"The important thing to worry about now," Carr said, "is how to find Guillaume. It shouldn't be that hard, if we—"
"No," Alec said, opening his eyes and breathing easier, relief flowing through him as he realized what his only choice was. "There is something more important than Guillaume for me to worry about. You can look for Guillaume… and I wish you luck. But you'll have to do it alone. I can't help you."
"But… but he's Holt's killer!" Carr said, stupefied.
"Yes, and his sister is my wife… and I'm not fool enough to lose her. If I decided to hunt down her brother, if I did anything to make her afraid that I blamed her, if by chance she didn't know anything about this and found out about it from me, she might run."
"Run where?"
"Where I could never find her," Alec replied, realizing as he said it that the thought terrified him. Mira had run from her problems in the past, and he had no guarantee that she wouldn't do it again. It was still too early in their marriage; not enough time had passed by for her to be secure in his love and her place in hisheart. The beginning they had made was still too tender, too fragile to withstand such a test.
"She wouldn't leave you," Carr argued. "It's obvious that she loves you."
"She might decide it's her only option." Mira was young and hardy, but she was also a war-scarred veteran who had faced too many battles alone. She hadn't yet become accustomed to the fact that she could rely on someone else for protection. "I won't risk her finding out, Carr," he said firmly. "She is to know nothing of today, do you understand?"
"But how can you discount the possibility that she knew about Guillaume and just didn't tell you?"
"I can't. But it doesn't matter to me."
"I don't understand why not."
"You will. You'll understand when you fall in love…" Alec paused and then smiled wryly. "There are a hell of a lot of things you'll understand then."
"Not this, I won't. Not giving up when you finally have the chance for revenge."
"Revenge is sweet," Alec acknowledged ruefully, "and I've had a taste for it in the past."
"But?"
"But as you'll discover, there's not much of a future in it."
The innocuous sight of a small white note should not have disturbed Mira so greatly. It was delivered early in the morning by a small village boy, according to Mary. Mira received it on her breakfast tray, tucked beside the latest issue of the Times. She picked it up curiously, noticing the rough quality of the paper and the burned candle-wax seal. For a reason that she did not care to examine, Mira delayed the opening of the note for as long as possible, finishing her breakfast, washing her face, choosing her clothes for the day, and dressing. While she busied herself with inconsequential tasks, the message lay unopened on the bed,its dark wax seal a malevolent eye that watched her every movement. Finally she picked it up and opened it.
Her first thought was about how odd it was, that although she rarely spoke French and had lost most of her accent, though she even dreamed in English, the sight of her native language was still more instantly comprehensible to her. It was more deeply familiar to her than the sight of her own face in the mirror… so familiar that she had read the note and understood its meaning before she had even realized that it had been written in French.
/ will be in the woods at the edge of the garden all morning. I will wait for you as long as I must. Please come alone. I need your help.
It was not signed. A signature was not necessary, since he had known that she would recognize who had sent it.
She had never been so cold in her life. As her teeth chattered, Mira crumpled the- note and wadded it up. Her heart beat in deep, violent throbs that hurt her chest and made her knees feel weak. She huddled in the corner of the room like a trapped animal, backing up against the wall, clasping her arms over her chest. "Please, God, don't take it all away," she choked, and tears squeezed out from underneath her eyelids. "Don't let him do it again."
A gust of wind shook the trees, causing the first few brown leaves of autumn to fall in a dry shower around her. Slowly they approached each other, dark eyes fastened on another pair of identical darkness. The breeze disarranged his black-brown hair, the same color as hers.
"Mira, ma soeur… c'est tu, vraiment?" "Guillaume… Qu'est-ce que tu veux?' she asked unsteadily, stopping and backing away a few steps as he attempted to come closer to her. I'm a Falknernow, she thought, clinging to the knowledge as if it could save her from certain doom. She forced herself to speak English to him, though it would have been easier in French. "What do you want?"