Shana Abe - The Treasure Keeper

I paused to rest in a clearing of rowan and oak. It's one of my most favorite places in the shire. In spring it's carpeted in grass and clover. In the summer it flowers with bluebells and red campion.

The snow picked up, still sideways. I lifted an arm to admire it, inspecting the individual crystals caught upon my sleeve, in the woolen weave of my mitten. Then I took off the mittens, both of them, and raised my hands to the flakes.

My fingers were rosy with the cold. I spread them, watching the white little dots hit my skin and melt into moisture . and I realized it was happening again .

The snow struck my hands. The snow melted. And every place there was a drop of water—I was gone. I had vanished.

I stood very still and let it happen. I waited until my hands were entirely wet, and I still felt the cold, and the sting of falling ice. Yet my hands were invisible. Except for the rush of frost from my breath, I could see straight through them.

Invisible.

Have I lost my wits? This is not a drakon Gift; I've never heard of such a Gift. This is surely something else.

Perhaps I've been alone too long. Perhaps my mind has bent.

February 18, 1781

Cloudy. Dry.

I seem to have some control over it. I seem to be able to Will it or Not. Mostly.

Tonight I stood before my bedroom mirror and splashed my cheeks with water from the basin. This was my Twenty-Second experiment, and nothing happened, as usual. I was relieved. And I was discomfited. I had imagined that moment in the woods or I had not: Either way, it did not bode well for me. And then, as I was staring at my reflection in the glass, I noticed my eyes growing darker and darker—they are already black, so I don't know how else to describe it. And then —yes! It happened again. My cheeks and nose and chin were gone. Only my eyes and my forehead remained.

As I watched I saw that I actually began to flush visible once more, even though my face was still wet.

I Willed it.

Oh, God. Should I tell anyone? Is this a New Gift or an Ancient One? What does it mean for my future?

I know the Council edicts. Sweet mercy, we all know them. Save for the marchioness and her daughters, female drakon have been unable to Turn for generations. Now any female of exceptional Gifts is considered tribal chattel, to be given to the Alpha or his line. She will be wed and bred into his family, and to hell with whatever she thinks about it.

The marquess is already wed. His eldest son is engaged. That leaves just Rhys Langford. Arrogant, rake hell Lord Rhys, with his long dark hair and mocking green eyes. Rhys, who cannot help but send me a gloating grin every miserable time we cross paths. He's always escorting some starstruck lass; obviously I'm still the Old Maid.

Bugger. I'd rather take my chances alone. If I can avoid water I can hide this. I'm certain of it.

May 1, 1781

Happy Birthday.

The tribe on edge, worse than I've ever felt. The Marquess and Marchioness of Langford have broken our most fundamental law and stolen away to the human world, to hunt Lady Amalia. Luke Rowland—sent to find and parley with the Transylvanian drakon —has been missing without word over four years now. The man sent after him, Jeffrey Bochard, has also disappeared.

The deep blue cloak follows me about. If I pause too long, it sneaks up on me. If I try to sleep, it slithers up into my dreams. This afternoon it caught me in the parlor between footsteps: wrapping close at once, vanishing the world. Suspending me in silence and fear and anger and worry. I heard the men's names. I felt their families' despair. I felt—I know not. Whisper brushings, their spirits? They seemed so lost; it was dreadful.

And then the cloak dropped me back into the parlor, and I finished my step, and there was a knocking at my front door.

I did not want to open it. I knew who it was, and why he had come.

What have I done? I can't bear to see him depart alone in his heart, as those other two did. I can't bear to have him think I never cared. I always did. And if this isn't love, well—does it matter? He deserves a wife. He deserves a reason to make it back home.

The Council will not send a married drakon man, so we'll wed after he returns from his mission to the Carpathians. Hayden promised.

And after that, I'll tell him of the dark cloak. Of the Gift. After. Journal Conclusion

I'm very sorry, Cerise. I know you're going to read this and worry. I would, in your position. Although I think perhaps we've only recently begun to be real friends, I've never doubted the bond between us. And so I begin this final entry with my apology.

This is my sad, roundabout way of keeping you in my life, even if it's merely through memories scratched on paper. I've always been hopeless at organizing, as you know, and so there was never any chance I would manage to pen an entry every day. But I believe most of the important events of my past few years have been recorded here. Enough to give you insight into what I'm about to do next.

You know Hayden left the shire, and you know why. Calm, loyal, meticulous: He was considered our last good hope of reaching the Zaharen drakon and brokering a peace with them. And everyone in the tribe knows now that the Zaharen sent us their princess Maricara in turn, bringing her horrible news. That the sanf inimicus, those human hunters, have discovered us, have killed at least two of our three emissaries—although we don't know which two.

That they've breached the shores of England. That only weeks ago they kidnapped and tried to kill the princess herself, and Lord Rhys. At least Maricara escaped, though heaven knows what happened to Rhys. We've had no word.

The princess claims that Lady Amalia and her husband Zane, still in hiding, are working covertly against the hunters. That Lia was the one who recently stole little Honor Carlisle from her home here. That Zane has infiltrated the sanf by pretending to be one of them.

I admit it was that last bit that sparked my mind and opened my eyes. If Zane, a human, not even one of our kind, would risk his life to help protect us .

I'm far from impulsive. I hardly need mention that. I tend to consider matters very carefully before taking action. How often have you complained about how long it takes me to select even a pair of garters for my stockings? You above all will realize how much I've mulled this over and over.

My position in the tribe is low, as is my influence. If I thought it would do an ounce of good, I would go before the Council and tell them of my Gifts, offer myself as anapparatus belli against this group of Others who have possibly murdered my fiance. But I think we both know how fruitless that would be. I'm female; I'm unwed; I might still breed. Nothing I could say would persuade them to view me in any fashion beyond those three overwhelming facts.

They would lock me away, by force if need be. They would do whatever they thought they must to keep me bound to the shire. Our history speaks most eloquently for itself.

I used to think the Council was a faction of stuffy old men, bleating stuffy old rules out of lethargy, or just blind fear. Time has tempered my opinion. Now I better understand why they've held so tightly to our traditions. We do need to stand united against these hunters. We need every weapon at our disposal, which is why I must go. I cannot Turn, but I have these Gifts. I am a weapon.

I never told you—or anyone—that after Hayden left, he would send me a note every week to let me know where he was, that he was well. It was something I required of him, and to his credit, he never failed me until his communications with the tribe ceased entirely. His last note placed him nearly to Paris, en route to Dijon. I'll start there.