Comorra mirrored the gesture with a conspiratorial smile. Then she twitched the hood of her cloak up and spun back around to resume her kneeling pose in front of the standing stone.

Clare ducked behind the stone, trying to melt into the shadows and slow her breathing. A dozen men and women carrying flaring torches stalked out from beneath the oaks and took up stations at points all around the standing stones. Some beat out complicated rhythms on drums played one-handed with short, flared sticks, and some sang. A handful of young children followed in their wake and began to dance in time to the drumming, weaving an intricate circle around the middle stone-and coming perilously close to where Clare stood frozen, scarcely daring to breathe. But none of them seemed to notice her there. It seemed that Comorra really was the only one who could see her. Still, she tried to make herself as small and flat as she could.

People continued to file out from under the trees, some pounding sword hilts on shields and stomping their feet in counterpoint to the drumming, and soon the whole clearing shook with the vibrations. The crowd was a visual riot of braided and styled hair, garishly patterned, finely woven cloaks, and the clash and jingle of beautifully crafted gold and silver jewellery. Clare couldn't decide whether the combined effect of so much extravagant finery on display was barbaric or exuberantly rich and sophisticated. One thing was certain: the artistry involved in all the weaving and dying and smith-craft on display went far beyond anything she'd expected a bunch of hut-dwelling tribal yahoos to have mastered. Her ideas, if she'd had any to begin with, of what life must have been like in the ancient world were being radically rewritten. The people crowding all around her were ... impressive. She hadn't been expecting that.

As the great clamour rose to a tremendous crescendo Clare felt battered by waves of sound and had to cover her ears with her hands. But just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore a sudden, shocking silence descended on the grove. Clare took a chance and peeked around to see what had caused it. And into that stillness walked-well ... talk about impressive.

The sea of revellers parted and into the centre of the stone circle walked Boudicca, Queen of the Iceni. The queen shimmered with gold and amethyst. Deep red garnets hung from her ears and flashed on her fingers and a delicate, braided silver torc encircled her neck. The sword strapped to her waist was, in contrast, plain and workmanlike-battered, well-used, and freshly sharpened.

At her side strode a tall man who was obviously a king. His long, dark blond hair was held back by a circlet of red gold and he wore a flowing robe girdled with a heavy belt made of linked copper lozenges that held an ornate ceremonial sword to his hip. His chin and cheeks were clean-shaven, but the braided ends of his flowing moustache reached almost down to the line of his strong jaw. His profile, lit by torch flame and silhouetted against the dark of the forest, was regal-handsome and striking-and around his neck he wore a thick golden torc.

The Snettisham Torc.

Boudicca turned to address the gathered throng in a clear, ringing voice that carried up and into the waiting shadows of the night. "Tonight, the rising moon of Beltane Eve marks the start of my daughter's sixteenth year. Tonight, she sheds the skin of childhood to become a woman. Tonight she becomes a warrior!"

Comorra stood and threw back the cowl of her cloak, turning to face her tribe with a look of fierce pride on her pretty face.

From the opposite side of the clearing Princess Tasca came forward, smiling broadly at her younger sibling. Clare felt her heart clench at seeing Comorra's sister alive. The older girl's cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled with excitement. Clare had a hard time reconciling that with the image of her lying crumpled and lifeless on the floor of Connal's chariot. She too wore a blade hanging from her belt-smaller and more slender than her mother's, made to fit a more delicate hand and a wrist not yet corded with years of strength and use. She carried something wrapped in snow-white doeskin, which she presented to the queen. As Boudicca threw back the leather wrap Clare stepped out from her hiding place and, unnoticed by the crowd, craned her neck to see what it had concealed.

It was another sword. Polished to a gleam and almost pretty, it looked as though the hilt was made of bronze, with a leaf-shaped, dark-grey iron blade. Alongside it lay a tooled leather sheath that hung from a jewelled leather belt.

"Comorra." The queen buckled the sword belt around the girl's waist and then took the blade from its bed of white leather. "I give you your sword."

