This box might not even have come from the veiled man, then. The mark on it was like the one on the coach, yes, but perhaps it had just been bought from the Khuprus family. Maybe it was really from Cerwin. Over the years, she'd left plenty of personal things over at Delo's home. It would have been very easy, and actually, it was much more likely when she thought about it. Why would a chance-met stranger send her an expensive gift? Like as not, this was a courting gift from Cerwin. The crowning piece of her logic suddenly fell into place. If the veiled Rain Wild man had puzzled out who she was and sent her a present, wouldn't he have reminded her to return his scarf and flame jewel at the same time? Of course he would. So this wasn't from him. This was from Cerwin.

She stuffed the scarf and jewel under her pillow, and curled up with the box in the curve of her body. With one forefinger, she traced the line of her lips. Cerwin. She ran her finger down over her chin, traced a line between her breasts. What kind of a dream would he have chosen for her? Her lips curved in a smile. She suspected she knew. Her heart fluttered in her chest.

She closed her eyes and opened the box. Or tried to. She opened her eyes and peered at it. What she had taken to be the catch was not. By the time she finally worked out how to open it, she was quite annoyed with it. And when she did get it open, it was empty. Simply empty. She had imagined a sparkling dream dust, or a burst of light or music or fragrance. She stared into the empty corners of the box, then felt inside it to be sure she wasn't missing anything. No. It was empty. So, what did that mean? A joke? Or merely that the gift was the cleverly carved and sweet-scented box? Maybe it wasn't even supposed to be a dream-box, maybe that was some old-fashioned idea that her grandmother had come up with. Dream-boxes. Malta had never heard of one before tonight. In a wave of irritation, it all became clear. Her grandmother had only said that so her mother wouldn't let her have the box. Unless, perhaps, one of them had opened it and taken out whatever was in there and kept it for themselves.

“I hate them both,” Malta hissed in a savage whisper. She flung the box down to the rug beside her bed and threw herself back on her pillows. She knew she should get up and go and put the box back in her mother's wardrobe, but a part of her didn't care. Let them find out she had taken it. She wanted them to know that she knew they'd stolen her present. She crossed her arms unrepentantly on her chest and closed her eyes.

Stillness. Emptiness. Only a voice. A whisper. So, Malta Vestrit. You have received my gift. Here we mingle, you and I. Shall -we make a sweet dream together? Let us see. A tiny thread of awareness that this was a dream faded out of reach.

She was inside a burlap bag. It covered her head and draped down almost to her knees. It smelled of dust and potatoes. She was fairly sure it had been used as a harvest sack. She was being carried over someone's shoulder, carried rapidly and triumphantly, snatched and carried off against her will. The one who carried her had companions. They hooted and laughed in victory, but the man who carried her was too full of satisfaction to give vent to such boyish noises. The night was cool and foggy-moist against her legs. Her mouth was gagged, her hands bound behind her. She wanted to struggle but was afraid that if she did, he might drop her. And she had no idea where she was or what else might befall her if she did escape her captor. Frightening as it was, it was still the safest place she could be at this moment. She knew nothing of the man who carried her, except that he would fight to the death to keep her.

They reached somewhere. They all stopped, and the one carrying her slung her to her feet. He kept a grip on her. She heard a muffled conversation, quick words spoken low in a language she didn't understand. The others seemed to be laughingly urging something that the one who had carried her amiably but firmly refused. After a time, she heard footsteps receding. She sensed the others had gone. She was alone save for the man who still held her bound wrists. She trembled.

There was the cold kiss of metal against her wrists and suddenly her hands were free. She immediately clawed her way free of the sack, and pulled the wet gag from her mouth. She was still half-blinded by the dust and fibers from the rough burlap. She brushed roughly at her face and hair and then turned to confront her captor.

They were alone in a dark and foggy night. A city and a crossroads. She could tell no more than that. He stood watching her expectantly. She could see nothing of his features. His dark hood was pulled far forward; he watched her from its depths. The night smelled swampy and thick, the only lights were fog-muffled torches far down the street. If she ran, would he pounce on her? Was this a cat's game?

If she escaped, would she be plunging herself into greater danger? In time it seemed to her that he was watching her and letting her make up her mind about what she would do.