Clare let the curtain fall and turned away, her heart aching. She knew how this whole story was going to play out. She knew that what she'd just witnessed was the beginning of the end of the Iceni as a free people. The end of a way of life for the tribe. It made her unexpectedly, ineffably sad.

"You weep," Connal said quietly. She'd almost forgotten he was there.

Clare brushed the back of her hand over her cheeks and sniffed. "Yeah. So what."

He crossed the s.p.a.ce between them and put a finger under her chin, lifting her face upward. He wasn't that much taller than she was, but he was so close she had to crane her neck to look into his eyes. He smelled of pine needles and fresh-cut herbs and clean air. Another tear spilled down Clare's cheek as she stared up at him. He caught it on the end of his finger and touched it to the tip of his tongue-as if to make sure the tears were real. "I did not think the Fair Folk wept."

"I guess you thought wrong."

Clare felt her heart start to hammer in her chest. Of course it was in fear, she told herself. It had absolutely nothing to do with the extreme proximity of the tanned and muscled, wildly handsome young man cupping her face in his hand. He was close enough that even in the dimness she could tell the colour of his eyes-rich, dark brown-and make out the intricate, swirling patterns on the tiny gold earring he wore. Her heart pounded even harder.

Almost as if he'd heard it, Connal touched the pulse point under her jaw. Then his fingertips traced a path down her throat, opposite to where the searing sting of his sword had made her bleed, and he flattened his palm against her skin just above the neckline of her summer dress. She waited, breathless, as he c.o.c.ked his head, listening to and feeling the pounding of her heart.

"Your heart beats as mine does. Your blood flows beneath your skin. And yet you are not of this world."

"Not ... exactly," Clare whispered, her mouth gone sandpaper dry.

"But you are very beautiful." Connal moved his hand up to her hair, running his fingers through the golden-brown waves. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "You smell like flowers," he said.

I smell like Pantene Pro-V Extra Volume, Clare thought faintly. But she didn't think that would translate into Iceni.

Outside, in the distance, she could hear Prasutagus's funeral pyre begin to crackle loudly.

"Connal ... that's your name, isn't it?" Clare needed to break the tension of the moment somehow. She just might snap if she didn't find a way to make him back off a step or two. Saying his name out loud seemed to do it.

"How ..." he almost asked the question. But of course Clare was a creature of magic and mystery for him, and so why shouldn't she know his name? She didn't tell him that it had been plain old eavesdropping. He bowed his head a little. "Aye. That is what I am called." Then his eyes flicked back up to her face and a small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "May I be so bold as to ask what I should call you? Perhaps if we became better acquainted-if I knew your name-I would be less inclined to thrust a sword at you the next time we meet."

Uh ... Clare blinked. Is he flirting with me?

Not that it mattered-whether he was or not, Clare already felt herself answering his smile with a shy one of her own. "I'd like that," she said. "My name is Clare. Clarinet, really."

Dude, said a small, disgusted voice in the back of her mind. Telling him your full name? I don't even know you. She silently told the voice to shut up. Even though she might have secretly agreed with it. She certainly didn't recognize herself as she stood there making small talk with a guy dressed in buckskin who'd just drawn a sword on her for the second time. But then, Clare wasn't used to a lot of what had happened to her in the last few days. And Connal was absolutely magnetic. Probably why she couldn't seem to move away from him ...

But when he reached a hand out to touch the floaty material that gathered in a ruffle down the front of her dress (in curiosity, sure, but still-hands!) Clare shook herself out of her trancelike state and spun around, intending to walk briskly toward the door. She needed s.p.a.ce. She needed air.

Connal put a hand on her shoulder and she froze in her tracks. It wasn't his grip that stopped her-it was gentle-it was the mere fact of his touch. "Come by the fire, Clarinet. Please."

No. No no ... Fire was not air. Fire was farther from the door. Farther from the air Clare so desperately needed.

"Please," he said again, leading her unprotestingly-why wasn't she protesting?-back toward the couch by the little sunken fire pit. "I have been terribly inhospitable and I have hurt you. Let me make amends. I do not want the Fair Folk angry with me. I do not want you angry."