Simple as that.

Comorra's slim fingers reached out-hesitating a moment-and then grasped the sword by the hilt. Its blade was short, no longer than some of the daggers worn by the men, and yet Comorra handled it with grace and a.s.surance. The blade sang as it whipped through the air. Then, with a flourish that was only a little showy, Comorra spun the blade in her palm and slid it home in the scabbard at her side as if it had always belonged to her. Her mother smiled and Princess Tasca beamed with pride at her sister.

Then Comorra's father stepped forward.

Clare watched Boudicca's expression alter in the nearness of her husband's presence. Suddenly she was no longer just handsome ... she was lovely. Soft and glowing as a girl in the throes of a first love. The look was fleeting, but it made a powerful impression on Clare.

The king began to speak. "In the world I would make for you, my daughter, you would need never unsheath the blade your mother gives you." He turned and gestured. With a start Clare saw the young Druid, Connal, step forward. In his hands he held a little carved wooden box. The king reached up to unfasten the plain, utilitarian pin that held Comorra's cloak closed at her shoulder and replace it with the ornament from the box-the very same brooch that had sent Clare spiralling through time to this world.

"I fear this is not such a world," the king continued. "But I am comforted. The Raven G.o.ddess watches over you, Comorra."

Comorra's glance flicked over to where Clare stood watching. Clare put a finger to her lips again, terrified that the princess might call her out, but Comorra simply nodded, smiling ever so slightly, and turned her eyes back to her father.

"May she keep you ever safe."

Clare grinned as Comorra exclaimed with wonder at the intricately wrought ornament. The Iceni evidently revered beautiful things, and of course the brooch was exquisite. Catching the light from the ring of torches, the garnet sparkled dramatically in its setting. At the front of the crowd, near the royal family, Clare saw Lla.s.sar grow tall with pride. She herself felt a certain giddy thrill to see the princess so pleased.

But then a shiver ran down her spine. She turned to see Connal staring at her-or rather, at the s.p.a.ce she invisibly occupied-a faint frown on his brow. Clare found that she was holding her breath as his piercing gaze swept back and forth through the s.p.a.ce where she stood.

But then Comorra smiled at him and his expression cleared. He gazed at her with obvious and abundant affection, and Comorra returned his look with one of her own that was halfway between bashful and smouldering.

Whoa, Clare thought. She's seriously crushing on him ...

Clare could hardly blame her. Connal was, to put it mildly, rock-star gorgeous. The young Druid's chestnut-brown hair was shot through with deep red highlights that gleamed in the torch fire. And like many of the other men, he wore almost as much ornamentation as the women. Gold glinted at his earlobe and a silver torc shone at his throat. A long grey cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a finely woven tunic fitted smoothly over the contours of his muscled chest, and buckskin trousers were laced tight around his calves above his bare feet.

Connal moved with an animal's sliding grace as he stepped toward the princess. "I speak for the Druiddyn to convey their blessings upon you, Comorra, and my own. Your father speaks truth when he says Andrasta holds you in her hands." He touched the jewelled brooch on her shoulder, and Clare could have sworn she saw Comorra shiver with delight. "You are beloved of the Raven. Your mother has called upon the G.o.ddess to protect you and she has answered. That is all the protection you should ever need."

"It should be indeed, Connal." Comorra grinned and then glanced at her mother. "But as my mother would no doubt agree, I will keep my sword close, just in case!"

They all laughed at that, with Boudicca's harsh mirth ringing out above the other voices like the cry of a carrion crow. Then everyone who had swords drew them from their scabbards and thrust them into the night sky, as if they would tear it open to bring daylight pouring forth.

It seemed that the brief ceremony was all the formal solemnity the Iceni could take. They rushed forward and surrounded the royal family, hugging and pounding on backs until the whole thing began to look like a rugby scrum. Comorra and her family were swept out of the grove in the direction of some kind of feast, Clare guessed-judging from the mouth-watering smells of roasting meat wafting toward them from that direction.

