"And you're in love with her, you dumb-a.s.s!" Clare shouted. A thick, shocked silence descended on the three of them.

"He's ... what?" Comorra asked quietly.

"In love with you." Clare took a deep breath. "If you kill yourself, Comorra, it will wreck him. Utterly. Believe me on this one. So there you go-there's another casualty of war. And sure, in the grand scheme of things, whoop-dee-doo, who gives a c.r.a.p about some dude's broken heart. But what about the not-so-grand scheme? Doesn't love count for something? Do you think all this ... this carnage would have happened if the Romans hadn't taken Prasutagus away from your mother? If she hadn't been so blinded by grief maybe she would have found a way to work things out with the governor instead of goading him to war." Clare shrugged helplessly. "I don't know. Maybe not. Maybe two people alone in the darkness can't generate enough light to drive it back. But maybe they can be a beacon for others. A candle in the window at midnight, you know? I mean, they can at least be there for each other, right?"

"Connal ...?" Comorra's expression warred with itself-as if she didn't dare to hope. But it also looked as though her grip on the cup might have loosened a little.

"And, by the way, she's in love with you, too!" Clare turned on the Druid prince. "And if you'd both take a second and stop being all n.o.ble and stubborn and ridiculous, you'd realize it. And you'd do something about it."

"But the war ..." Comorra protested weakly.

"To h.e.l.l with the war! It'll go on with or without you two around to join in the fun. It's already ruined enough lives. Don't let it ruin yours." Clare glared at the Druid prince. "Connal, you once told me you'd die for Comorra-"

"No." Connal slashed the air with his hand and turned to Comorra. "I will not die for you."

Comorra stared at him, unshed tears r.i.m.m.i.n.g her wide blue eyes.

Clare held her breath.

Suddenly, in half a dozen strides, Connal was across the room and towering over Comorra where she sat hunched on the floor. He reached down, s.n.a.t.c.hed the goblet from her hand, and hurled it across the hall. Then he grasped Comorra by her shoulders and hauled her to her feet.

"I will not die for you," he whispered fiercely, inches from her face. "That was what your mother wanted me to do. But she is no longer my queen. You are. And I tell you I will not die for you. But I will live for you. We will leave this place. We will run, hide, fight another day ... but we will live. Together."

Comorra stared up at Connal, speechless and flushed.

"Clarinet is right. I do love you." He smiled gently down at her. "I have loved you since I was fourteen years old, Princess."

Clare blinked in astonishment. So Milo wasn't the only one who carried a slow-burn torch.

"I never dared say it before, because I always knew my destiny was in your mother's hands." Connal took Comorra's hands in his and turned her palms upward. "It is in yours now. As is my heart. Come away with me."

In the next instant Comorra was kissing him and crying and Connal's strong arms were wrapping around her in a fierce embrace. Clare grinned and tried to find something interesting to look at in the pattern of the rug.

"Hey ..." she said after a few moments, "I don't mean to interrupt, but I have to get going. I just wanted to give this back to you first, Princess." With her gloved hand Clare reached into the pocket where she'd stashed Comorra's brooch. In all the craziness she'd forgotten to leave it back in the tomb. But as it turned out, this was a much better way to return it. She tossed it lightly through the air and the red stone of the raven's eye reflected the firelight, winking at her before Comorra caught it.

Outside, high above their heads, a raven perched on the peaked roof of Boudicca's Great Hall called Clare's name. At the sound of that harsh, imperative cry, Clare felt herself turning to stardust and shadows in front of her Iceni friends' eyes. She raised a hand in farewell and smiled as Connal put his arm around Comorra. She hoped with all her heart that he would never let go.

27.

Milo's blond hair fell over his forehead as he sat against the base of a shattered display case. Connal's silver bracelet was gone, leaving only a fading red welt circling his wrist.

"It vanished," Al told her. "Just before you came back. That's how I figured you'd done it."

The one that had been in her pocket was gone, too. As if it had never existed.

Milo raised his head wearily and smiled at her. Clare dropped to her knees in front of him and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing his name into his hair.

"Hey ..." he murmured weakly as he pulled her close. "Hey, Clare de Lune ... don't cry. The guy had a point after all ..."

"What?"

He smiled at her, blue eyes clear and full of nothing but Milo. "I would have fought just as hard to be with you if I'd been him."

"You're not him."

"Well ... no. Not anymore."

"And you don't have to fight to be with me." She grinned and wiped the tears off her cheeks as she helped him to stand. "Just ask me out on a date."

