Lady Elfrida Rochelle, the eldest granddaughter of the Duke of Albermarle, slipped quietly away from the family gathered in the withdrawing room. Lost in thought, she wended her way through the castle’s maze of twisting corridors and winding stairs to her private quarters. These were called the Crystal Suite because her great grandmother, Lucasta Albermarle, a noted scryer of her day, had been used to practice her art of divination in the tower room overlooking the plunging river gorge and, beyond the Devon shoreline, the blue stretch of the English Channel. It was widely circulated that the former duchess had foreseen numerous momentous events, such as the emergence of the first cuckoo clocks in the Black Forest, the staging of the very first official cricket match, which, as it happened, had pitted Kent against All England, and the adoption of the quadrille as the dance of fashion in France, not to mention lesser occurrences on the order of the attempted theft of the Albermarle betrothal ring by Genevieve Hayden, the beautiful red—haired adventuress, who was fated to become Lucasta’s daughter—in—law and the very next Duchess of Albermarle.
     A faint smile touched Elfrida’s lips at thought of her great grandmama Lucasta, with whom she had not the smallest doubt she would have had a great deal in common, and her grandmama Genevieve, who long ago had captured her imagination. How she would like to have known the woman who had tamed Edmond Rochelle, the Duke of Albermarle, her grandfather, who at seventy—four not only exuded an unnerving aura of command, but was at present contemplating——of all things——matrimony with a voluptuously endowed widow less than half his age!
     The old rogue, she thought with a fond, if rather sardonic, glint in her eyes. There would be talk that Albermarle had at last entered his dotage or at the very least was clearly round the bend. But then, the duke’s sun sign was Aquarius with the moon in Leo. How very like Albermarle to do precisely what no one would have expected him to do, something wholly outrageous and sure to set everyone off balance! And with predictable complications, she mused, a furrow marring the purity of her lovely brow. He would have to arrive at Albermarle Castle unannounced with Estelle, Lady Barstowe, in his entourage——now, when Gideon, the Marquis of Vere, Elfrida’s brother and the duke’s heir apparent, had found it prudent to rusticate in the country until a certain irate husband had been given time to recover from a pistol ball to the arm.
     Fortunately, perhaps, Vere was off to Honiton for a day or two ostensibly to view a prize fight, though with Vere one could never be quite sure with what he might be involving himself. But at least he had not been present for the duke’s unheralded arrival. Elfrida could only shudder at Albermarle's probable reaction to the discovery that Vere had been involved in yet another duel! Worse, however, was the dire prospect of placing a delectable morsel like Lady Barstowe within Vere’s lethal sphere of influence! The inevitable ramifications of such an ill—advised course were tantamount to inviting disaster upon the house of Albermarle and most certainly upon Vere himself, who, without a fortune of his own, depended for his daily existence upon the largesse of his grandfather, the duke! Not that that inescapable fact would make a whit of difference to Vere once he arrived home to discover a beautiful widow had taken up residence in the family pile. Elfrida knew her brother too well to suppose he would be moved to abstinence by the desirability of, if not actually currying his grandfather’s favor, then at least avoiding incurring his grace’s out and out displeasure. Nor would Vere be deterred by something so insignificant as the circumstance that Lady Barstowe had apparently done the seeming impossible——she had, to all appearances, captured the elusive heart of the Duke of Albermarle, a man who had, for the past twenty—five years, worn the willow for Genevieve, his beloved duchess.
     A plague on her brother and the duke! thought Elfrida, who did not require a reading of the Tarot cards to predict the disastrous possibilities inherent in the immediate future of the inhabitants of Albermarle Castle. Even at two and twenty, Elfrida’s brother, Gideon, the Marquis of Vere, was a veritable devil with the women. And how not? reflected Elfrida. Vere, after all, was a Scorpio, the most powerful sign of the Zodiac. In Gideon, the Scorpio’s inherent grasp of all that pertained to both the primitive and the sublime passions between male and female along with that penetrating insight into the emotional depths of others that was characteristic of Scorpios had been intensified to a frightening degree. Indeed, Vere’s cold, hooded stare was enough to curdle one’s blood, the devil! Nor was that all. Possessed, furthermore, of the Rochelle legacy of raven—black hair and eyes the mesmeric blue of lapis lazuli, which in turn was coupled in Gideon with a Scorpio’s brooding aura of secrecy and a fatal charm, Vere was a deadly and irresistible force where females were concerned. Even fearing him, they simply could not help being fascinated by him. It was like asking a moth to resist the flame——or, worse, the scorpion to resist delivering the fatal sting. No doubt her grandfather had failed utterly to take that potent factor into account when he had determined upon bringing Lady Barstowe to Albermarle in order to make her feel a part of the "Family"——or had he?

