Epilogue

T he Fiosaiche strode through her cathedral. Morven Maclean had been given his second chance, time had been rearranged, and despite what Arabella Ryan believed, it was not difficult. A stitch, a tuck, and the thing was done. Unless you knew the seam was there, you'd never even notice it. And Arabella and Morven were together and happy, just as she had always planned for them to be.

"It's not as if I'm doing any harm," she said to herself, her voice an echo in the cool shadows of the great church. "Ishbel was wrong. The Lords of the Universe wouldn't mind, even if they knew about my interference."

She almost believed it.

The air held a tantalizing memory of flowers and incense, and there was no more sound except the swish of her new cloak—deep red and bright as the flame of her hair—and the soft breathing of her sleeping warriors.

Her favorites.

Each awaiting his turn.

With a smile of anticipation, the sorceress turned through an archway decorated with twining stone vines and carvings of odd little creatures. This was just one of many chapels, each one occupied. A beam of something like sunlight shone through the tiny round window high above, illuminating the face of the sleeping man who lay like an effigy on top of his own tomb. For a moment the sorceress studied him.

Brown hair with a touch of gold, long and falling untidily across his forehead. A strong masculine face with the mouth now relaxed rather than curved in its usual cynical curl. Hazel eyes hidden beneath closed eyelids and almost feminine lashes. Handsome, yes. In his day he was renowned for capturing the hearts of the women who crossed his path.

The sorceress recalled the words spoken of him by his friends: dashing and reckless, brave and true. They were words any man would be proud to own. And yet on his headstone was something very different:

NATHANIEL RAVEN

HERE LIES THE INFAMOUS RAVEN

WHO PUT FEAR INTO THE HEARTS

OF ALL WHO TRAVELED

THE HIGHWAYS OF CORNWALL,

AND WHO WAS SHOT DEAD,

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1814

So what had gone wrong?

How had Nathaniel Raven, gentleman, ended so ignominiously, shot down in the act of highway robbery, dying on a lonely stretch of road in Cornwall without anyone to mourn his passing?

Briefly she touched his cheek, her fingers light, but even that soft touch made him stir. As if he felt the power in her fingers, as if he knew his time had come. He would need help, but the sorceress had found a suitable mortal. It might be tricky and they all might fail, but that was not up to her.

"It is time, sweet Raven," the sorceress whispered.

She lifted her arms and began to chant the ancient incantation of waking, until the sound of her voice echoed like thunder in the chapel, and the very air crackled and sparked.

And the Raven opened his eyes.