I watch in stunned silence as Ransford turns to gaze forlornly in the direction the woman vanished. He reaches out for her with one hand and stares in despair as his fingers touch nothing but empty air.

Blinding tears make me realise that I am crying, and I brush at them, frustration and heartache crashing over me with crushing weight. When I'm finally able to see again, Ransford is no longer standing in the hallway.

I knew he was gone the moment the weight lifted, and the pain left me, and I was able to breathe again. Turning away from the junction where I'd just witnessed something the logical part of my brain has no idea how to process and is fiercely trying to reject, I run. Sightlessly, not caring where I'm going, I turn corner after corner.

I should be happy; I'm finally getting that run I was craving earlier, and my lungs are even starting to burn with the effort, but it is not fun. The burn is caused by lingering heartache that isn't even mine to bear.

I need to get out of this cursed mansion. I need the cool light of day on my skin. I need to feel the breeze in my hair. I long for the rain to come streaming down again and wash away all the gossamer memories clouding my mind. I no longer know what I feel, what I think, or what I remember. I'm tangled in the sorrow of others, and I cannot carry that burden anymore.

And now... ghosts?!

I couldn't have seen what I think I just saw. There is no scientific explanation for it. I don't normally care about science much, but I do now. I care very much. I need someone, anybody, to make sense of it for me.

I've seen that woman once before. I followed her down a corridor and saw her climb a spiral staircase into darkness. I know it was her though she'd been too far away and the dusk too heavy to see her clearly that day.

How could a woman that vivid, with a fragrance that tangible, soundlessly walk right through Ransford and disappear?

"She couldn't have," I whimper, stopping to catch my breath. My legs are trembling too much to hold me, and I sink to the carpet, pressing my back into the wall, seeking comfort from the wood panelling and finding none. I've lost my way now; I no longer see the passages clearly and might've been running in circles.

I don't sense Ransford anymore, and Alaric's presence has left me as well. I don't feel anybody. I am utterly alone now.

I saw a ghost!

Diarmuid said the mansion was haunted, but I thought he was talking rubbish. What else did he say that sounded like nonsense but might've been true? The woman couldn't have been real. She left the hallway in darkness; the light bulbs all died as she passed them. That is not possible!

I saw a ghost!

"No! I don't believe in ghosts!"

I need to get out of this dark, sinister prison I've lost myself in, but I'm shaking so much that I cannot even get to my feet. I force myself onto my knees and crawl to a sturdy-looking marble statue of a water nymph wrapped in the embrace of a curvy wave. Its beauty, period and artist - details that normally matter to me - are lost on me as I grab onto it and struggle to pull myself up.

I'm almost on my feet when I lose the feeling in my hands and legs, falling back to the floor with no way to soften the impact, and my head smacks the carpet-covered wooden floor. Lying stunned on my back, I'm unable to resist when I'm dragged into the unwelcome depths of a nightmare.

The world around me is wrapped in impenetrable night, and all I can see is ochre eyes piercing mine while stained lips mutter words I cannot understand. I try in vain to suck air into my terrified lungs when I recognize Alazne and feel her long, talon-like nails run wetly along my cheekbone, sending sparkling fear in a river down my back.

I'm sitting draped in silk and cross-legged on a cold floor, the metallic smell of blood heavy in the air around me, while Alazne dips her finger in a beautifully carved pewter chalice. The tip of her finger drips red when she pulls it out again, and I shiver when she draws symbols on my exposed skin using her terrible nail.

"You're doing the right thing, Aubrey," a woman with silver-gold hair assures me from the teeming shadows around me. "You are becoming a strong, brave member of the Knight of Slaughtaverty, contributing to the protection of the people of Peacehaven and beyond."

She is fading in and out of my vision as the darkness lifts, just to grow more intense again. Alazne presses the rim of the cup containing her paint to my lips, and I drink hungrily despite the revulsion clogging my throat. The thick liquid spills in rivulets down the sides of my mouth and dribbles from my chin.

The blood - if it's blood - doesn't taste the way I would've expected blood to taste; it causes beautiful fireworks in my head and warms my body to the point of combustion. My mind is blossoming with a thousand blooms, each a distinct memory that does not belong to me. I whimper under the onslaught of thoughts and emotions that aren't generated from within me. I can hear myself breathing heavily, but I'm suffocating.

