She straightened as I came through the low, swinging gate, greeting me with a smile of welcome and understanding.

'I'd expected you sooner,' she said, 'but I suppose you've been having a busy day. You're disappointed, naturally.'

How wonderful not to have to explain. 'Yes, I am.'

'You wanted more.'

'I wanted the fairy tale,' I admitted with a rueful smile. 'Foolish of me.'

'Not at all,' she replied stoutly. 'But even fairy-tale lovers have some difficult moments, before the happily-ever-afters. Give it time. Trust the process, and it will all work out in the end. You'll see. Have you had your supper yet?'

'No.' I shook my head. 'I wasn't hungry.'

'Well, come inside. You'll feel better when you've had something to eat.'

The cottage was as cozy inside as out, cheerful with overstuffed chintz in bright florals, white walls, and lace curtains letting the last of the day's sunlight pour through the square casement windows. I was not surprised to see a cat fluffed up on the windowsill; what surprised me, in a childish way, was that the cat was pure ginger, and not black. And then, upon reflection, I realized that maybe it wasn't so surprising, after all....

'I believe I saw your cat once,' I remarked, 'walking across the road by my house.'

'It wouldn't surprise me. He's a regular gadabout, that one. His mother was more the stay-at-home type, but he takes after his grandfather, I'm afraid.'

Leading me into the small kitchen, Mrs. Hutherson busied herself loading the table with sandwiches and savories, and brewing the ever-present pot of tea. If she could not give me answers, she seemed at least determined to give me comfort and to lessen the sharpness of my disappointment.

"Was that your brother I saw up at the stables with Geoff and Iain?' she asked me, unexpectedly.

I nodded. 'They gave him the grand tour, I think.'

'He's quite like you to look at. Vivien tells me he's a vicar.'

'He has a living in Hampshire. I'll introduce you next time he comes,' I promised. 'He drops in to check up on me every few weeks.'

'He worries about you, I think.' She tilted her head, studying my face carefully. 'Perhaps he has reason to?'

I brushed aside the suggestion. 'No, no ... I'm fine, really.' Under the gentle challenge of her eyes, I softened my stance. 'Well, I have been having a little problem with control, if you must know. I can't always choose the times of my regressions, sometimes I just slide backward without meaning to.'

'You're going back every day now, aren't you?'

'Nearly.' I nodded. 'It's so difficult not to. I care about them, you see. I care about what happens to them, and they're all so real... ' 'More real, perhaps, than the rest of us?' My expression answered for me, and she nodded. 'Yes, I understand. Time enough for the present, once the past has been settled. But you mustn't lose touch with the present, Julia,' she warned me. 'The past can teach us, nurture us, but it cannot sustain us. The essence of life is change, and we must move ever forward or the soul will wither and die.'

*-*-*-*

I spent the next few days quietly, working alone in the garden where the climbing rose was creeping shyly into bloom along the ruined wall. When the first pink bud unfolded, I snipped it lovingly from the vine and placed it in a vase beside my drawing board. Carefully I copied each delicate whorl onto paper and shaded the drawing with precise attention to detail. In my illustrations it would become Beauty's perfect, single rose, stolen from the Beast's garden. On paper, the flower was immortal. In the stale confines of my studio, it dropped its petals within three days.

I took advantage of my semiseclusion to finally read the reams of information Tom had gathered from his librarian friend, on the subject of reincarnation. The writings ranged from New Age nebulous to bone-dry academic, but the whole package was nonetheless interesting. I was especially intrigued by the different ways in which people remembered their past lives.

To some, like myself, it happened quite unexpectedly, out of the blue. Others as young children had a vivid awareness of their former lives, only to lose the memory as they grew older. Occasionally, it took a major trauma or hypnotic trance before the memories surfaced. And some people ... some people never remembered....

'I don't feel anything,' Geoff said bleakly, as the week drew to a close. We were standing in the courtyard, staring down at the neatly swept white stone, pristinely edged all round. The tangle of weeds had fallen beneath Iain's expert scythe, revealing tender patches of fragile green grass and a few low-growing wildflowers that hugged the ground for protection. Geoff dug his hands into his trouser pockets and stared harder, his brow furrowing. 'Surely I would feel something...."

We spoke very little of what had happened the week before. Geoff seemed to be turning the whole thing over in his mind, exploring his own thoughts and feelings at leisure. Outwardly, we went on just the same as before. Our days were as full and his touch as warm and his eyes still smiled at mine, but somehow a part of him had withdrawn from me. I let it go, both because I was sure it would return, and because my growing obsession with Mariana Farr's life overshadowed my own petty problems.

When the day of Rachel's wedding arrived, there was no question of my being sociable. Before the first faint light of dawn came stealing over the downs, I up and dressed, took my telephone off the hook, and settled myself in comfort to await the inevitable.