As quickly as it had filled up, the clearing emptied out, the whirlwind of revellers vanishing beneath the shadows of the trees and leaving only their whoops and hollers in their wake. Clare sagged against the rough stone, giddy with the contagious excitement of the Iceni. Lightheaded, she closed her eyes for a moment and tried to steady her breathing and slow her rabbit-fast heart. It worked-right up until the moment she felt the ice-cold edge of metal brush against her shoulder. Clare yelped and ducked as her eyes flew wide and she saw Connal lunging around the corner of the standing stone, sword sweeping the air before him. The young warrior grabbed for the s.p.a.ce where Clare stood invisible, and the palm of his hand slammed against her shoulder, spinning her around. There was a lightning-bolt electric shock-just as when she'd first made contact with Comorra on the riverbank-and Clare saw Connal snarl and jerk back. But the jolt didn't deter him for long, and suddenly Clare found herself pinned to the standing stone, held motionless there by Connal's forearm ... and the sharp sting of his sword blade against her collarbone.

"They say that the kiss of cold iron is death to the tylwyth teg," he hissed into her ear. "But I think it would take more than just a kiss. You threaten my princess at your peril, Otherworlder ... You will not take her away to your hidden realm."

"I'm not!" Clare sputtered desperately. "I wouldn't!"

The warrior shook his head as if trying to shake sense into her words.

"I'm not here to hurt her-I want to help her! Comorra-"

"You will not speak her name!"

Clare could feel the rapid pounding of Connal's pulse where his wrist pressed against her skin and she wondered, through her terror, if he was anywhere near as afraid of her as she was of him.

"You have no power here," he said. "Return to your own world!" He reared back with his sword as, above their heads, a raven screamed in the night, the sound harsh in the darkness.

Clare squeezed her eyes shut-and felt herself shimmer out of existence. She heard Connal's astonished gasp as his blade plunged down toward where she stood ... an instant too late.

HIS EYES ARE REALLY BLUE ...

They were also full of amazement. And concern.

Wait a second ... where ... when am I?

Clare was flat on her back on the floor of Milo's office, staring up into his blue, bespectacled eyes as he bent over her, gently shaking her by the shoulder. Al peered over his shoulder, frantically calling Clare's name, her voice harsh and cawing.

"Why ... why am I on the floor?" Clare asked.

"Because you collapsed!" Al exclaimed.

"You disappeared ..." Milo's voice wasn't exactly tense, not like Al's, but it did sound hoa.r.s.e. Almost as if he'd forgotten how to use it. Or was too startled by what he'd just seen to remember how to make his throat muscles work properly. "You actually vanished."

"And then you reappeared," Al added helpfully. "And then you fainted."

"Oh ..." Clare struggled to sit up.

"You didn't pa.s.s out the last time." Al crouched on the floor in front of her. "What happened this time?"

"I don't know." Clare had never fainted before. Then again, she'd never almost been stabbed before. Fear of imminent death must have just plain overwhelmed her. She put a hand to her forehead-it was clammy with sweat.

Milo jumped to his feet and stalked over to the watercooler on the far side of the office. After a moment he brought Clare a little paper cone full of cold water. She gulped at it thirstily. Her mind was a tumbled mess of images and impressions ... darkness and howling and ... Connal's sword, descending on her where she stood, shoulders pressed into the unforgiving stone ...

"Oh s.h.i.t ..." Clare shied away from the memory of the torch-light glinting on that blade.

"Okay." Al blinked, peering at her intently. "See ... that's what you said the first time this happened. Were you on the riverbank again, Clare? Did you see Comorra?"

"Riverbank, no. Comorra, yes."

Milo helped her climb shakily to her feet and sit down. Clare took a deep breath, finished the water in the paper cup, and crumpled it into a ball. Then she told them everything that had happened.

"I thought we agreed on no touching. No talking. No monkeying with the time stream!"