I'm drowning in an ocean of knowledge spanning multiple centuries. It feels as though my brain is downloading entire libraries of data, overloading my mind, stretching my mental capacity beyond its limits.

Faces swim in my vision as I arch backwards, straining against the waves crashing over me. Alaric, Ransford, men I've seen in paintings, men I've seen in life, and men I have never seen at all. They all fall into place, like the links in a chain binding me to them.

"Just breathe, child; it will be over soon," Alazne says, speaking directly into my mind, barely audible above the cacophony of hundreds of years of voices laughing, crying, speaking, and shouting .. and then I scream.

"Aubrey?!"

The voice is coming to me from outside the noise. I'm hearing it with my ears and not my mind. It is a gentle tide, washing away the darkness. This voice is not Alazne's, and it is not the other woman - the one who convinced me to do the ritual - either.

A man is calling me from far away, over and over, increasing in volume as he brings me back from the abyss little by little.

"Liam," I whisper when the last tendrils of darkness leave my mind like lingering smoke. Fierce ochre eyes evolve into peaceful aquamarine, and I lie shaking and gasping, gazing up into the calming depths of Liam's eyes.

It takes me a moment to recognise his friendly face where he's crouching by my side, his hands gently stroking my cheeks. I'm confused when I realise that I am still lying, clothed in my floral dress, on my back in the hallway. The thick darkness is gone, and I can see the paintings and other decorations in the dusky hallway.

There's nobody around except for Liam.

"What happened?" he asks the question hovering on my lips. Concern is etched into his handsome features while he runs his fingers over my head and neck. "Are you alright? Did you fall? You have a bump on the back of your head."

"I saw a ghost and took part in a satanic ritual," I croak in a dry voice, my own words making me laugh. The sound edges on hysteria, frightening me into grabbing hold of Liam's shirt and pulling him closer. Rising, he helps me to my feet and wraps his arms around my shivering body.

"It's okay," he mutters as I lean into his comforting warmth. "You're all right now."

I don't agree with him, and I'm trembling so much I can barely walk. I don't object when he scoops me up and carries me while I cling to his neck like a terrified child.

When we finally arrive in my bedroom, its familiarity comforts me enough to let Liam go when he lays me down on the bed.

He pours water from the carafe I keep on my nightstand into the ready glass and shakes two capsules from the medicine bottle I keep there too. Enabling me to sit up, propped against my pillows, he gives me the water to help me swallow the medication.

"I brought you something to wear, and you weren't here," he tells me when he sees me glancing at what appears to be a dark blue tracksuit on the foot of my bed. He'd also changed into grey sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, ready for exercise. "Why were you so far away from your room?" he asks, looking baffled. He's right, I was in completely the opposite direction from my bedroom. It took him a while to carry me here.

"I wanted to speak to Ransford," I explain. "And then... and then..." I'm losing control of my breathing again as panic sets in, and I cannot find the words to explain any of the things that happened to me. Perhaps, when I tripped over the copper pot and hit my head against that pretty table, I passed out and dreamed everything up until Liam picked me up.

"Take deep breaths and let them out slowly," he instructs, counting five breaths while he rubs my back. "Now, take your time and tell me exactly what happened."

"I don't know," I mutter, lying back against the pillows. The memory falls apart like sea foam when I try to grab onto it. It drifts like sand through fingers and disappears into the atmosphere.

"Ransford was there," I finally manage to hold onto at least part of it, and doing so brings more clarity with it. "Someone walked right through him. This place is haunted?"

Liam sighs, biting on his lower lip, and the look on his face is making me uneasy.

"I don't believe in ghosts!" I shout, clapping a hand over my mouth, startled by the shrill sound of my own voice. Liam sits down on the edge of the bed and takes my hand in both of his. He sits in silence, watching the fingers of his one hand stroking the back of mine.

"Sometimes, people we love show up," he finally speaks just when I think he's never going to say another word. "They're not ghosts... not really. They don't haunt the place, moving things around and scaring children," he clarifies with a humourless laugh. "They just... wander... looking for us as if they're in another dimension."

