Ana released the butterfly with her best wishes, then turned to her cousin. "I'd wish you a good trip, but I'd also have to remind you that running away only postpones. It doesn't solve."

"Which is why I haven't packed." Morgana sighed. "Ana, before I left him, he believed I am what I am. I wanted to give him time to come to terms with it."

That was the crux of it, Ana thought. She slipped a comforting hand around Morgana's waist. "It may take him more than a few days," she said carefully. "He may not be able to come to terms with it at all."

"I know." She gazed out over the water to the horizon. One never knew exactly what lay beyond the horizon. "Ana, we'll be lovers before morning. This I know. What I don't know is if this one night will make me happy or miserable."

Nash was ecstatic. As far as he could remember, he'd never had a story flow out of his mind with the speed and clarity of this one. The treatment, which he'd finished in one dazzling all-nighter, was already on his agent's desk. With his track record, Nash wasn't worried about a sale—which, in a gleeful phone call, his agent had told him was imminent. The fact was, for the first time, Nash wasn't even thinking about the sale, the production, the ultimate filming.

He was too absorbed in the story.

He wrote at all hours. Bounding awake at 3:00 a.m. to attack the keyboard, slurping coffee in the middle of the afternoon with the story still humming like a hive of bees in his head. He ate whatever came to hand, slept when his eyes refused to stay open, and lived within the tilted reality of his own imagination.

If he dreamed, it was in surreal snatches, with erotic images of himself and Morgana sliding through the fictional world he was driven to create.

He would wake wanting her, at times almost unbearably. Then he would find himself compelled to complete the task that had brought them together in the first place.

Sometimes, just before he fell into an exhausted sleep, he thought he could hear her voice.

It's not yet time.

But he sensed the time was coming.

When the phone rang, he ignored it, then rarely bothered to return any of the calls on his machine. If he felt the need for air, he took his laptop out to the patio. If he could have figured out a way, he'd have dragged it into the shower with him.

In the end, he snatched the hard copy from his printer as each page slid out. A few adjustments here, he thought, scrawling notes in the margins. A little fine-tuning there, and he'd have it. But as he read, he knew. He knew he'd never done better work.

Nor had he ever finished a project so quickly. From the time he'd sat down and begun the screenplay, only ten days had passed. Perhaps he'd slept only thirty or forty hours total in those ten days, but he didn't feel tired.

He felt elated.

After gathering the papers up, he searched for an envelope. Books, notes, dishes, all scattered as he dug through them.

He only had one thought now, and that was to take it to Morgana. One way or the other, she had inspired him to write it, and she would be the first person to read it.

He found a tattered manila envelope covered with notations and doodles. After dumping the papers inside, he headed out of his office. It was fortunate that he caught sight of himself in the mirror in the foyer.

His hair was standing on end, and he had the beginnings of a fairly decent beard. Which, as he rubbed a curious hand over his chin, made him wonder if he should give growing a real one a shot. All that might not have been too bad, but he was standing in the foyer, gripping a manila envelope—and wearing nothing but the silver neck chain Morgana had given him and a pair of red jockey shorts.

All in all, it would probably be best if he took the time to clean up and dress.

Thirty minutes later he rushed back downstairs, more conservatively attired in jeans and a navy sweatshirt with only one small hole under the left armpit. He had to admit, the sight of his bedroom, the bathroom and the rest of the house had come as quite a shock, even to him. It looked as though a particularly ragged army had billeted there for a few weeks.

He'd been lucky to find any clothes at all that weren't dirty or crumpled or hadn't been kicked under the bed. There certainly hadn't been a clean towel, so he'd had to make do with a trio of washcloths. Still, he'd located his razor, his comb and a matching pair of shoes, so it hadn't been all that bad.

It took him another frustrating fifteen minutes to unearth his keys. God alone knew why they were on the second shelf of the refrigerator beside a moldy peach, but there they were. He also noted that that very sad peach and an empty quart container of milk were all that was left after he took the keys.

There would be time to deal with that later.

Gripping the script, he headed out the door.

It wasn't until the engine sprang to life and the dash lit that Nash noticed it was nearly midnight. He hesitated, considered calling her first or just putting off the visit until morning.

The hell with it, he decided, and shot out of the drive. He wanted her now.

Only a few miles away, Morgana was closing the door behind her. She stepped out into the silvery light of the full moon. As she walked away from the house, the ceremonial robe drifted around her body, cinched at the waist with a belt of crystals. In her arms she carried a simple basket that contained everything she would need to observe the spring equinox.

It was a night of joy, of celebration, of thanksgiving for the renewal spring brought to the earth. But her eyes were troubled. In this night, where light and dark were balanced, her life would change.

She knew, though she had not looked again. There was no need to look, when her heart had already told her.

It was difficult to admit that she had nearly stayed inside. A challenge to fate, she supposed. But that would have been the coward's way. She would go on with the rite, as she and others like her had gone on for aeons.

He would come when he was to come. And she would accept it.

Twisted shadows stretched over the lawn as she moved toward the grove. There was the smell of spring in the night air. The nocturnal bloomers, the drift of the sea, the fragrance of earth she had turned herself for planting.

She heard the call of an owl, low and lonely. But she didn't look for the white wings. Not yet.

There were other sounds, the gentle breath of the wind easing through the trees, stroking leaves, caressing branches. And the murmur of music that only certain ears could hear. The song of the faeries, a song that was older than man.