So Christine had decided to pass me off as a dream. All right, then. A dream usually implied something pleasant, or at least not a nightmare, and therefore the accusation might as well as be taken as a compliment; besides, I had been called far worse in my short career as an angel in the presence of the spiritually confused deciding that any creature appearing beyond the time of the Old Testament must be a demon. This had only happened once, fortunately, and it had only been on my part a short mission to warn of a drowning child. The truth was that I could count on a few fingers the number of persons to whom I had revealed myself as an angel. It just wasn't a very common thing to do, or otherwise every solitary soul on the street would be claiming visions of heavenly visitors and fairies. I stood moment in the large, empty room—it was as gaping as a cavern and just as chilly—wondering what on earth I would do next. The several other times I had revealed myself had ended up in similar thoughts. Oh, well.

Did I look scary? Did I look like something out of a nightmare? No, Christine had called me a dream and not a nightmare, but I checked myself anyway. Still the same as I had looked at my death, minus the blood and slashes. The physical body was gone but the spirit was the same and I had become used to not aging. I had never thought of my face as terrifying, once I had passed adolescence. Clothing… clothing was different, something similar to being unseen. I picked what I wanted, and the cloak was real enough to me, a dark-colored blend of violet and blue. The cloak was the creepiest thing about me, but I adored it, the way it had fashioned itself out of distant thoughts in my mind, old dreams, memories of stories. I liked my cloak.

I hadn't scared Christine, anyway. I was just being silly. I glanced once more toward the window, and then walked toward the door through which Christine had left. She was still moving, I think; footsteps echoed through the dark house. Darkness was hardly the way to describe it. Here was the true cave. I could not imagine how Christine could see in it. I let my eyes focus. There, to the right, was a plunge of shadow surrounded by soldier-straight posts of a stairway. I waited at the top and stared down into more darkness. There wasn't much up here anyway. The attic. Dust. Bats. Then I headed down. The stairway was a jaunty thing of sharp turns heading to the other two floors. I paused at the second. I could not see much into that particular hallway, but it was nice, much nicer than the world of the house that belonged to Christine. I could see stretches of patterned rug stretching off into the shadows and the angles of frames on the walls. So this was the home of Lady Melissa.

The bottom floor held light. Not much, but what was there spilled out like water from what I could only assume was the kitchen. The stairs ended in the corner of a large hall. The floor was polished wood, I could feel it on my bare feet. Like out of the palace… but I didn't think about that. Bookcases and frames and who knew what else lined the walls, and a simple chandelier hung from the ceiling's center, kitchen light dripping over the crystal pieces. Still not enough to light the room, but the effect was dazzling.

I went to the books first. Of course. They were in terrible condition. That was the first thing I noticed. Terrible condition: worn, broken, smudged, ripped, and all other signs of love save one. A book was only loved if it lacked dust. Clearly someone had cleaned off the fronts—Christine the servant, no doubt—in a showy gesture of impressing visitors with a tidy house, but close inspection revealed that they had not been read in some time. I paused a moment and breathed in their scent. Dust or no dust, it had been ages since I had smelled a book.

Stories. That's what they contained. Stories upon which no one could depend. The dead didn't need the stories of books.

I faced the light pouring from the kitchen. Inside I could hear singing, terribly off-key, a song about shepherd boy who managed to get his entire flock drunk. Oh my. I had not expected quite this much from Christine. Though she had called Amelia a certain word behind her back. But it was an entertaining song, I would give her that, and it was mixed with the sound of splashing water and other such washing-related sounds. I stepped into the doorway. A crackling fire was the reason for the light. It was a small, cozy-looking kitchen. The fireplace sat at the furthest wall, a simple stone being that took up said wall. To the left from there was what I assumed to be a pantry door and a wooden shelf of pots and jars. To the right was a large iron stove and a basin of soapy water where stood the badly singing Christine. Her sleeves were rolled up and her arms were down to those sleeves in the soapy water. In the middle of the room was a wooden cutting table, and above that was a hanging rack from whence black pots and pans dangled. The floor was stone, cold and rough, though I imagined the fire would soon heat that. A broom lay against the wall, a tiny pile of dirt and dust at its fringe.

That single conversation with Lady Melissa flashed unexpectedly through my mind. It was a brief, just a few flashes and voices. But she did not strike me as the type to work in such a kitchen if she could help it. Ah, silly me. That would have to once more be Christine's job.

