'When I was a lad,' he mused, 'I feared this place after sunset. I thought the tombs might open up beneath my feet, if I did step upon them. And the chancel seemed alive with the ghosts of monks and priests long dead. If I screw my eyes up I can see them still, come to visit with me. Perhaps they would have me join them.'

'Don't talk foolish,' I said. His voice was coming from very far away, and it frightened me.

' 'Tis only talk,' he assured me, grinning. 'And I'd think it unlikely that the priests would welcome a heathen like myself into their number. Besides, my ghost will be busy enough, watching over you.'

'Do you mean to haunt me, then?'

'Ay.' His eyes were very warm on mine. 'You'll not be rid of me so easily.' His gaze slid away again, this time beyond my shoulder to the altar. 'What a mystery is death,' he said, slowly. ' "The undiscovered country," Shakespeare called it, and we do fear to travel to new lands. But surely foreign shores are filled with possibilities?' He frowned. 'I met a man once, at the French king's court, who claimed he'd lived in Roman times, and dined at Caesar's table. I thought him mad,' he recalled, vaguely, 'and like as not he was. But what if he were not?'

I shivered again. 'Must we speak of death?'

'If it is true that men have souls that do survive them,' he went on, ignoring me, 'and if those souls are born again to life, you need not worry that my ghost will haunt you. I'll haunt you in the flesh, instead.'

My eyes were gently skeptical. 'And how would I know you, pray, in another body?'

' 'Tis simple.' He brought his hand up with an effort, turning his fingers round to show me the heavy crested ring he wore. 'Look you here, and remember. 'Tis the hooded hawk of the de Mornays. The hood may blind it, and yet it sees more clearly than the sighted.'

'You mean that I should trust my heart.'

'More than your heart. Your soul.' His hand lifted higher, and clasped mine strongly. 'Feel that, love. There's nothing can break that. We are two parts of the one whole, you and I. The hawk mates for life, and our lives are but beginning. Faith,' he said, smiling, 'd'you think I'd let a little thing like the grave come between us?'

'I'll not lose you.' My voice wavered.

His large hand loosed its grip on mine. 'Take this ring from my finger.'

'Richard ...'

'Take you my ring,' he repeated, 'and keep it with you.'

His tone was stubborn, and so I obeyed, sliding the great ring from his outstretched finger. The ring was cold, as his hands were cold, and I held it tenderly in my palm, blinking back the rising wetness of my eyes.

'Remember that hawk, Mariana Farr,' he told me gently, 'and seek me not with your eyes, but with your soul. The soul sees what truly matters.' A single tear spilled hotly from my eye and trailed a path down my cheek, and he caught it with one finger. I tried to smile at him but could not, and as my mouth began to tremble a flash of pain burned briefly in his eyes and he slid his hand behind my head, drawing me down to him.

I tasted the salt on my own lips, and the bitter taste of blood on his. It was a desperate kiss, the sort of kiss that marks a lovers' parting, a kiss of sorrow and regret and a kind of blind and wordless promise. I would have risen up when it was finished, but he held me close, his hand stroking my hair.

'I'll hurt your chest,' I protested, but he shook his head.

'I am past pain,' he lied, 'and I've always had a fancy to die in my lover's arms. 'Tis most romantic' His words slurred ever so slightly, and after a few minutes the movement of his hand on my hair slowed, then stopped altogether.

My own chest tightened. 'Don't leave me.' The plea broke from me in a tortured whisper that I could not stop. 'Oh, please, Richard ... please stay....'

'Don't be afraid,' he told me, brushing my hair with a kiss. 'I am indestructible, remember? I do but sleep a little while.'

I raised my head and looked at him. Even in that poor light, I could see the truth that I had dreaded. 'No,' I whispered painfully. 'Oh, please God, no. Richard ...'

'Another time,' he promised. He smiled and closed his eyes.

After a long moment I turned my face against his shoulder and let the sorrow claim me in great racking sobs, feeling nothing save the hollow ache of grief. I tried desperately to hold him, but he would not stay. The fine thick coat beneath my cheek stiffened, grew colder, and finally turned to flat, unyielding stone. I clenched my hand more tightly round his ring, but that, too, dissolved into emptiness. Behind my closed eyelids, the light changed subtly and I felt the first faint touch of sunlight warm upon my skin. I was alone in the church.

*-*-*-*

I don't know how long I lay there, with my face upon the damp stone floor, grieving against the wishes of a man who had been dead for more than three centuries. At length I pushed myself, slowly, to my feet, brushing the lingering tears from my face with an absent hand and lifting my eyes to the sad-eyed saints in the glowing window above me.

'Julia.' The voice, coming from the shadowed porch behind me, made me jump. 'Julia,' Mrs. Hutherson said again, quietly authoritative, 'it's time for us to go.'

I turned round, confused.

'There'll be Holy Communion at eight o'clock,' she explained, 'and it's nearly seven, now.'

Of course, I thought. Sunday morning. I did not think to question Alfreda Hutherson's presence in the church—it seemed quite logical that she should be mere, waiting. I had no urge to question anything. The open wound of grief had numbed my mind. Blankly, I nodded at her, and took a few dragging steps along the nave toward the altar, reading the worn names beneath my feet. 'Where is he?' I asked.