"Are... are they dead?"

"A little bit," he mutters, and I laugh sharply.

"Then they're ghosts!"

"Not quite." Liam runs a hand through his hair and, carefully placing my hand on the mattress, he rises, rounding the bed to walk to the wall containing all the windows. Pulling aside one of the drapes, he gazes out into the sun-dappled gardens.

"It's really hard to explain because we don't understand it either, Aubrey, but suffice it to say that they're harmless. They're here, but they're also not here. Only Saoirse can communicate with them to some extent."

He might be telling the truth; the woman didn't seem threatening; she seemed sad and lost. The rest of what he's saying makes no sense to me.

"Now, tell me about the ceremony," he says in a brighter voice, turning to look at me.

"I'm not sure," I grimace. I have no desire to relive whatever that was. "That strange woman I saw last time... Alazne was drawing on me with stuff that suspiciously seemed like blood. She made me drink it from a pewter grail."

The memory sends shivers down my spine, and I close my eyes, breathing carefully. I open them again when Liam sits on the bed beside me. He leans back against the headboard and again takes my hand.

"I don't worship Satan," I state, giving him a firm look. "I have no interest in doing things like that. So, why would I have such a horrible nightmare?"

"I don't think it was a nightmare," Liam says, squeezing my hand. "Are you sure it was Alazne?"

"Yes, " I confirm, nodding my head. "If the woman who gave me that strange warning last time was Alazne, as Ransford said. It definitely was the same woman."

I stretch my mind, putting in a valiant effort to remember the rest of that dream. Holding onto Liam's warm hand gives me enough courage to do so. "Someone was speaking... a woman with pretty hair, a mixture of gold and silver."

Liam's lips twitch as if he's suppressing a wince, but he doesn't speak; he just calmly waits for me to continue with my story.

"She said I was becoming a knight of Slaughtaverty. I don't know why I was willingly taking part in that satanic ritual, but dreams seldom make sense once you're awake," I shrug, holding on to his hand tighter when another shiver crawls down my back. "It felt so real though. Alazne gave me blood to drink. I would never in my life drink blood! That's disgusting!"

I suck in a few deep breaths, forcing down the rising nausea.

"It's possible that it wasn't actual blood but some sort of drug because my brain was filled with bright explosions, and it felt like I could answer all the questions ever asked by mankind. It was wonderful and terrifying."

Liam presses his lips together, his eyes flashing with anger for a moment, and then he regains control and clears his throat.

"That was not a satanic ritual, Aubrey," he assures me, and I turn questioning eyes on him. "It was a very primitive version of a bonding ceremony."

"A bonding ceremony?" That makes even less sense than a satanic ritual did.

"Yes," he says, placing his other hand over the one holding mine. "There are more civilized ways to achieve the same end result, but what they did is definitely effective and works almost too fast."

"Bonding to what?" Chain links. Alaric, Ransford... strangers.

"The Slatherties."

"The entire family?"

"Whomever's blood was mixed with yours and everyone connected to their line," he frowns, gazing into my eyes as if he's trying to see changes in them. Does he think I'm going to switch species? "She must've used the blood of someone who is connected to every Slatherty currently alive. It explains a lot..."

It explains absolutely nothing to me.

"It's a ritual Grainne Slatherty and a traveller medicine woman called Alazne came up with to counter a curse. It worked to some extent."

"Grainne Slatherty lived in the early 1600s, didn't she?" I remark, thinking about the girl in the painting in the dining room.

"Yes."

Cursed, Aubrey, that's what we are—cursed.

I have an inexplicable yet very clear memory of Alaric lying beside me, studying my face with gentle black eyes while he runs his fingers through my hair. I try to latch onto it, wanting to understand it, longing to see more, but it evaporates like a puff of steam.

"Try to remember where this ritual took place and when," Liam says, a frown drawing his brows together.

I really drank blood? Even my own?! That seems highly unlikely. The thought revolts me to my core. Why would I do that? I wasn't even being forced to do it. I played canvas and drank it willingly. Why?!

"It didn't," I assure him, and I'm trembling again. "It was a dream."

