Suspicion reigned in the Collins household. The many untoward occurrences were adding up to one thing—the presence of a witch. Even those who had eschewed superstition were swayed. Joshua seethed with contempt for the whole idea, but he was helpless to explain Barnabas’s choking, Sarah’s sudden illness and just as sudden recovery, Josette’s reversal of affections, not to mention his own son’s inexplicable marriage to a common servant girl. Even Ben had fallen prey to the sorcery, for he had been caught robbing graves late one night, and was now in the county jail.

The word witch was irrationally and irresponsibly bandied about among the members of the Collins family, but everyone in his or her own way was unable to explain what was referred to as “these strange goings-on.” The time had come for Angelique to protect herself. Even Barnabas looked at her now with a cold expression in his eyes. She knew the signs would point in her direction if people began to investigate, and her only choice was to throw suspicion onto Phyllis Wick. The hapless governess with her gloomy manner was the perfect culprit.

The family, so concerned about what the countess continued to refer to as “an evil force in this house,” meaning the house where Barnabas now resided with Angelique, had summoned the Reverend Trask a second time, and he had agreed to perform an exorcism. Barnabas, taking pity on Phyllis, and believing her to be innocent, had given her shelter in an upstairs room, where she was hiding from the accusations of Trask, too terrified to face him. The stage, therefore, was set for Phyllis Wick to be exposed.

Angelique decided to build a house of cards—tarot cards. The countess, who possessed several decks, had left a set in the parlor. It seemed fitting that the countess, who had begun all the talk of witchcraft, should now supply the means for Angelique to make the spell of her own disguise.

Angelique retired to her old room in the servants’ quarters, where she knew no one would find her. The window was close enough to the front door for her to hear the ravings of the charlatan, Reverend Trask, who was soon to begin his invocation. How impotent his powers were compared to hers! The so- called Reverend was a feeble quack, but he would be useful nevertheless, and his flaccid conjurations would serve their purpose.

Delicately, she erected the house of cards on the bare table, carefully balancing the beautifully painted symbols in leaning pairs, creating twice, a roof for the next level. The house of cards, which could have collapsed with one breath, held steady, and its lightness would give it wings. She spoke to it with her mind.

“You are the halls of the room where Phyllis Wick is hiding. You are the place where she is lying now. First the chilling wind, and then the fire. That room is here, completely within my power.”

Angelique could hear the Reverend’s nasal voice as he began. “I call the Powers of Light to come to do battle with the Powers of Darkness. Phyllis Wick, I give warning that the Powers of Light are at hand, and they are about to strike your very soul! Your destruction is at hand! Come forth! Surrender yourself!”

Angelique knew that he had drawn a sign of exorcism in the dirt outside the door, for he cried out, “Phyllis Wick, the dust now knows your name, and the earth shall proclaim it to the sky! Come forth, before the burning fires of Hell consume you forever!”

She could picture poor Phyllis huddled in the corner of her room, afraid to move or breathe, terrified of the Reverend’s admonishments and his self-righteous commands. Angelique had a flickering vision of another time and place, where she had been that same cowering wretch, but the image faded as swiftly as it had come, and she returned to her task. The girl would never show herself, unless she was forced to do so. Angelique, shrugging off thoughts of the depravity she was uncovering, or of the malevolent being to whom she was speaking, began the incantation. She lit the taper and held the flame to the fragile dwelling that protected an innocent girl. She began to chant.

“I call upon the Heart of Fire that burns within the Heart of Ice.” She trembled. She fully realized what she was doing now. She had fallen so far that she would ask for the Devil’s help. She could hear Trask calling as well, as though they were working in consort, creating a force of their blended wills.

“Evil! Show thyself! Come forth to this threshold! Cross from darkness into light! Before the burning fires of goodness drive you forth in terror and in fear!”

The house of cards flared and burst into flame, and Angelique felt her body engulfed by the heat. The charge flowed from her fingertips and streamed from her lips.

