and eyed me thoughtfully.
The fire in the hearth whispered. Outside, beyond the shrouded window, the only sound was the occasional snap and fall of a branch overburdened with ice.
“I do not like it, Christopher,” he said, “But I must force your memory. Were we at my home in Sybria I could spare you the time, but Brittany is no longer safe.”
“There is danger?”
“There is always some danger, but now doubled,” he said impatiently. I realized that when such a mood was upon him, one did not safely question Geoffrey. After a moment he continued. “You must be made to remember. If you can. I must learn your limits and your abilities, and determine if you are a peril to us.” I did not need to be told my fate should Geoffrey perceive my existence as a threat. “You have always been a passionate, impetuous man, volatile, reckless, and self-destructive. If that part of your nature has survived and increased without tempering, you will be a continuing danger to us.” Geoffrey stood and began to pace again.
Within minutes Nicolas returned and drew another chair up to the fire on my other side, as Geoffrey took his former place. We were silent for a time, until I could bear it no longer.
“What has happened to me? I do not—” Geoffrey cut me off with an abrupt gesture.
“It would be better, perhaps, to let you remember at your own pace, but that I cannot do—” he broke off and it took every ounce of control I could muster not to reveal my impatience. He shrugged slightly and continued. “I must tell you that forcing your memory may drive you into madness, and such a madness as would compel me to destroy you to protect others; doubt not that I would do so,” he reiterated. Somehow I did not doubt it in the least. “Look at the portrait,” Geoffrey stood and lit the candles on the mantel, throwing a golden light onto the painting over it. I stood to view it and gasped.
That was the woman from my memory; the wide-set smoky dark eyes, the finely modeled face with its dark sweeping brows, long straight nose, and slightly disdainful mouth over a chin a bit too prominent for classical beauty, all setoff by the abundant glossy waves of russet-black hair. But the painting couldn’t capture the sophisticated carnality, the passion that had permeated my vision.
“We were staying at the Mayor’s house in London; there you saw her first,” Nicolas spoke softly.
I realized that I was sitting again—my knees had given out. I took up the narrative in a voice suddenly hoarse and toneless. “The night before the Lord Mayor’s Twelfth Night Masque.” The surging memories of my final months of life almost overwhelmed me in their sudden clarity, faster and faster, flooding my mind, drowning my will, until Frizer’s dagger plunged at my face and a scream tore at my throat, though no sound came forth. I felt myself falling, but couldn’t raise a hand, crippled with shock and terror. I welcomed the darkness that rose up to swallow me.
Chapter 3
I awoke in darkness, bound once more and this time gagged as well. As my consciousness returned so did memory, and memory was intolerable. My muscles knotted and I bucked against my bonds in convulsion, but my awareness did not forsake me. When the attack passed I remained conscious, though sweat-soaked and exhausted. Twice more the agony racked me, each time growing a little less savage. As I came out of the third seizure I realized the room was candlelit and I was no longer alone. Nicolas sat on the foot of the bed watching me compassionately. Restrained as I was, I could only look at him. After a few minutes had passed with no further paroxysms Nicolas stood and removed the gag. “Why?” I asked, in a voice cracked with fatigue.
“It was necessary, Kit, but you went into such violent convulsions that it was all Geoffrey could do to keep you out of the fireplace. He held you immobile for hours, until the convulsions eased enough for us to get you back upstairs. It happens that way sometimes.”
“Will you untie me?”
“No,” said Geoffrey from the doorway. “Not for a time yet. We have much to discuss, and you, I doubt not, have many questions.”
“I was . . . Frizer wouldn’t have stopped at half blinding me. He meant my death: I read it in his face.”
“Frizer murdered you while Skeres held you down