"I'm ... I'm not ..." Clare murmured. She wasn't what? Angry? Well ... maybe not anymore. When he'd first attacked her, sure. But that was pretty understandable. And really, for a first-century barbarian in a savage, untamed land, Connal was being pretty civilized at the moment. She watched as he stoked the fire back to life and swung a small cauldron on a metal arm over the flames. Then he crushed a handful of herbs from the bunched sheaves hanging from the rafters into a shallow bronze bowl. He fetched a clean sc.r.a.p of cloth from a basket, tore it in two, and pressed a strip of it to the cut on her neck. It came away stained bright red and Clare felt a little queasy at the sight. Connal folded the sc.r.a.p of linen carefully and set it aside. Then he poured warm water from the cauldron over the herbs in the bowl and soaked the other piece of cloth in the infusion. A soothing, medicinal fragrance filled the little room.

Clare realized that her eyes were closed when she felt the heat from the wet cloth seeping into her skin and heard Connal murmuring words in a sing-song chant under his breath. She caught the gist that they were an incantation of sorts-a healing spell of some kind-and it reminded her that she was sitting in front of a Druid. A magician. A sorcerer. It made her curious.

"How did you know?" she asked as his hands moved deftly along her skin. "In the grove that night-Comorra's celebration-how did you know I was there?" She opened her eyes and found him staring at her intently, as though he was trying to read a sign written in a foreign language. "I thought Comorra was the only one who could see me."

Connal dropped his gaze and shrugged, frowning faintly. "I do not know. I am Druiddyn and we are trained to be sensitive to the spirit world. I just ... felt your presence. As if there was someone standing in a crowd-someone I knew-who was staring at me."

Clare felt a shiver run up her spine. Freaking Druids ...

"I've only ever felt that sensation once before," Connal mused quietly. He shook his head and smiled at her. "Never mind. There. The bleeding has stopped."

Clare knew what other time he was talking about-the night in the forge when Lla.s.sar had finished making Comorra's brooch. She remembered Lla.s.sar maybe sensing her, too-but not in the way Connal had. She decided not to mention it. She didn't want Connal to think she spent all her time lurking around unseen in the Iceni village.

Connal reached for a small jar of something pungent and dabbed it on her neck. "This," he said, "will help it heal without scarring."

"Oh ..." Clare hadn't thought of that. How was she going to explain this to Maggie? That she'd cut herself shaving?

Connal laughed at her expression. "Unless you want a scar." "I really don't." She laughed a little too. Explaining a mark on her neck would be the least of her worries when she got back. If she got back. She'd been gone for a long time, it seemed ...

Her gaze drifted to the small metal bowl in Connal's hands. It was decorated with the same sort of swirling patterns that Clare recognized from the shield, the torc, and Comorra's brooch. He handled it carefully, she noticed. As if it were special. Powerful. Her neck barely felt sore at all anymore. Almost like magic.

"That's pretty," she said, pointing to the bowl.

"Thank you." Connal inclined his head. "I made it."

"Oh!" Clare was surprised at that. "You mean you're a metal guy, too? Like Lla.s.sar?"

Connal's gaze snapped up to her face. "You know the master smith?"

"Uh ... I know of him." She should really watch just how much she said.

"I'm not surprised that word of his talent has reached even to the lands of the tylwyth teg. He is among the most talented of the Druiddyn artisans ever to have lived," Connal said reverently. "His skills at melding magic and metal are legendary. He was sent here by our order to serve Boudicca. Just as I was. We are both bound to her in loyalty and service for as long as the queen lives."

"You're not from around here?" Me neither, she thought silently.

"I was born a prince among my own tribe, the Dyfnient, in the mountains far to the west of here. A beautiful place, shrouded in mist and secrets."

He must mean Wales, Clare thought. Her aunt had always described it as being something out of a storybook.

"May the sword and flame of Rome leave their lands forever untouched."

"Why did you leave?"