“Heart of Fire,” she whispered, “that burns in the Heart of Ice. Fire that freezes and does not consume itself. I summon the Eye of Fire that burns within the Icy Eye and watches over all things evil. I call it to the room of my own choosing. Heart of Fire. Heart of Ice. Fiery eye of coldest Evil. I command you to come. Come, and burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!” Angelique knew the fire was beginning in Phyllis’s room now, snaking across the floor, and the terrified girl was cringing in dread. “Eye of Fire. Heart of Ice. I summon you from the icy waters of the world beyond—”

There was a sound outside her door, footsteps, someone passing down the hall. They paused, and in that instant she thought she saw the knob turning from the pressure of an unseen hand. But at that same moment, Phyllis Wick screamed, “Fire! Help! Someone one help me! Fire!” and the footsteps sped away.

Phyllis Wick rushed down the stairs and into the arms of the jubilant Reverend Trask. He caught her to him, and shouted maniacally, “The Powers of Darkness are conquered now! The Powers of Light are triumphant! Down on your knees, Sorceress! Down! Down! I have the witch! I have the witch!”

As the Reverend Trask led the helpless Phyllis away, Barnabas displayed the first tender emotions Angelique had seen in weeks. Instinctively he seemed to know that the governess was innocent, and to Angelique’s increasing irritation, he assured Phyllis that he would do everything within his capacity to see that she was released.

Barnabas knew something; Angelique could feel it in his manner and see it in the coldness of his gaze. Had he been the phantom outside her door? But if he suspected her, he had no proof. Ben was the only person who knew the truth. Ben was in prison, and if Barnabas were to visit him and Ben uttered one word against her, he would grow mute.

Still, her husband’s glacial manner and hostile responses to all her inquiries took their toll. He appeared to be suppressing a palpable rage, and it filled the air between them with a sour odor. Whenever she spoke to him, he answered with a few indifferent words; and whenever she moved to caress him, he drew away.

At other times, incredibly, he was almost kind to her, and all her hopes rekindled. If he were merely civil, she counted the politeness more than the coldness. When she felt his antipathy, she only hoped that one day he would realize that all she had done was for love of him. Her actions, which might appear so ruthless, were desperate attempts to regain his love by whatever means she could. It would all be worth it if he returned to her again.

One evening, to her complete surprise, he came back after a long day away from the house, and when she asked whether he had been to the shipyards, he answered her with unexpected friendliness. “I seem to have acquired a chill riding home from the village,” he said. “I believe I’ll have a glass of sherry. Will you join me?”

His invitation was so unusual that she was at a loss. He went to the cabinet and took out the goblets. After he had poured the sherry, he handed her the glass, and retired to the chair by the fire. Joyfully she joined him, sitting on the floor at his feet. For a fleeting moment she felt a surge of happiness. Although they had been married for several weeks, they had not yet slept in the same bed, and she was beginning to realize what he had meant when he had told her she must accept marriage to him in the full knowledge that he did not love her. Perhaps tonight things would be different.

“I have a proposal,” she said brightly. “I would like to take a wedding trip. Get away from all this.”

Barnabas’s voice was flat. “I don’t think it’s possible to ever escape everything that has happened here.”

She placed an arm across his knee, felt him flinch, but persevered. “I can make you forget,” she said, smiling up at him.

“How would you do that?”

“By loving you.”

He was watching her intently, and just as she was about to put the sherry to her lips, there was a knock at the door. Angelique rose to open it, and Naomi entered, looking concerned.

“Barnabas. I heard what happened. Are you all right?”

“Yes, perfectly fine.”

“What do you mean?” Angelique inquired.

“Didn’t he tell you? He went to visit Ben in the jail, and that desperate ruffian struck him on the head with a bottle and escaped!”

“You were visiting Ben?” Angelique asked, disturbed by this revelation. What had he discovered?

