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return to the house without her, but Ariane succeeded at last. She needed a few moments alone to gather both her thoughts and her strength.
    Long after Cat had vanished into the kitchen, Ariane lingered. The sun was fully up, bathing the garden in a white glow, the dew glistening on the grass, the larks twittering cheerfully. It promised to be one of those temperate days of early summer.
    Ariane tried to enjoy it, suspecting this might be the last moment of peace she would know for some time. But her throbbing head was already crowded with thoughts of all she needed to do. Prepare Cat for her journey, warn Miri and Simon of what had transpired, and consult with Justice about how to tighten the security of Faire Isle.
    And no matter how much she dreaded it, tell him about the babe as well. Cat was right. Ariane could not keep her secret any longer.
    Even now, she could feel her child quicken inside of her. Not like the fragile flicker of a butterfly but more like the strong beat of an eaglet’s wings.
    Ariane pressed her hand to her womb and tried to smile, but was surprised to find her eyes fill with tears instead. If—if only she did not feel so weak and tired all of the time, much more tired than she should be.
    Almost against her will, Ariane’s face turned skyward. The comet was no longer visible, but it was strange. She felt as though she could sense it hovering there, its fiery tail like a sword suspended over the thread of her life.
    Her babe was indeed strong. It would survive the ordeal of childbirth. The Lady of Faire Isle was not as certain that she would.

Chapter Two
    “A VANT, THEE WITCH,” THE KNIGHT GROWLED, DRAWING HIS sword. “I’ll see thee cast into hell ere I be tempted again by your evil conjuring.”
    The sun glinted off the weapon and his breastplate, bathing Sir Roland in a shining aura. His dark hair swept back from his brow, the rich sable waves offset by the scarlet of his doublet. A beard and mustache softened the blade-like aspect of his chiseled features, but his green eyes were fierce and compelling. He had such a commanding presence few noticed that he was not overly tall, his frame more wiry than strapping. But his shoulders were broad enough, his waist trim, and he had a handsome pair of legs, the brevity of his trunk hose revealing well-honed calves and a hint of muscular thigh.
    More than half of the women in the audience were in love with him, the men awed to silence. Even the ground-lings in the pit, a raucous and noisy lot, were held spellbound as Hecuba hissed and cajoled the bold Sir Roland.
    Martin le Loup repulsed the hag with an angry gesture, roaring out his defiance in a series of spirited couplets. He strode downstage, reveling in his power to carry the audience with him far beyond the confines of the theater. The crowded galleries and cramped pit with its stench of sweat, pipe smoke, and stale ale transformed into a midnight heath, the rushes that crackled beneath his boots turning to windswept grass.
    “Love’s fool I have been, but no more,” Martin intoned. “Traveling through realms of despair, my hopes wrecked upon a distant shore. Bartering my soul for one dark spell to win my beloved, never counting the cost. All to no avail, no magic strong enough to bind a heart that is lost.”
    His throat thickened, his voice vibrating with an emotion that Martin did not have to feign. All he needed to do was think of Miri Cheney, his lovely Lady of the Moon.
    No, not his, never his, Martin reminded himself with a dull ache. She was Madame Miri Aristide now.
    “Then here upon this cursed heath, let all dreams die,” he cried hoarsely.
    Somewhere in the audience, a woman let out a shattering sob and more than a few sniffled as Martin continued.
    “Sink all my desires into a deathlike sleep. I’ll traffic no longer in your darkness, witch. Though my heart be lost, my soul I’ll keep.”
    Hecuba sprang from behind her cauldron with a furious snarl. “Nay, Sir Knight.