"I showed an apt.i.tude. With both metal and magic. So the Druid of my tribe sent me here. To learn from two masters. Lla.s.sar taught me how to shape metal and Boudicca taught me how to use it. And they both taught me how to use magic. How to call down the gifts of the G.o.ddess Andrasta."

Boudicca? A Druid? A sorceress in her own right? Al had left that part out of the history lesson.

"I thought all Druids did was gather mistletoe and sing poetry and make potions. I didn't know they ever really got their hands dirty."

Connal laughed curtly. "Oh ... we are quite capable of, as you say, getting our hands dirty. And b.l.o.o.d.y, if need be."

He reached out a hand-a very gentle hand-to brush the hair away from her shoulders.

"Although I prefer to keep my hands clean," he said as he ran his fingertips down her arms and lifted her hands toward his face. He turned them over in his own, running the pad of his thumb lightly over the lines of her palms as if divining her future. "Like yours. So clean and smooth ..."

Clare held her breath as he raised her hand and pressed it to his cheek, which was rough with stubble. His nostrils flared and she wondered if he could smell the perfume she'd put on that morning. She wondered if he liked it, if he could ...

"You have no calluses. Your hands have never held a sword, Shining One," he murmured as he turned his head, almost as if he would plant a kiss on her wrist. "Are you not warriors in your world?"

Suddenly the leather flap curtaining Connal's door was pushed aside and Clare felt her heart leap into her throat. Connal was startled too, but they both relaxed in the next moment as Comorra ducked through the door. The princess pulled up short in surprise at finding the young Druid with such an unexpected house guest. In such close proximity. Comorra's eyes were bright with weeping and they flicked back and forth between Connal, who still held Clare by the wrist, and Clare.

"Comorra!" Connal rose swiftly and held out a hand for her, drawing her over by the brazier and sitting her down on one of the low stools. "Come. Sit down. I think you know my guest?"

The princess nodded at him, her eyes never leaving Clare's face. "I missed you at my father's farewell, Connal ..."

"It's my fault," Clare said. "I wanted to visit you again, Comorra. I had no idea it was such ... bad timing. I sort of accidentally surprised your Druid friend here and we had a bit of a ... misunderstanding." She gestured at her bandage. "But it's all cleared up now."

Comorra's gaze flicked to Clare's neck wound and then over to Connal, who'd gone to fetch a small earthen jug and mugs. The tense set of her shoulders relaxed a bit.

"I'm really sorry about your father."

The princess ducked her head and nodded silent thanks as Connal poured out some kind of thick, foamy drink into the cups. He gave one to the princess and held one out for Clare. But as she reached out to take it, inside her head she heard a cry so sharp it caused her actual pain.

"Milo!" Al's voice cut through her mind.

Simultaneously, she heard the cry of a raven outside the window.

"d.a.m.n!" Clare exclaimed as the cup dropped through the s.p.a.ce where her hand had been only a moment before, spilling its contents on Connal's rug. "Sorry ..." Her apology faded into the darkness as, right before the astonished eyes of Comorra and Connal, she shimmered out of existence.

13.

"Milo!" the raven's voice echoed, harsh and angry in her ears.

No ... that's Al's voice.

Clare's head spun dizzily.

When the disorientation seeped away and she opened her eyes, Clare was cautiously pleased to find that-in her world-the sun still shone through the wall of tinted windows, the sky was still blue, and London was still there. Apparently she had managed yet another successful shimmer into the past and back again. All without altering the timeline. At least, not appreciably. Everything seemed normal and exactly as she had left it.

Well ... not exactly everything.

For one thing, there was a large scorch mark on the carpet where the laptop had had a meltdown. The smell of burning synthetic fibres hung in the air and a sputtering fire extinguisher lay on its side on the floor. Clare would have to remember to be careful around electronics when shimmering in the future, she thought in the seconds before she realized the other thing that was different.