    One could never be quite certain what was going through the duke’s head at any given moment. In his own decidedly unique manner of reasoning, it might very well have seemed a perfectly logical move to unloose the harbinger of chaos among the inhabitants of Albermarle Castle merely to observe the interesting results——rather like conducting an abstract study in the sudden, violent disintegration of a family. It was something Albermarle was perfectly capable of doing, and only Albermarle would overlook the pertinent fact that it was his own family he was intent on wrecking out of a purely academic curiosity. Or perhaps in his typical, absent—minded fashion he had momentarily forgotten that those beings whom he was manipulating for his own ends were his own kith and kin,--indeed, that they were, when he was jolted out of his airy contemplations, people for whom he entertained a deep and enduring affection. To some, this manifestation of the duke’s character must seem unconscionably cold, even inhuman perhaps, but to those who knew him intimately, as did Elfrida and the other members of the family, it was simply one of Albermarle’s numerous quirks. No matter how dispassionately his grace might appear to use his immediate blood relations, the duke always made everything right in the end.

    And, besides, Elfrida reminded herself, it was just as possible that Albermarle, having fallen victim to the beautiful young widow’s undeniable charms, had his head too high in the clouds to reckon on what to Elfrida was all too obvious. He might even have momentarily misplaced the memory that his heir apparent was a notorious womanizer who already had three duels to his dubious credit or that, loving the duke as Vere did (though Gideon would rather die than admit to such an affection), her brother would be compelled to exert his considerable Scorpio powers to test the widow’s worthiness to assume the title of the Duchess of Albermarle.
     Elfrida did not doubt that Vere could and would seduce the widow if he chose to carry the thing out to its logical conclusion. To Elfrida’s knowledge the marquis had never failed in an amorous undertaking. However, if he did take the widow to his bed, it would be because Lady Barstowe had already proven unsuited for the honor that Albermarle had intended to bestow upon her, Elfrida was certain of that.
     It was not, after all, the lady’s virtue that was in question. What she and her ducal cicesbeo might choose to do behind closed doors was a purely private affair between herself and the duke and none of Elfrida’5 concern or her brother’s. Should the lady choose to take on a younger, more vigorous lover after the marriage vows were spoken, it might even be overlooked, so long as the affair was conducted with discretion (and, of course, it did not involve a member of the duke’s immediate family). Those would be matters for the duke to decide and would hardly concern Vere.
     Nor would Vere be interested in the lady’s motives in marrying the duke. They, after all, were utterly transparent and therefore perfectly obvious to everyone. A woman born to nobility, especially one with little or no fortune of her own, must be expected to seek to remedy that deficiency in an advantageous marriage; and everyone knew the profligate Earl of Barstowe had left his widow with hardly a feather to fly with. The question, therefore, was not whether Estelle, Lady Barstowe, was attracted to Albermarle for his title and his fortune, for she undoubtedly was, but whether she possessed those qualities that would make her a worthy wife, one who would strive not only to meet the responsibilities inherent in the elevated position of the Duchess of Albermarle, but one who would satisfy at least the fundamental obligations owed to her husband, the duke.
     What Vere would be looking for was some sort of assurance that the lady was not a scheming female with a heart of jade who would not hesitate, once she had achieved her ends, to treat the duke with a sudden, chilly indifference or even disdain. That sort of injury to the duke’s pride was naturally not to be tolerated, and Vere was just the one to see through a charming facade to whatever lay behind it. Indeed, Elfrida doubted there was anyone who could pull the wool over Gideon’s eyes (save, of course, for their younger sister Violet, who was as utterly elusive of understanding as would be anyone born under the sign of Pisces, which, as everyone knew, was personified by two fish swimming in opposite directions). And there was the rub.
