He forked up more eggs. “I figured it would work better to get it down in one big gush.”

“Let’s see what we’ve got here.”

She ate and she read, read and ate. He took her back to the very beginning, to the night she’d driven through a storm to Warrior’s Peak. He made her see it again, feel it again. That and all that had happened since.

That was his gift, she realized. His art.

He told it like a story, each character vivid and true, each action ringing clear, so that when you came to the end, you wanted more.

“Flynn was right,” she said as she turned the last page over. “It helps to see it like this in my head. I need to absorb it, read it again. But it puts everything that’s happened on one winding path instead of having a lot of offshoots that just happen to run into each other.”

“I’m going to have to write it.”

“I thought you just did,” she replied, shaking her head.

“No, that’s only part of it. Half of it at best. I realized today when I was putting it all down that I’m going to have to write it when it’s all done, turn it into a book. Do you have any problem with that?”

“I don’t know.” She smoothed her fingers over the pages. “I guess not, but it feels a little strange. I’ve never been in a book before.”

He started to speak, then stopped himself and polished off his eggs. She hadn’t been in a book she’d read before, he thought. Which, when it came down to it, amounted to the same thing.

Chapter Fifteen

“LOOK,” Kane said, “how you betray yourself in sleep.”

Dana stood looking down at the bed where she and Jordan slept. On the floor beside them, Moe twitched and made excited sounds.

“What did you do to Moe?”

“I gave him a dream, a harmless, happy dream. He chases rabbits on a sunny spring day. It will keep him safe and occupied, as we have much to talk about, you and I.”

She watched Moe’s back right leg swing as if he were running. “I don’t have much to say to anyone who sneaks into my bedroom at night to play Peeping Tom.”

“I don’t peep, I watch. You interest me, Dana. You have intelligence. I respect that. Scholars are valued in my world, in any world. And there we have the scholar and the bard.” He gestured toward the bed at her and Jordan “One would think a fine combination. But we know better.”

It both frightened and fascinated her to see the couple on the bed, wrapped together in a tangle of limbs. “You don’t know us. You never will. That’s why we’ll beat you.”

He only smiled. The dark suited him, cloaked him like velvet and silk and left his eyes burning bright. “You search, but you don’t find. How can you? Your life is pretense, Dana, a dream as much as this. Look how you cling to him in sleep. You, a strong, intelligent woman, one who considers herself independent, even willful. Yet you throw yourself at a man who tossed you aside once and will do so again. You allow yourself to be ruled by passion, and it makes you weak.”

“What rules you if not passion?” she countered. “Ambition, greed, hate, vanity. They’re all passions.”

“Ah, this is why I enjoy you. We could have such interesting conversations. No, passions are not owned by the mortal world. But to invite pain merely for love and the pleasures of the flesh.” He shook his head. “You were wiser when you hated him. Now you let him use you again.”

He lies. He lies. She couldn’t let herself fall into the trap of that seductive voice and forget how it lied. “Nobody uses me. Not even you.”

“Perhaps you need to remember more clearly.”

It was snowing. She felt the flakes—soft, cold, wet, on her skin, though she couldn’t see them fall. They seemed to hang suspended in the air.

She felt the bite of the wind but couldn’t hear it, nor did it chill her.

The world was a black-and-white photograph. Black trees, white snow. White mountains rising toward a white sky, and there, far up, the black silhouette of Warrior’s Peak.

All was still and cold and silent.

There was a man all the way down the block, frozen in the act of shoveling his walk. His shovel was lifted, and the scoop of snow was caught in its flight through the air.

“Do you know this place?” Kane asked her.

“Yes.” Three blocks south of Market, two blocks west of Pine Ridge.

“And this house.”

The tiny two-story box, painted white with black shutters. The two small dormer windows of the second floor, one for each small bedroom. The single dogwood, with snow adorning its thin branches, and the narrow driveway that ran beside it. Two cars in the driveway. The old station wagon and the secondhand Mustang.

“It’s Jordan’s house.” Her mouth was dry. Her tongue felt thick and clumsy. “It’s . . . it was Jordan’s house.”

“Is,” Kane corrected. “In this frozen moment.”

“Why am I here?”

He stepped around her, but left no mark, no print, in the snow. The hem of his black robe seemed to float just an inch above that white surface.

He wore a ruby, a large round cabochon on a chain that fell nearly to his waist. In the black-and-white world it shone there like a fat drop of fresh blood.

“I give you the courtesy of allowing you to know this is memory, of letting you stand with me and observe. Do you understand this?”

“I understand this is memory.”

“With the first of you, I showed her what could be. So I showed you. But I realize you are a more . . . earthbound creation. One who prefers reality. But are you brave enough to see what is real?”

“To see what?” But she already knew.

Color seeped into the world. The deep green of pines beneath the draping snow, the bright blue mailbox on the corner, the blues and greens and reds of the coats the children wore as they built snowmen and forts in the yards.

And with the color came the movement. The snow fell again, and the shovelful from the walk on the corner landed with a thump, even as the man bent to scoop up another. She heard the shouts, high and pure in the air, from the children playing, and the unmistakable thwack of snowballs striking their targets.

She saw herself, bundled in a quilted jacket the color of blueberries. What had she been thinking? She looked like Violet in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.