A slow, shy smile spread across Milo's face, and for a second Clare thought he would back off a step, or maybe quip disarm-ingly. But then he bent his head and kissed her. Clare gasped and closed her eyes so she could watch the fireworks going off in her head at the touch of his lips against hers.

"Tomorrow night," he whispered in her ear. "I'll pick you up at seven o'clock. Dinner, dancing ..." He glanced down at where the wound Boudicca's sword had made still seeped blood through his shirt. "... slow dancing, and no Druids allowed. Deal?"

Clare suddenly, fervently wished she could travel forward through time. "Deal," she whispered back, and kissed him again.

"Right." Morholt's voice floated over to them, intruding ma.s.sively on the moment. "How romantic. Lovely, yes. Look, can someone please cut me loose? I'm losing feeling in both major and minor extremities."

Al snorted. "I think we should leave him right where he is."

Clare sighed, seriously contemplating it. He was still d.a.m.ned annoying, but at least he wasn't splattered all over the gallery. She disentangled herself from Milo's embrace. "Let's cut him loose."

Maggie crossed her arms and glared balefully in Morholt's direction.

"He's just going to stand there and whine if we don't," Clare said, rolling an eye at him. "You're welcome."

They cut Morholt free and removed his plastique vest. Al stood watch over him with the cricket bat while Maggie patched up the gash over Milo's ribs and Clare slumped against a display case, exhausted. Dr. Jenkins was still unconscious and utterly unresponsive. Maggie thought she might have lapsed into some kind of shock-induced coma. Clare was struggling with feeling sorry for her. Or Morholt.

After they cut Morholt free, the five of them stood gazing around at the ruins of the Ancient Britain display room.

Milo kicked aside a shard of gla.s.s and picked up Boudicca's discarded sword, waving it at the devastation. "We're gonna have a h.e.l.l of a time explaining this to Scotland Yard," he said.

Maggie shook her head. "Leave that to me. I'll tell them Ceciley's off her chump and has been displaying extremely odd behaviour lately. That she had some misguided notion that the Claxton Spectral Warriors exhibit was disrespectful to the dead. After all, she'll not be telling tales of demonic possession and Druid blood curses. And if she does? They'll find her a nice quiet room in a nice quiet inst.i.tution, I dare say. I think we can safely convince the authorities that you lot were visiting me at work and that when she went on her rampage we just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Clare winced at the turn of phrase.

"Sorry, duckling," Maggie patted her arm. "You know what I mean."

"Right!" Morholt suddenly smacked his palms together and rubbed his hands vigorously. He took a few steps in the direction of the exit. "Cheerio, then. Speaking of the authorities, I rather suspect that my presence here-seeing as how Scotland Yard considers me deceased-would only serve to complicate things. We don't want the police looking into this in any more detail than is absolutely necessary, don't you agree, Magda?"

Clare glanced at her aunt, who seemed ... conflicted. "Mags?" She would go along with whatever decision Maggie made. Clare suspected that, deep down, her aunt might still harbour some kind of feelings for Morholt, and she wasn't going to press her on the issue.

But then Milo glanced around and said, "Where's the torc?"

They looked over to see Morholt creeping away, his knapsack clutched tightly to his chest.

"Open that," Maggie said in a flatly accusatory voice.

"I will not." Morholt stiffened as if such a suggestion were an affront to his dignity.

"Al ..." Clare called over her shoulder.

With a look of pure delight Al hefted the cricket bat and strode toward Morholt with all the menace of a security guard advancing on a stoner at a rock concert. "You. Utter. Slimeball!" She yanked away the knapsack and pulled out the drawstring bag full of treasure from Boudicca's barrow. And the Snettisham Great Torc-Clare could clearly see its outline through the canvas. But now, with the swiftness of a striking serpent, Morholt s.n.a.t.c.hed the bag right back.

"Drop it!" Clare snapped, reaching for it.

"I will not!" Morholt pulled out a bronze Iceni dagger and waved it at Clare. "I haven't been thwarted, attacked, kidnapped, plastique-wrapped, near-exploded, and generally abused by smarty-pants teenagers just to walk away from this nightmare with nothing to show for it. I'm leaving and I'm taking my little bag of souvenirs with me!"

Clare went rage-blind. She threw herself at Morholt, grabbing the canvas bag. The drawstring pulled open, the great torc dropped toward the floor, and without thinking Clare reached and caught it mid-air at the same time as Morholt did.

Clare's shimmering triggered the instant she grabbed hold of the torc. Only this time it was different. This time, she had company. Clare found herself hurtling through a stomach-churning, vertiginous maelstrom of sparkling darkness as she struggled to free the torc from Morholt's grip.