Al was cross and agitated. Clare wondered what kind of sci-fi conjecture had pa.s.sed between her and her cousin while she'd been gone. "I'm sorry. I didn't do it on purpose. Does the British Empire still stand?"

"Very funny," Al said sourly.

Milo had gone a little pale, Clare noticed. And quiet.

But at least he seemed to actually believe her. Hard to deny what had happened, she supposed, when she had shimmered out of existence right before his very eyes.

There's your proof of paranormal activity, Hot Stuff, she thought. Logic your way out of this one.

Al blew a long breath out and sat down, having seemingly exhausted her store of nervous tension. "So that's how she got the brooch, huh?" she said eventually. "I guess it must have been pretty important to her."

"Yeah," Clare nodded, lost in thought. And she gave it to me for a reason ...

Her gaze slipped over to where the raven-shaped ornament sat innocuously on a nearby desk. Milo reached out a hand for it and Clare and Al both tensed. He closed his fingers around it ... and nothing happened. Milo didn't disappear. He didn't even flicker. He held the brooch out to Al.

"Thanks, no."

"C'mon, Allie," he urged. "I want to know if it's just Clare." Al hesitated for a moment and then, lips pressed into a tight line, she s.n.a.t.c.hed it from his hand. Nothing. Al let out another long breath and turned to Clare. "Guess you're the Chosen One, pal."

Clare was distinctly uncomforted by the sentiment. They sat together in uneasy, contemplative silence-until Clare's cell phone jangled noisily and scared all three of them half to death.

"Oh, for the love of ..." Clare grabbed it out of her bag and checked the display. "It's Maggie. She'd better not be checking up on me," Clare muttered and slapped the phone to the side of her head with a flat "h.e.l.lo."

Al and Milo listened to Clare's monosyllabic responses and watched as the blood drained from her face. Clare knew the blood was draining from her face because she could feel herself growing cold, starting with the top of her head.

"Clare?" Milo asked when she finally hung up. "Are you okay?"

"No. I don't think so ... no ..."

"What did Maggie say?" Al asked, frowning.

"She's at the museum," Clare murmured.

"Wow. Shocker."

"With the police."

"Uh?"

"What?" Milo's voice was sharp with concern. "Why?"

"She said there'd been a ... there was a ..." Clare felt as if she was about to start hyperventilating. "There's been a theft."

"She said that?" Al asked. "What ... when ... who-"

"Allie, shh." Milo reached out and took Clare's cold, limp hands and held them, squeezing gently. "What else did she say?"

"Um ..." Clare's fingers clenched convulsively around Milo's.

"Can you tell me?"

She nodded, staring at Milo with unblinking eyes and breathing in rapid, shallow little sips of air. "Uh ... that was it. That was all she said. Just that something had been stolen. From-uh-from the stuff in the restoration room. She wants me to meet her at the museum." Clare's knees felt weak and her stomach lurched at the thought of facing Maggie. That kebab earlier suddenly seemed like a terribly bad idea.

"Did she say who, uh, what was"-Al swallowed noisily-"stolen?"

Clare shook her head. Then panic took hold. "I thought you said I didn't take anything! Jeezus, Al!"

"You didn't ..." Al didn't sound so sure anymore.

"Allie?" Milo looked at her.

"She didn't!" Al turned on him, regaining her adamant stance. "I know she didn't. I swear to G.o.d! I didn't see that brooch-it wasn't there!"

"Well, then we don't have anything to worry about."

"We?" Clare looked at Milo and blinked.

"You." Milo shrugged. He turned and went back to his desk, taking out a set of keys from a drawer. "C'mon. I'll drive you." He grabbed the brooch, wrapped it back up, and locked it in the drawer. "No sense wandering around the museum with anything that could potentially make for an awkward situation."

"I didn't steal it." Clare looked at him.

"I believe you."

The girls turned to stare at each other silently for a long moment.

"I'm dead," Clare said bleakly.

"Come on." Milo nodded toward the door. "You're not dead. And I'm not about to let anyone kill you. Now let's go find out what's going on."

9.