Little Miss Christine, standing there with a few dirty dishes, singing off-key as the stray bubbles swished about her. I watched for a moment, fascinated. I had never actually washed anyone wash dishes before.

Christine's song ended with the lilt of a few notes. She pulled several soaking plates from the tub with one hand, grabbed a towel with another, and set to drying as she turned around.

Good heaven, she was going to break those dishes.

One survived, actually, by some miracle as the other two shattered into large shards as they hit the stone floor. For some reason the towel remained attached to her hand, though it lay limp in her palm as her eyes fought for me.

I fought that continuous shyness and gave another smile. "Hello again, Christine."

"You," she said. The surprise had clearly worn off. She smacked her dish towel down onto the cutting table with all the fury as if I had just insulted her. "You again. The angel."

"The angel." I nodded. Though I did have a name. I did not want to be known as the angel forever. "My name is Fawn."

Christine continued to stare at me without surprise. Mild interest, maybe. Or a little curiosity as to why a dead girl was in her kitchen. But yes, the surprise had fled with her first word. "You're not a dream, then. Because the broken glass would have awoken me by now." She gave a tiny laugh and let her eyes drop down to the mess of broken plates. "Wow, there is going to be trouble for this. You made me break Melissa's plates."

Like I cared. I smiled again and glanced at the plates. Not a terrible mess. In an instant they were whole again.

I think Christine was mildly impressed. "You are an angel." She crouched down to pick up the repaired plates (and the one that never managed to break). "Thank-you."

"You're welcome." I could not quite decipher the tone of her voice. It seemed to hold something other than gratitude.

"You could have done the dishes for me."

Why, of all the nerve of the girl! It was other than that I had never done dishes before. To even suggest…

"But I don't mind doing dishes," she continued. She crossed the floor to a cupboard I hadn't even noticed and placed the dishes on top of a high stack of copies. "I like the bubbles and it's nice to see something become clean. It's one of the better tasks around here."

"Is that sarcasm?" I asked.

"I thought you were the angel." Maybe she wasn't impressed. "All I'm saying is that you picked a very good time to show up in my life." She made sure the stack of dishes was straight and carefully shut the glass door. "Now that is sarcasm, angel."

What a strange little bird. I had never experienced this reaction before. Being called a demon. The others were simple amazement. We had not even conversed this long. Why in heaven had the Prickling occurred for her? One possible answer slid unbidden… the connection to Lady Melissa. I shook it away. "And when would you have preferred me to appear in your life?"

She sniffed and returned to the tub to fetch out more dishes. "Don't get me wrong; I find this all very fascinating. Exciting, even. Not everyone has an angel show up in their living quarters after spying on them. Forgive me for not showing my enthusiasm, but I'm tired and I just don't have the energy to express everything." Her voice was biting. "I just cannot fathom why I would need an angel."

I didn't know, either. That brat Amelia? "You mentioned a father." Somehow I was sure this was supposed to be much more impressive. If only I knew what I was doing here! "You said your father died three winters ago."

She nodded coldly. "Yes, my father. That would have been a perfect time to appear. Though I don't know what angels do. What would you have done then? Saved his life?" She paused, a kettle half-way dried. "No, I don't think you could have. He wouldn't have wanted it. I'm sure he would have wanted to escape Melissa." She ended with a laugh, a laugh that actually sounded happy.

Again with Lady Melissa. "I'm here to help. I'm sorry about your father." I had already apologized before, upstairs. "I'm sure he was a good man."

"He was a very good man." She climbed to the top of the cutting table to hang the kettle. "The best I've ever met." She balanced at the edge of the table, then hopped gracefully to the floor. "This is a nice moment. Talking to an angel. Though you could still be a dream. I could break things in dreams."

"Would you prefer me to be a dream?"

She studied my face for a long time, without fear. "No, actually. I like the idea of an angel, even though I still don't know how you'll be of much use to me if you can't even help with dishes. I'm not clumsy, you frightened me, so I do not intend to need your help fixing things ever again."

Yes, definitely a strange little bird. The skinny little thing she was, clambering over furniture in a kitchen. She still amused me, though not quite as much as she did in the village. "You're not afraid of me, are you?"

"No. Not now. I admit you were somewhat terrifying when you first appeared and you cannot blame me for being afraid then. But to be perfectly honest about this whole bizarre situation, angel, you almost seem afraid of me."

That took me back. Did I?

"I suppose so," she said with a shrug and slightly less confidence. "This is my first experience with an angel, after all, so I can't claim to be an expert on how an angel should act. But I don't need your help, so you might as well be off."

