomile and honey. She was so young, so alive; being this close to her was like standing in front of a roaring fire. She radiated life and goodness. It drew him like a living flame, chasing the coldness from his being, banishing the loneliness from his soul. His lips moved over hers, ever so lightly. Desire surged within him as, ever so tentatively, she returned his kiss.
Afraid of hurting her, afraid he could not for long resist the powerful temptation of her nearness, he lifted her into his arms, carried her swiftly into the house, and put her to bed.
"Sleep, my sweet Analisa." He brushed a lock of hair from her brow, let his fingertips slide down the warm, sweet curve of her cheek. "Sleep and dream your girlish dreams," he murmured, "and I will make them come true."