Barnabas continued to reassure his mother, his mood still affable. “Really, Mother, he did me no harm. In fact, he was actually able to knock some sense into my head.”

Angelique remembered her duties as a hostess and offered Naomi a glass of sherry, which Naomi gratefully accepted, needing something to calm her nerves. Since she had drunk not a sip of her own sherry, Angelique handed her goblet to Naomi and crossed to get another for herself.

Unaccountably, Barnabas became violently agitated and insisted that he could see a chip on the rim of his mother’s goblet. Naomi waved him off and raised the sherry to her mouth, whereas he lurched forward, clumsily knocking the glass from his mother’s hand, spilling the wine on her gown.

“Oh, Mother, forgive me! Look what I’ve done! I’ve ruined your dress.”

“Please, dear, it is nothing,” she responded. Angelique went numb, as suspicion worried its way into her mind. She dabbed at the spilled wine with her napkin, picked up the empty glass, and walked back to the serving table. Running her finger along the edge of the crystal, she discovered no chip. She sniffed the empty goblet and detected the unmistakable odor of poison.

Through the blur in her brain she could hear Naomi telling Barnabas that she had brought with her a package that had just arrived from France. As she watched Barnabas move eagerly toward the parcel, she was amazed at how, even at that moment, she loved him. His movements were vigorous and powerful, and his magnificent face was carved by elegant shadows. Oh, that deceit should dwell in such a gorgeous palace . . .

He leaned over and unwrapped the package with one graceful tug of the paper, stepped back, and breathed a sigh. It was a portrait of Josette.

“There’s a note,” Naomi said, glancing guiltily at Angelique. “What does it say?”

Barnabas read in a strained tone. “When my father insisted this be his wedding present to you, I laughed, and said, ‘Papa, why does Barnabas need a portrait?’ His voice broke at the next words. ‘He will have me.’ ”

Angelique watched as he crumpled the note in his hand, and his shoulders sagged with weariness.

“You still love her, don’t you?” she said. She saw his sorrowful face. “I’m only jealous. It’s painful for me to see you looking at the portrait, when I love you so much.”

“Angelique,” he said grimly, “what do you think love is?”

So he hated her. He wanted her dead. The realization struck her like a blow in the chest, and suddenly she was aware that her heart had turned to stone, as hard and dense as coldest alabaster. She was without feeling. Barnabas was growing insane out of misery, and she was in mortal danger. Grief and suspicion had warped his judgment until now he was her bitterest enemy. She must find a way to protect herself, some way to survive his anger, his plotting, until he had regained some measure of reason. She must be wary now of his every move.

That evening, after they had both retired for the night, she formed the shape of a sleeping body in her bed and hid behind the door of her boudoir. Dreading the worst, and praying that she would be mistaken, she waited in the cold darkness until her limbs were stiff and aching from fatigue. The faint glimmer of moonlight cast flickering shadows across the room and she could see her reflection in the mirror opposite. She was shocked to observe that her image was ghastly and cadaverous, hovering in the gloom, as though it were the true reflection of her soul. Just as she was about to abandon her ambush and sink with weariness, she heard a sound outside her door, and the knob turned slowly. Stealthy, Barnabas entered the chamber and crept toward the bed.

She wanted to weep when she saw the knife raised in his hand, catching the light as it hovered, then plummeted, driven by his rage. Viciously, he stabbed the soft coverings. Then he stopped, puzzled, put down the knife, and jerked the quilts aside to reveal the empty bed. Suddenly, certain she was there, he whirled to face her, his chest heaving, his face glowering with fury.

“Do you hate me so much?” she asked, swallowing a sob.

His voice was venomous. “You are the witch!”

She shook her head helplessly. “I never wanted you to know.”

“I listened, outside your door, when you made Phyllis Wick run from the fire. I heard your incantation. I know everything, now.”

“That I love you? Do you know that? That I love you still? That I will always love you?”

“Love! You and I define that differently, my dear! Your love is like venom! Bizarre! Corrupt! That is not love! It’s obsession— perverse, misguided obsession! You have made me despise myself! You have ruined my life!”