     Elfrida, herself, after all, entertained no little doubt in the sincerity of the widow, who, a bubbling Gemini, seemed to present all the depth of character of a sparkling glass of champagne. Appearances, however, could be deceiving. She had obviously tickled Albermarle’s fancy, not to mention his nose and probably various other parts of his indisputably aged, but still—handsome anatomy; and, quick—witted and at least superficially well—read, Lady Barstowe was perfectly capable of retaining the duke’s interest, of even proving to be a source of happiness for him in his declining years, if she did not suddenly take the urge to launch a career on stage as a diva or to embark on a tour of Asia Minor purely for a change of scenery. Albermarle was prone to unpredictable starts, which might lead him to do any number of incomprehensible things, like taking up kite flying from the castle parapets in the dead of winter, as he had done the previous January, or appearing at breakfast one morning wearing a helmet with a sharp—pointed visor in the style of the pig—faced bascinet worn by the First Duke of Albermarle, his Fourteenth Century forebear——or taking it into his head at the ripe age of seventy—four to wed a woman less than half his age——but he was exceedingly unlikely to see anything in the least enticing about making any extended stays away from Devon in order that his duchess might pursue a career in the opera, and, as for sailing away from England to tour the Orient, why, he would sooner parade down St. James’s Street in his natural state as do any such thing. In fact, Elfrida would be less surprised if her grandfather did the latter than if he chose to embark on a voyage to distant parts. Save for the obligatory Grand Tour, Albermarle was and always had been firmly rooted on English soil and saw not the slightest reason why anyone should be enamored of the notion of jaunting willy—nilly about the rest of the world. Unfortunately, Lady Barstowe did not promise to be similarly disposed. As a Gemini, she must almost inevitably grow bored with twiddling her thumbs about the family pile while Albermarle occupied himself with his various unfathomable pursuits, like undertaking to compile a census of all the red heads born in Devon in the past forty years, a project upon which, having engaged the services of a dozen or more chroniclers, he was presently launched.
     No, decided Elfrida, letting herself into the airy environs of the Crystal Room. The odds were greatly stacked against the success of such a marriage. Perhaps if Albermarle were twenty years younger or Lady Barstowe ten years older, things might have worked out remarkably well between them. They did, after all, enjoy a 5—9 Sun Sign Pattern, which meant that their natal Suns were trined, Elfrida reflected, determined to give the widow her due. Unless there were some serious negative aspects between their other planets, they were, astrologically speaking, practically meant for one another. Unfortunately, Albermarle, having entered his seventy—fourth year and having been born under a fixed sign as well, was entirely too set in his ways ever to change now. And Lady Barstowe, both young and ruled by a mutable sign, was hardly prepared to assume a sedentary existence. Therefore, while the widow might very well be astrologically attracted to the aging duke, the likelihood that the romance would be able to withstand the test of time was nebulous at best.
     But then, perhaps Lady Barstowe had every expectation the marriage would be of an exceedingly short duration; indeed, there was always the distinct possibility she was even counting on that very thing. In which case, she would hardly be motivated to exert herself to extend her husband’s life expectancy. She might even be moved to do all in her power to discourage the duke’s continued good health. Certainly, that would be Vere’s concern, thought Elfrida, her brow puckering in a worried frown.
     To say Vere would not take kindly to anyone who had deliberately set out to misuse his grandfather would be to put the matter exceedingly mildly. Her Scorpio brother could be expected to view such an occurrence as grounds for a punitive action of the sort to make the siege of Troy seem like child’s play, never mind that Albermarle was perfectly capable of determining his own life for himself or that the duke would undoubtedly cut his grandson off without a farthing for Vere’s unwelcome interference.
     No, somehow the inevitable must be averted, although Elfrida, for the life of her, could not think how it was to be done. She was far too fond of Gideon ever to wish to see him in the lurch. It had been bad enough when their parents met an untimely demise two years ago in what had been termed a yachting accident, though no one really believed a sailor of the late marquis’s remove would be driven on to the rocks in a gale. Gideon had believed it less than anyone, but especially so when it was revealed the marquis and marchioness had had on board a fortune in gold salvaged from France, all of which had presumably been lost to the bottom of the sea. Add to that a sizeable gambling marker presented against Vere’s estate by the Earl of Blaidsdale, who had never seen the day when he could beat Vere at Faro or any other game of chance, and Gideon could hardly be blamed for thinking his father had been the victim of a sinister plot to bring the marquis and his progeny to ruin.
     That, however, was all water under the bridge now. There had been no proof then that the marker was either forged or the product of chicanery, and there was no proof now that Blaidsdale had been behind the death of the marquis and marchioness. The reality was that, galling as it might be to Vere, her brother, thanks to Blaidsdale’5 marker and the loss of the Swallow with its treasure, was dependent upon his grandfather to sustain him in the manner of living to which he had ever been accustomed, and it behooved Elfrida to discover a way of preventing the marquis from doing something to jeopardize his standing with the duke.