"Have you dreamt it before today?" Liam asks, releasing my hand and slipping from the bed again to walk around it and pour me another glass of water. I sit up and turn to lower my feet to the floor so that I'm sitting on the edge of the bed and take the glass when he hands it to me.

I'm starting to feel restless again and long to be outside.

"I... have no idea."

"Could you have dreamt it when you slept all day?" he asks gently, waiting patiently for me to finish the water and give the glass back to him to place on the nightstand.

"Maybe..." Closing my eyes, I cover my face with my hands, frustrated by my lack of understanding and my inability to remember things clearly. Liam kneels at my feet, looking at me with a mixture of compassion and frustration, when he takes my hands from my face.

Ransford's distraught face and the devouring sadness oozing from him flash painfully into my mind, and I grab onto one of Liam's hands in an attempt to stay grounded and present.

"He was so sad, so heartbroken," I mutter, closing my eyes, but there's no escaping the vivid memory.

"Who? Was there a man present at this ritual?" Liam asks, not realising that I've changed the subject back to the ghost. It's useless; I cannot remember anything else about that disturbing dream.

"Ransford, when he saw the woman in the hallway just now."

"What?" Liam gives me a troubled look. Perhaps he is rethinking his stance on the ghost situation. His explanation made no sense anyway.

"She was so beautiful," I whisper. "She had blue eyes and hair like flames, framing the sweetest face, and she was wearing a gorgeous wedding dress."

"You...saw her?" Liam breathes, looking into my eyes with so much anguish that it makes my heart contract painfully in my chest in empathy.

"Yes. Is that ghost a well-known ancestor?" I ask, and Liam's hands spasm over mine. "Is she the ghost of someone you knew in life?"

"Please stop calling her a ghost, Aubrey," he says tightly, swallowing hard, and I'm startled to see his expression is similar to what I'd seen on Ransford's face. I regret talking about her so frankly because I've clearly touched a nerve. Just who was that woman?

"Liam, are you alright?" I gasp, slipping a hand from his grasp to touch his cheek.

"Yes," he smiles, blinking his eyes and clearing his throat. "I'm fine." He takes a moment to regain his composure and looks at me with a sad smile on his lips. "She won't harm you."

"Who was she?"

"She..." He swallows again, shaking his head, unable to say the words, and I feel cruel for pressing him. "We loved her... and lost her. She... she d-died saving... saving Ambrose."

"I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry," I choke, leaning over and wrapping my arms around Liam's neck. I know they're all still raw about Ambrose's death, and I suppose that woman tried to save him but died with him. Was she Saoirse's mother? Or maybe she was the sister who used to love painting. Whoever she was, her death caused a lot of pain.

I cannot dig in this man's wounds any longer, and when I feel the tension leave his shoulders, I release him and sit up straight again.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up," I say sincerely and turn my head to look away from the heartache on Liam's face. Trying to change the subject, I indicate the tracksuit lying on the bed. "Thank you for those. I'll get changed if you're still up to training me."

"Of course," Liam smiles, but I think he's lying. He has the look of someone longing to crawl into a hole and die, and I'm not entirely in the mood for sparring training anymore, either. I do, however, think that it might be helpful to get rid of all the miserable feelings stubbornly clinging to our hearts.

Liam starts to rise, but then he hesitates, looking at me as if he suddenly remembers something important.

"First, I need to give you something," he says, sinking back to his knees. "Billy told me he's meeting you in town for lunch tomorrow, and I want you to wear this when you go... please."

He digs into his pants pocket and extracts a tiny leather-padded box from it. Opening it, he holds it out for me to see and I gasp in surprise. An ancient, beautiful golden ring rests on the box's satin lining.

The exquisitely carved golden band has a large sparkling emerald at its centre, with a small golden flower on either side of it at the top edges of the band. Three smaller emeralds are set between the two flowers along each side of the large stone. They catch the light, twinkling and sparkling playfully.

I stare in awe at the beautiful ring, unsure of the implications of this gift.

"Uhm," I say, looking into the beseeching eyes of the man kneeling in front of me, holding the stunning ring out to me. "Liam... are you proposing to me?"

It feels as though I've said those same words to someone very recently, but I cannot think of any scenario where that would have applied... and yet...

~~~