He lunged for her with the knife, but she flung up her hand and stopped him, bracing herself for the flash of fire that spurted through her. As he cried out in pain, she sucked it in before the knife turned in his hand. He hurled it from him and, with a furious growl, reached for her with his bare hands, clawing the air around her neck, struggling to choke her.

But she stood her ground. Her body arched backward as fire flew from her eyes, and she said in a harsh whisper, her cheeks hot with tears, “You cannot kill me. You cannot touch me. I have many powers, Barnabas. Once long ago I tried to warn you, but now I am sorry that you must know the truth. You cannot come near me unless I will it.”

Still he forced his hands toward her, grappling the air, greedy for her flesh, and he said, “I will despise you until I end your life. And I will end it!”

“Put your arms down, Barnabas,” she said. “If I told those same arms to embrace me, they would do so. But I would not be that cruel.”

“Cruel? Have you ever been anything else?” Spittle flew from his mouth, and his lips curved in a snarl. “You turned the only woman I ever loved against me. Unleash all your powers!” he said. “I defy you to do so! Try as you will, you cannot stop me from loving Josette.”

“I would not do that. I would never want you that way. I loved you because you were a man, not a marionette. I would not turn you into that now, even if it was the only way I could have you. When we met in Martinique, you saw me as a woman, not a witch. You desired me, pursued me, loved me. That woman stands before you now.”

“All I see is the vile and rotting flesh beneath your glittering exterior. The witch is still in your heart! Think what you have done!”

“The night I first arrived and came to your room, I had done nothing yet. I had resisted and rejected all my sorcery for years. If you had loved me as you did in Martinique, none of this would have happened. Why did you reject me?”

“I love Josette! Can’t you accept that? My God, Angelique, I lay with you! A vestal virgin would not have made such a fuss. It’s the world’s oldest story, an officer and a peasant girl. I’m sure you roasted plenty of broomsticks before you met me!”

“Villain! How dare you! You are blind to the truth! That first night you made me so angry, I didn’t want to love you anymore. I wanted you . . . yes, I wanted you dead!” She took a breath, trying to relieve the pain in her chest. “But, when I saw you suffering, I couldn’t bear it. I took the spell away! Don’t you see? I love you! I could never, would never harm you.”

“And for this I should pity you? You . . . made . . . Sarah deathly ill, with her toy . . . her little doll and some pins . . . you tricked me into marrying you. . . .” She could see that the full realization of her evil was weakening him now, and he turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

He did not look at her. “I’m leaving this house. I’m going into Collinsport and turning you over to the authorities.”

“No. You will not do anything of the kind.”

He laughed bitterly. “You think we can go on playing as though we were happily married?”

“That is exactly what I think. And as the years go by you will learn that we can have a good life together.”

He turned and stared at her with a look of utter contempt, as though she were out of her mind. His eyes were bloodshot, and he swayed slightly as he listened to her bitter ultimatum.

“If you leave me,” she said, her voice laden with scorn, “if you tell anyone about me, or say anything against me, if you act in any other way than as my attentive husband . . . then something will happen . . . to Josette.”

She saw the blood drain from his face.

“Do you want me to conjure up for you a vision of Josette’s death?”

“No . . .”

“I could do it so easily. It would not be real, but it could become real. For the sake of Josette, you will remain with me. Always.”

Early the next morning, Angelique awoke to thunder that crossed the heavens like a thousand kettledrums struck at once. The wind came up from the earth, and for the whole day, a slow, cold rain fell out of a white sky. A fine drizzle coated the tree limbs with sleeves of ice, and each branch shone like crystal.

Angelique stood at the window and looked out. Everything— tree trunks, bushes, even the path—was coated with ice. The extra weight bowed down the branches of the trees in great arcs, and every tiny twig or bud glistened.