Milo was lying face down on the floor, with Al and Stuart Morholt facing off over his unmoving form. For a brief moment Clare started to panic, thinking Milo was dead-that Morholt had shot him-all while she'd been busy heavy-breathing over someone else in the far-distant past. But then she saw that his chest was definitely rising up and down as he drew breath and she went weak-kneed with relief. And guilt. Not that she thought-in any reality, or any timeline, no matter how far-fetched-that she had any kind of shot with Milo. Still ...

Clare turned to Al, who stood rigid, hands balled into fists, glowering at Morholt. "Did Milo pull teenage 'girl power' bravado c.r.a.p after I left?" Clare asked.

"Yeah," Al said sourly. "He did. And then Ninja a.s.sa.s.sin here karate-chopped him."

"It was judo." Morholt rolled his eyes. "And I'm not about to apologize for taking corrective behaviour against an impulsive young fool. There's a time and place for gallantry. That was neither."

"You sonofa-"

"Language, Miss Reid." Morholt tutted. "He'll live. Let's see if you two can manage the same feat." He glanced at the smouldering laptop and his lip twitched. "Interesting. It seems your ability throws a mean electrical charge upon activation. I dare say you'd short-circuit just about anything you came into contact with that had a live current running through it. You're a veritable walking thundercloud, my dear." He smiled at his little joke. "Something to keep in mind for our future jaunts, eh?"

"What exactly do you mean by 'our future jaunts'?"

"In good time. Now. Let's have some answers. Where did you go and what did you see?"

Clare felt her jaw clenching. She didn't want to tell him. Sharing the intimate details of Comorra's father's funeral with someone like Stuart Morholt ... well, it just seemed like a further betrayal of the princess. And her grieving mother,Boudicca. I could lie, Clare thought. Make up the details. Fudge the truth ...

But Morholt's eyes narrowed at her as Clare hesitated, and she knew that, with his knowledge of the ancient Celtic world, he would probably see through any lame-a.s.s story she could make up.

"What did you see?" he asked again, less gently this time.

Clare took a deep breath and told him everything.

WELL ... SHE MAY HAVE left out a few of the less important details about a certain flirting Druid. Still, once Clare got into the telling of the tale, even Al seemed to forget her righteous indignation and listened, rapt.

"There's one thing I don't understand-why did she give the Romans Prasutagus's torc?" Al wondered when Clare had finished. "And why did your Druid pal say she'd started a war by doing that?"

"It was an insult," Morholt murmured, half to himself.

Al raised an eyebrow. "A big, shiny, gold insult?"

"On such an occasion," he explained, "it should have been the Romans bringing Boudicca gifts. By giving them one instead, she was pointedly drawing attention to that breach of etiquette and respect. And by making it a gift of such richness, of such significance, she was adding insult to injury. In the eyes of the Iceni, Rome and their emperor would have lost face-hugely-because of it. And even though it may not have been the Roman custom, that officer surely would have understood Boudicca's intentions in the context of Celtic tribal traditions. He would have been perfectly well aware that she was flouting Rome's authority and sending a message that she, as queen, would not be as biddable as her husband before her."

Clare shook her head in admiration. "Wow. That was pretty ... um ..."

"b.a.l.l.sy?" Morholt said dryly. "We are talking about Boudicca here."

"Yeah. I guess that was the word I was looking for." She sat down on the edge of the desk, feeling suddenly exhausted from everything she'd been through in the last few hours. "Are we done here? You got your in-depth report about what life was like back in the day. Can't you just leave us alone now?"

"No ..." Morholt's expression had started out thoughtful. Now it looked as if he was hatching a nefarious plan. Clare felt her stomach clench in apprehension. "No," he said again, "I don't think I'll be doing that."

"What?"

"I shall require your services, Miss Reid."

"What?" Clare gaped at him. "After all that? Look-you know now that I don't have some kind of power of invisibility, so you know I'm no use to you."

"We shall see about that. Let's go." He motioned Clare toward the elevator.

"I can't go anywhere," she said. "Because whatever it is you want from me, I can't shimmer without Al."

"Oh please. Do you think me a fool?"

"You don't want to know what I think of you," Clare muttered sourly. "Believe me or not, I don't care. Irregardless, I can't do my little magic trick without her."