     Had that been all to occupy her as she roamed aimlessly about the octagonal confines of the tower room, perhaps Elfrida would soon have come up with an answer to her dilemma. The truth was, however, that Albermarle had arrived with further disturbing news, which served as a powerful distraction from what should, in the norm, have been the main issue at hand. Viscount Hepplewaite, who, while deep in his cups, had had the temerity only two months past to steal a kiss from Elfrida beneath the grape arbor at Lady Wrotham’s house party, only three days ago had had a period put to his existence in a manner that was both horrifying and mysterious. He had, as a matter of fact, to all appearances been brutally stabbed with his own sword and then, a lamp having been knocked to the floor in what was theorized to have been a struggle, the body had been burned beyond recognition. Indeed, his lordship had been identified only by the signet ring on his charred right hand and the brass buttons on his coat. By that and the testimony of the members of the household that their master had been closeted alone in the room in which the fire had begun.
     Really, she reflected, things were come to a sad pass when someone could cut the stick of a man like Viscount Hepplewaite in his own home and then come close to burning an entire wing of the house down around his victim. She shivered at the cold—bloodedness of the deed, the news of which had occupied the conversation at tea. It was inconceivable that not a single clue as to the murderer’s identity had been uncovered; indeed, it would appear that no one had the slightest notion who might even have wished ill of Lord Hepplewaite. After all, Hepplewaite, aside from a few minor infractions on the order of the kiss he had stolen from Elfrida and a tendency to overindulge himself in those frivolous pursuits common to his contemporaries, had enjoyed the reputation of a charming ne’er—do—well. A member of the Carlton set and an intimate of the Earl of Shields, who was offering a sizeable reward for information leading to the capture of his friend’s murderer, Hepplewaite was, in fact, generally well—tolerated among the members of Society. Which very probably meant, no doubt, mused Elfrida, that the murder had been the unfortunate by—product of a burglary or some such thing. Certainly, that was the theory going the rounds of London’s best salons and withdrawing rooms; and, if it were a matter of a burglary gone sour, it was exceedingly unlikely the murderer would ever be found, let alone delivered to his just deserts.
     A pity, Elfrida thought with a small shake of her dusky curls. While it was true that she, herself, had never particularly warmed to the viscount, she could not but think he deserved better than to have been foully done in and then laid to rest without at least the satisfaction of having his murderer brought to justice. She would be more than a tad bit surprised if poor Hepplewaite, caught wholly unprepared to be violently severed from this life, were finding it utterly impossible to reconcile himself to the reality of his death. Very likely he was even now occupied with haunting the scene of his unhappy demise until such time as the events of that fatal night were finally brought out. Only, since it was unlikely that they ever would be, he would be condemned to an eternity of unrest, like Thomas Nettleby, her great great great great grandfather’s lord of the bedchamber, who, having been discovered before his master’s bedroom door one night nearly two hundred years ago with the back of his skull caved in, had been haunting the corridors of Albermarle castle ever since.
     At that thought it came to Elfrida to wonder, not for the first time, if the spirits of her own dearest mama and papa, too,were roaming the earth in a state of unrequited wrong. The notion was not a comforting one; indeed, Elfrida was plagued with a bitter sense of failure that she had not been given so much as an inkling beforehand of the events that had led up to her parents’ untimely demise. Nor did it help to remind herself that no one could command the mists of seeing. Knowing that dreams and visions came of their own or not at all did nothing to ease the ache in her heart that she had been able to do nothing to prevent the premature loss of her mother and father.
     She should have foreseen it, Elfrida told herself, catching her lip between her teeth. Failing that, she should at the very least have sensed something was gravely amiss. Instead, her dreams had been uneventful, disturbed by nothing more momentous than the premonition that Gideon had won a considerable sum at Newmarket on a dark horse and had promptly flung it all away on a new team of perfectly matched blacks. Elfrida derived not the least satisfaction that her dream had proven at least partially right.
     Gideon had won a substantial purse, only it had not been on a dark horse at Newmarket, but on a gentlemen’s wager concerning something so absurd as the time it took for a gaggle of geese to waddle across the road. The matched team of blacks, moreover, had shrunk by the time of his arrival home to a single Irish stallion of magnificent proportions, which was rather whimsically, perhaps even prophetically, named Dark Reverie.

    Certainly, the subsequent arrival of the news of the marquis and marchioness’s ill—fated voyage had had all the aspects of a dark reverie, one, moreover, from which there would be no awakening. Perhaps therein had lain the warning, and she, caught up in her latest cause, a campaign for the betterment of the plight of chimney sweeps, had been too busy to see it for what it really was.