One by one, the branches of the greater trees began to break, snapping under the heavy weight and popping like gunshots. When a branch fell in the still, silent air, the crash was followed by a tinkle like shattered glass.

Slowly, methodically, she drew a pair of eyes on a piece of paper and lit it with a slow-burning flame. “Eyes of the night,” she intoned, “there is a body you can become that can see in the darkness. You have the power to fly on invisible streams of air and hover in silence. Find him. Tell me where he goes. Watch him well.” Shivering from the cold, she walked outside the house and looked up at the chimney glazed with ice. The bats had not ventured out in the storm, and she could hear their squeaking voices, twittering and chirping, as they fed their young and settled for sleep. She pressed the loose brick, and it cracked sideways, exposing the smoky interior. The dim light revealed the silken bodies huddled together, clinging upside down to the walls, their papery wings folded upward over their backs and their red eyes staring out at her.

Just as she had suspected, it was not long before Barnabas arranged an interview with Josette at the new house. The scene played across Angelique’s tortured mind as she heard and watched it all. Josette was more beautiful than ever in her indigo-velvet dress and her mourning lace, a black mantilla veiling her lustrous hair.

“I know you never willingly deceived me,” Barnabas was saying.

“My marriage, even then, seemed like a dream.”

“I have made a terrifying discovery. None of this was your fault. There was a spell cast over you, by a witch!”

“A witch? You can’t mean that? Who would hate me that much? And why?”

“Even now the witch is watching and plotting your death.”

“What shall I do?”

“I will protect you. You must not be afraid.”

Angelique watched as Barnabas gave Josette the jeweled music box that played the lilting melody, and Josette’s eyes lit up with delight. “It’s beautiful . . .”

“It was to be my wedding present to you. Please keep it as a reminder of me. I will be with you again very soon.”

“I’m so frightened.”

“You must trust me. Tell the driver to stop at the inn just outside of Portsmouth. I will come to you there.”

“But I have the feeling that you are the one in danger. That if I leave you now, I may never see you again.”

“The next time you see me I will no longer be married to Angelique. I cannot say any more.”

“Are you sure this is not good-bye?”

“Think of me and know that I love you. Very much.”

Then Angelique saw him take Josette in his arms and kiss her tenderly, and her blood raged with fire.

When Barnabas returned he was implacable and refused to respond to Angelique’s accusations. He ignored her smoldering anger and busied himself with a lacquered box which he kept inside his secretary, turning his back on her tirade.

“You have made a great mistake, Barnabas Collins. You have already betrayed me. You think if you send Josette away, she will be safe. Look behind you!”

Glancing up indifferently, he saw her pointing toward Josette’s portrait. He could not help but recoil in horror as the fresh demure image of the dark-haired girl was transformed before his eyes to a withered hag, the skin raveled and rotted, the mouth a bloody toothless grin. Angelique saw him start, then compose himself, and he turned back to her with an imperturbable stare. “Spare me your pitiful tricks,” he said coldly. “I will not be frightened.”

“You have already been unfaithful to me!”

“I have not,” he responded wearily.

“You have seen her alone. What treachery have the two of you devised?”

“None.”

“I don’t believe you! You are lying to me, just as you lied to me in Martinique, and you will go on lying to me.” The more passive Barnabas remained, the more Angelique raged inside. She felt herself losing control, as though she were in a treacherous undertow and the sand was slipping beneath her feet. “You sent her away so that you could go to her as soon as you have killed me!”

Barnabas turned, and she saw that his expression was one of such complete loathing that she felt as though he had slapped her across the face. Her cheeks flared with the heat from the imagined blow, and her eyes filled with hot tears.

“You think by sending her away you can prevent me from keeping you here? Josette may be safe. But no one else is!” She flew for the stairs and raced to the landing. She had stopped breathing, and her chest was in a vise. Running to her room and turning out a drawer, she grabbed Sarah’s doll, still hidden beneath her clothes. Black waves drowned her thinking.