Suddenly Clare felt a jolt of pain, sharp enough to make her s.n.a.t.c.h her hand away. "Son of a-" she yelped, and in that instant-just as the lightning began to flare-the shimmering abruptly stopped. Milo lunged for her as if she stood at the brink of a precipice and pulled her to his chest.

"Clare!" Maggie cried out. "What happened?"

"He bit me!" Clare shook her hand and glared at the stinging, livid impressions of teeth stamped like tiny crescent moons into her flesh.

"Where's Morholt?" Al asked, staring at the empty s.p.a.ce where the self-proclaimed Druid had stood only a moment before. He was gone. So was the bag of treasure. So was Boudicca's torc.

Clare cast her mind back to that instant just before she'd let go of the torc. What had she seen? She remembered a flash-a momentary impression-of moonlight glinting on water, far off in the distance. And the smell of the sea.

"Clare?" Al laid a hand on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" "Yeah. I think so ..."

"And Stuart?" Maggie wondered.

"How far is Snettisham from the sea?" Clare asked.

"It's right on the coast," Milo answered.

"I think I know how Boudicca's torc got buried there," she said wonderingly. "I think that's where I left him."

Maggie and Milo exchanged a glance. Al patted her on the shoulder.

"I can't get him back." She shrugged helplessly.

No brooch. No silver cuffs. No torc. And although the Battersea Shield, safe in the restoration room in the bas.e.m.e.nt of the museum, might still get her back, there was no sure way of finding Morholt if it did. Besides, Clare knew what had happened to the shield-and she definitely wasn't going to risk a one-way trip to the bottom of the ancient Thames ... not for Stuart Morholt.

She really hoped, for his sake, that Stu was as handy with his real Iceni dagger as he'd been with his fake James Bond gun.

OUTSIDE THE MUSEUM, dawn was breaking in a silent, pastel-soft sky. Maggie had called the police and the group went out onto the front steps to wait for them to arrive. Milo held Clare by the hand. Al walked at her other side. The two cousins were arguing over the top of her head.

"Seriously," Al was saying, "chaos theory is no laughing matter, Mi-"

"Oh, don't give me that line about 'the beating of a b.u.t.ter-fly's wings,' cuz. It's poetic nonsense." Milo snorted. "And Jura.s.sic Park was just silly."

"So ... what then?" Al countered. "You think this whole thing was a closed-loop event? What about ripple effect?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of quantum-"

"Guys!" Clare's head felt as though it were coming off her shoulders. "Really, are apes ruling the planet? Is it raining doughnuts? Are dinosaurs roaming the streets? No."

Milo and Al looked around as if wanting to confirm that a.s.sertion.

"Then let's leave it alone, shall we? Everything is the same as it's always ..." She looked up at Milo and frowned. "Have you always worn an earring?"

He put a hand up to the tiny gold hoop. "Yeah. Why? Don't you like it?"

"No ..." Clare murmured. "No ... I do." She shook her head and looked up into the sky. High above, a lone black shape was winging its way through the ruby-misted air, but it paid her no attention. It wasn't her raven. "Hey Maggie?"

"Yes, dear?" Maggie answered as she sank down to sit on the steps.

"I think I know what I want to do after I graduate."

Al turned and raised an eyebrow at her. This was news.

"I mean ... I know I've got a year left and there's always a slight chance I'll be able to pull off the grades to get into a university program, but I figured maybe I'd go the practical route instead. And I was hoping you could help me."

"What do you mean, duck?"

"Well ... I was wondering if you could maybe help me get an internship or apprenticeship or whatever on one of those archaeological digs you're always going on."

Maggie looked as though Clare had suddenly started speaking in tongues, but Milo smiled down at her and gave her shoulder a squeeze.

"Are you sure, Clare?" Maggie said.

Clare looked over at Al and grinned. "Yeah," she said. "I'd like to give it a try. I'm one of the smartest people Al knows, after all. And I think I might just have some useful insights into the past."

Maggie smiled at her wayward niece as they heard distant police sirens growing closer.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

This particular tale has been a long while in the telling. Now that it's out there, I'm thrilled to finally be able to properly thank those who made it all possible. First and foremost are the two people who made sure this actually happened: John and Jessica. John for (along with everything else) helping me bring Clare and Comorra's story to life in the first place. And Jessica for (along with everything else) never losing faith that we would find it a proper home once I did. Without both of you, I'm pretty dang sure I would still be typing into the void. Much love and grat.i.tude. Much.