     Well, that had been the last campaign, her final lost cause, she reminded herself. Never mind that she had been born under the sign of the Ram and must consequently be fated ever to be drawn to one crusade or another. She would never be so remiss again as to follow the beat of another drum to the detriment of her one, true calling.
     She, Elfrida Frederica Rochelle, was a prognosticator and a scryer, one born, like her great grandmother Lucasta before her, with the true gift of divination.
     There were times when, really, she wished she had not been singled out for what she could not but think was a rather dubious honor. The truth was there was little to recommend in forever being visited with dreams and visions of the future, which must be somehow interpreted and whose meanings in the end very often proved nebulous at best. And, after all, what good did it do anyone that she had glimpses of the future if she could bring no one to believe in them?
     Unfortunately, she believed in them; indeed, she could no more deny them than she could suddenly make herself stop having them. Not even drugging herself to sleep with extract of Valerian root combined with the essence of Passion Flower and Kava Kava root had served to banish them. The dreams came, as did the visions in the shew stone, whether she willed them or not. Or they would not come, no matter how hard she tried to summon them. It was the curse of the seer to be at the mercy of the gift. And, like a potent drug, the lure, most especially, of the shew stone to one with the eye to see was practically irresistible.
     Indeed, as if drawn, she found herself standing over the small round table set in the curve of the window overlooking the river gorge. Already, her hand, as if possessed of a will of its own, was reaching to lift the square of silk off the mound at the table’s center.
     The cloth removed, the crystal orb into which Lucasta Albermarle had once gazed was revealed residing innocuously in its silver cradle. Elfrida, however, had looked before into its depths to behold the swirl of mists whence visions came. She knew what it was to be drawn out of oneself into the miasma of potentialities, to behold the tantalizing images of things that were yet to be.
     Unfortunately, it would seem thus far to have proven of remarkably little benefit to anyone, sighed Elfrida, dropping into the straight—backed chair set before the table. After all, she reflected with a wry quirk of her lovely mouth, what use was it, really, to know beforehand that Sullie Wicks, the scullery maid, was going to stumble over the kitchen feline at the precise moment that Henri, the French chef, was in the process of removing the Fricassee de Poulet from the skillet to the warmed platter if, in trying to warn of the impending disaster, Elfrida inadvertently precipitated it? Involuntarily she shuddered at the remembered horror of events: herself bursting unannounced into the kitchens, her French heel coming down on the tail of the cat quietly lapping cream from its saucer, the blood—chilling yowl from the offended feline, launching itself across the room straight into the ankles of Sullie Wicks, who was carrying a bowl of soapy dish water to be tossed out the kitchen door. The bowl’s flying into the air to land with unerring accuracy upside down on Henri’s bald pate was certainly a never—to—be—forgotten image, as was the devastation of Fricassee de Poulet marinated in eau de vaisele. Dishwater, after all, was hardly to be viewed as an appetizing sauce.
     If nothing else, the unfortunate incident had served to teach Elfrida one important lesson: No one, not even a scryer given to see glimpses of future events, had the power to alter that which was meant to be. It might even be, she reflected wryly, that one would do better not even to try.
     In which case there would seem to be very little point in having been born a prognosticator and a scryer. Indeed, perhaps Violet was right, and she, Elfrida, should occupy herself with other, more constructive pursuits, like accepting Lord Harry Wilcox’s offer of marriage, never mind that she entertained only a sisterly affection for him or that she was quite sure they would make each other’s lives perfectly miserable. Crabs and Rams simply did not go well together, romantically speaking, not with a 4—10 vibratory pattern. While he was a perfectly charming gentleman when he was not scrabbling away in a veritable peeve of hurt sensibilities and though he had the uncanny knack for making her laugh at his many little absurdities, she did not doubt that, as her husband, he would soon douse her fiery spirits with his Cancerian disapproval of her impulsive nature, not to mention his tendency to give way to a stifling jealousy. Still, there could be little doubt that, married to Lord Harry, she would be kept far too busy at butting her head against her husband’s hard Cancerian crab shell to have time for the frivolous pursuit of divination. And what did it matter, really, if she had yet to discover her Twin Soul, the one man who, joined with her in a state of Oneness, would make her complete, even as she would make him physically and mystically whole? Having already reached the ripe age of five and twenty without having discerned the identity of her karmically predetermined astrologically perfect mate, she must soon be forced to settle for a lesser union if she intended to experience the joys of motherhood, not to mention the mysteries of passion. After all, it was not impossible for a Crab and a Ram to achieve romantic fulfillment if one approached the marriage with an understanding of the astrological forces in play and a willingness to compromise to achieve at least a measure of harmony. And at least in motherhood she would be assured of a true purpose in life rather than the self—doubts and seeming futility that her pursuit of divination had thus far brought her. Surely that must be worth the sacrifice of karmic perfection.