The next thing she knew, she was standing before Barnabas, the doll and the hatpins in her fingers. “Sarah had a terrible pain, didn’t she? Here!” She jabbed the cotton shoulder of the little effigy with the wicked lance. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Barnabas flinch. “And here!” She pierced the doll again, feeling it quiver in her hand.

Her eyes burned and her vision blurred, as she hissed in a snake’s voice, “This pin is aimed at her heart. She will not die unless you deceive me again, but she will come close. Very close.”

By then Barnabas was begging her. She could hear the supplicating tone, the anguish. “Stop it! Please, please stop. Remove the pins, I beg you! I will do anything you want. I will never leave you!”

But she could no longer hear him. The blood was rushing through her ears and pounding in her head. She heard herself say, “I don’t believe you.”

He fumbled with something in the box in his secretary and wheeled on her. She saw him raise the gun and aim it, and she looked into the eye of the muzzle. She saw a flash of light and heard a barking retort. She reeled with the blow. The bullet ruptured her shoulder, which spurted blood, and she felt her body turn to water as she slid slowly to the floor. In a vague stupor she saw Barnabas, his blackened form, his wide stance, warp and fade, as her vision misted and she tasted blood. His towering shape reached for the doll, and his shaking fingers removed the pins one by one. Then he stood and backed away from her unsteadily.

She knew she was dying. Blood oozed between her fingers, and the wound was like a tentacled creature radiating pain through her body enveloped in a great swelling cloud of hatred. She searched deep within her for some curse, some irrevocable pronouncement of doom, before the end came. The Cata fluttered, arrhythmic, fading, but the huge Maman pumped stronger than ever, and she knew in her violent stupor that the Dark One had come to witness her prayer for revenge. The floor beneath her dissolved, and she felt as though she were floating upward into billowing clouds of smoke. Pain swept through her, and a voluminous ball of fire exploded in her deepest core, funneling out her mouth.

Barnabas wavered at the blast of her breath as though it were a wind of flame, and she could no longer see his face. He was floating on dark undulating waves, and she could hear the water rushing, rushing, as she strained to speak.

“You didn’t do the job well enough, Barnabas!” she gasped. “I am not dead yet! And while I can still breathe, I will have my revenge! I set a curse on you, Barnabas Collins! You wanted your Josette so much—well, you shall have her. But not in the way you have chosen. You will never rest. And you will never be able to love anyone. For whoever loves you will die. That is my curse! And you will live with it through all eternity!”

Somewhere in the dim recesses of the room, the casement slowly opened, and out of the darkness the bat fluttered, chattering, jerking, looping above Barnabas’s head, reeling in a gyre, diving for his neck. He saw the creature and lifted his hands in a feeble gesture, his expression one of confusion, then horror, as the beady eyes glittered crimson, and the sharp teeth gleamed like tiny daggers. He waved it away, but it came on, ducking from his blows, striking again and again, until it landed, flapping against his neck, clinging there, and his eyes widened in terror as he felt the teeth ripping his flesh. He screamed a gasping, wrenching howl that was the final cry of doom.

When Angelique regained consciousness, she was lying on the floor where she had fallen, in a pool of her own blood. She dragged herself to her feet, her head reeling from the pain, one leaden thought pulsing in her brain. She was not going to die. She knew that now. The wound was deep, but it was not fatal, and something had happened, something hideous and irreversible, that was her own doing, that she must find some way to prevent. Clinging to the banister, she slowly, with great effort, pulled herself up the stairs.

Outside the door to Barnabas’s room, she could hear Ben saying to him, “Anyone who’s lost as much blood as she has would have to be dead.” Somehow she managed to stagger into the room, clutching for the wall to keep from falling, and confront Ben’s astonished expression.

Barnabas lay on the bed in a sweating fever, his hollow eyes clouded with delirium. Two deep gashes on his neck streamed a dark stain. “How is he?” she said to Ben; and when she spoke, she felt she would swoon.