That was her claim. "Are you so sure?"

She blinked. "Huh?"

I felt a little more power against her. "Are you so sure you don't need my help? I watched you today. I watched you flirt and charm and steal. Then you were an entirely different person in front of Amelia. "You saw Amelia?"

"Your stepsister, I assume."

She nodded.

"You were afraid of Amelia."

For a moment Christine was just as terrified as she had been when she first saw me. For one moment I thought she would crumple. But the moment was only a moment, and she was back. "You don't know a thing about Amelia. You don't know a thing."

"But she is your stepsister?"

"I already answered that question." She ripped open a drawer from beneath the cupboard and pulled from it… a book. "She is my stepsister. She is the younger daughter of Lady Melissa Arnston and—"

"And Grace is the elder," I finished.

"How did you know that? I never mentioned Grace."

I barely heard her. Melissa, Grace, and Amelia. It had to be the Lady Melissa I had met. This confirmed it. But what did it mean? I would fall into connection with a woman I had met on one visit?

And Lady Melissa had been from…

Christine strode past me to the fireplace, where she plopped herself down. She opened the book deftly to a page nearer to the end than not and began reading.

As much as I hated to interrupt someone reading, I had to know. "When did your father marry your stepmother?"

Christine sighed and slammed the book shut. "A little over seven years ago."

Oh, dear. I had angered her.

But she kept talking. "Yes, seven years ago at the end of this past May. Her husband Lord Arnston had passed away a year before that. Never met him. Never even heard of the family until they called on Papa."

"Your mother?" I ventured.

She shrugged and ran a finger over the cover of the book. This one was as worn as the others, but it was not dusty. "I don't remember her. She died when I was two. I was to have a little sister, but neither of them survived the birth."

"I'm sorry." I promise, I was only trying to be sympathetic.

"Again, not your fault. It's all right. Perhaps my baby sister was not meant for this world and Mama went with her. I had Papa and he was wonderful. He was a historian. Not King Richard's, but the family commissioned him. We were wealthy. Probably why Lady Melissa was interested. And, angel, I thought she was nice in the beginning!"

I hadn't liked her at all.

"Papa courted her for nearly six months. Then they married. She brought in the two rats known as Grace and Amelia. And then Papa died."

And clearly the rest was history.

"Why didn't you leave?" I asked.

For a long time she said nothing. Perhaps she had not heard me? "Where would I go? Here, at least, I have food and a roof over my head. Papa left everything to Melissa."

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen."

Now that I looked at her, I would have assumed younger. "But you're so lively outside!"

"That's outside." She flipped casually through her book. "In here…" she took a deep breath. "In here it's a completely different story and I don't expect you to understand. Now, if you don't mind, I would like to get in a few minutes of reading."

That bluntly ended the conversation. Christine returned to her reading. She did not even seem to mind that I was there. I watched her as she read, her eyes feverishly devouring the pages. She read fast, faster than I had ever read.

Finally I grew bored of watching her, that strange little girl. We were off to an odd start, whatever we were supposed to be doing. I again took in the kitchen. It was very nice, I decided. I didn't often let myself into the homes of others, though I did like to watch through windows on occasion. Homes were strange things, places were people lived. All so different. The palace of Tamenrook had been my home. I hadn't let myself think of it in so long. I might as well let myself indulge. What would Father and Mama be doing right now? Sleeping, if they were sensible people. But other than that. I suppose life in Tamenrook would go on like it always would. Palace business and politics would run on as usual. Rains and drizzles would come along with their clouds. They would wonder what on earth they would do for an heir. Perhaps I had a brother or sister I knew nothing about.

I missed them all terribly. But I had not let myself go back. I could not stand it. The Spirit World existed along this one, but the fact was that I was no longer alive. I had been brutally murdered before my engagement ball.

And yet that life had flown back in a rush with the mere mention of Lady Melissa. Lady Melissa, wife of a nobleman. A visitor to a simple engagement ball. The engagement ball I had never attended because a man named Gavin Gray preferred to see me dead. Lady Melissa, in the party train of Sunelle.

Sunelle. King Richard. I had never let myself think as much during Christine's talk. Lady Melissa had been from Sunelle. King Richard had commissioned work from Christine's father.

"Christine," I said softly.

"What?" she snapped.

"What is the name of this kingdom?"

"Sunelle."

I was not sure if it were real, but blue diamond and green emerald flashed before my eyes.