     At that thought, her head came up, her eyes the clear blue of the sky on a cloudless spring day flashing in unconscious defiance. Now she was being utterly absurd, she chided herself. Everything that existed in Nature must surely have a purpose. Perhaps foreseen future events could not be altered, but that did not necessarily mean the outcome of such events was not open to manipulation, did it? If one knew there was going to be a fire, one might not be able to prevent the conflagration, but perhaps it would be possible to stop someone from going into the building about to ignite. Indeed, would not one be morally obligated to do all in one’s power to see that everyone was evacuated from the building before it burst into flames? Unless, of course, she groaned silently to herself, in all the confusion of trying to save all the poor unfortunates, one knocked over a lamp and actually started the fire!
     “Fiddlesticks!” she uttered, propping an elbow on the table top and dropping her chin into the palm of her hand. Really, it was all very confusing when one tried to apply reason to something which was, by its very nature, quite beyond the bounds of logic. One found oneself inevitably going round in circles, which was all very disagreeable to an Aries, whose natural inclination, after all, was to ram straight through to the heart of any matter, and logic be bloody well damned.
     Well, the heart of the matter was that she, Elfrida, had been, for whatever reason, given the gift of divination. Not to use it would be to deny her essential being, even as settling for less than her karmically predetermined astrologically perfect mate simply to experience motherhood and the sense of purpose that had hitherto been eluding her would be to bring a negative influence to bear on her karma, and that was not to be thought of. Indeed, despite her spells of doubt, she would be far better served to simply forge ahead in true Aries fashion. No doubt in time she would learn to use her gift as it was meant to be used. She sighed, her eyes drawn to the luminous depths of the crystal. If only she had some indication what that use was!
     Hardly had that thought crossed her mind than it came to her——the one potential good that might be gotten from a reading of the shew stone. If it were marriage and the purpose of rearing a family that were needed to keep her from forever plunging into deep waters, would she not be wholly justified in seeking a vision of her karmically predetermined astrologically perfect mate in the crystal? And, after all, what harm could there possibly be in it? At the very least, there would be nothing to lose and possibly a great deal to be gained in such a venture.
     Deciding that, indeed, there could be no harm in using the powers bequeathed to her by her great grandmama Lucasta to discover the one man she was meant to love, Elfrida gazed fixedly into the translucent depths of the shew—stone. Her will quiescent, her mind focused on the iridescent heart of the crystal, she waited, just as her great grandmother must have done all those years before her. She reminded herself that the crystal’s visions could not be coaxed from the stone. They came of their own, or they came not at all. She was only the scryer with the eyes to see if the powers that be willed it.
     Even so, not everyone could do what she did. True crystal—gazers were born, not made, to see within the crystal transparency to the swirl of mist from which visions formed. She beheld it now, the first soft vaporous clouds, the sublimation of transparency to ether, of will to divination. She waited, her mind empty of everything but the distillation of mist into seeing. As the room receded and faded into shadows, she felt herself drawn into the crystal’s miasma.
     It was movement in stillness, a soundless hurtling without sensation. Clouds rushed past her, parted, vanished, but she felt nothing, heard nothing. She only saw: A night sky studded with brilliant stars above a spreading pall of grey pierced through by church spires, chimney stacks, and the roofs of tall houses; and then the descent through wreaths of fog to a street dimly lit by the shrouded glow of a single street lamp, a house bathed in darkness, a door opening, the eerie shapes of shadows——a man, alone, turning his head to look at her.
     He was tall and well—built, his eyes the grey—blue of winter mist and yet etched at the corners with laugh wrinkles. The high, wide, intelligent brow, the long, straight nose and wide, sensuous lips, the firm chin and stubborn jaw——all gave the impression of a magnificent arrogance. Indeed, everything about him exuded a golden, masculine pride. And yet there was about him, too, the sense that his manly strength was tempered with a not insignificant capacity for gentleness, that his shining confidence overlay a sympathetic heart.
     He was Guy Herrick, the Earl of Shields, and he was, she knew instantly, without a doubt, her Twin Soul——her karmically predetermined astrologically perfect mate. But more than that, there was, hanging over him, an unmistakable pall of danger!