“He’s almost dead, thanks to you.”

“No! I don’t want him to die! If he does . . .”

Barnabas stirred at her voice, then stared at her, fiercely accusing, and rasped, “A curse . . . she put a curse on me . . . she made a bat appear . . .”

“He’s been rambling on about being bitten by a bat,” said Ben incredulously. “Did a bat do that to him?” He pointed to the fang marks, and she nodded slowly.

“What kind of a monster are you?” Ben asked, his face contorted with disbelief.

“You don’t know how sorry I am,” she said in a trembling voice. “I thought he had killed me—but I’m not going to die— and—I don’t want the curse to overpower him. I must care for him, nurse him, find some way to cure him, because if he dies, there will be no way to remove the curse, and . . .”

“What? What will happen to him?”

“Something . . . irreversible. If he dies, he won’t die completely . . . he will become . . . one of the living dead.”

“What? Dead people don’t come back to life!”

“Yes, they do, Ben. They return as monsters, and when they return, they are cursed with eternal life!”

Never had there been a potion she had made with such care. She created an antidote as powerful as death itself, with ancient powders brought from Martinique. Then she went to the chimney and removed the loose brick. Reaching into the cavern, she felt for a sleeping bat and closed her hand around the struggling body; she drew it out and, holding it to her breast, carried it back to her room. There, as it clawed at her hand, she pierced its heart and milked its blood into the tankard.

Sitting by Barnabas’s bedside, she waited for him to wake. He was delirious, and mumbled, “Josette . . . wait for me . . . I am coming. . . .” Then his eyes fastened on Angelique, and in shuddering spasms, he cried out, “Get away from me! Witch! Murderess! Don’t touch me!”

Her heart aching, Angelique knew she would do anything now to save him, even send for Josette. She was drained of all desire for revenge, and, finally, her love was stronger even than her jealousy. She leaned in to him. “Tell me where she is,” she said, “and I will bring her to you.”

But his eyes flared, and he gasped, “No! You will never find her! She is safe from you now!” Then he fell back, exhausted, murmuring, “Josette . . . I’ll come to you . . . nothing will stop me. . . .” After a few moments of tortured breathing, he became limp, and whispered hoarsely, “Something terrible is happening to me, I can feel some horrible change. . . .”

Angelique spoke to him softly. “I am going to help you.”

“Can you stop it? Can you stop this dreadful thing?”

“Yes,” she said. “I won’t let it happen. I will save you. I promise.” She lifted the tankard to his lips. “Drink this. It will help you. I’ll hold it while you drink. Drink slowly.”

“Will it stop this . . . ripping . . . I feel through my body?”

“Yes. It must!” And as he drank, she said softly to herself, too softly for him to hear, “If only you had loved me, as you did once.”

She stroked his brow, and said, “Close your eyes.” She pressed her fingertips into his forehead and tried to lift the darkness into her hands. His skin was clammy, and the dark tendrils of hair were matted against his brow. She felt the strands of the curse beginning the metamorphosis, poisoning his blood, and she strained to draw them into herself. “Close your eyes,” she said, “and open them only when I tell you.”

“Let me sleep. If only I could sleep . . .” he murmured.

“Yes, sleep now. You are going to survive. Can you feel it now? The potion is working. Don’t open your eyes until I tell you to.”

“No, I don’t want to open my eyes. . . .”

Tremulously, with faint hope and sinking dread, Angelique walked to the window. She reached for the heavy scarlet drape and, taking a quick breath, heaved it back. Sunlight streamed into the room, flashing on all the surfaces, flowing across the bed.

“Open your eyes, Barnabas, now!”

He writhed, jerking his head back and forth. “I don’t want to open my eyes. . . .”

“Open them!”

He did, for only a moment, and when he saw the sunlight, he screamed in agony, the shriek of a creature in mortal pain, and covered his face with his hands.

“It’s too late,” she said, letting the curtain fall. “What’s done cannot be undone.”