She'd get back on the computer and pull every incident report she could find on this village and the surrounding area. With all the "bad luck" being blamed on the chateau, there had to be something.

"You left me alone," a young, slurred voice said in French from behind her. "American women are whores. My father says so."

Shit. Nick turned to see Bernard coming at her, his gait uneven, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand. He didn't look like he wanted to go back to her room now.

"Yep, we're all whores." It was better than arguing with him. "Now go home, kid."

"Kid? Who you calling the kid?" He took a swig from his beer before smashing the bottle against the brick wall of the alley. Beer splashed his legs and foamed around his feet. "I was nice to you. I bought you the wine. Then you try to steal my money."

"I found your wallet on the floor and gave it to you," she pointed out.

"The men at the café, they saw. You made me look like a fool. They laughed at me." He tried to take a drink from the broken bottle, stared at it as if not sure what it was, and then held it up. "See what you made me do, American whore?"

"No charge. Bye." Nick turned and started walking fast.

He caught up to her, whirled her around, and held the broken end of the bottle under her nose. "You pay for this."

Bernard meant business, and was just sober enough to inflict some real damage. She'd left her baseball bat back at the inn. There were no police in the village; she'd made sure of that.

"Don't hurt me," Nick said, putting a whimper behind the words as she dropped down on her knees.

Bernard smiled at her as he yanked down his zipper. "Maybe I won't; maybe I will…" His voice dwindled to a strained wheeze as he looked down.

Grabbing a man by the testicles always shut him up in a hurry, Nick observed as she increased the pressure. She could have ended this confrontation another way—an easier, simpler way—but the village had no police, and Bernard might try this again with another tourist. There were too many young women knocking around Europe who didn't know how to protect themselves against mayors' sons on the make.

"Drop the bottle now," she said pleasantly, giving his balls a small, neat twist, "or I'll make you into a Bernice."

He threw the bottle away.

Slowly Nick stood without relaxing her grip. As she did, his body did the exact opposite, hunching over, comically paying tribute to the strength of her hold.

Now for the Q&A. "Have you ever raped a woman, Bernard?"

He shook his head, still unable to speak.

"Good. Because if you had, I might separate you from these." Nick put her mouth close to his ear. " 'I'll never hurt or threaten to hurt a woman again.' Say it."

He managed to squeak out the words.

"Very good, Bernard. Now you're going straight home and get some ice for this. The swelling will go down in a day or two." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Every time you get angry at a woman, I want you to remember this pain."

He nodded frantically, almost doubled over.

"I'll be in France for a while, and I'll be checking on this village." Time for the big finish. With her free hand she took the stiletto out of her jacket pocket and popped the blade, touching his cheek with the flat of it. "I hear some girl gets hurt, you know who I'm going to come back and castrate."

He didn't move, but liquid spattered on the road between them, and the scent of urine grew thick.

"I see you do." Nick took her hand out of his pants and kept the stiletto between them. "I don't want to ever see your face again, Bernard. Make sure that happens."

She watched as he clutched at his crotch with a shaking hand and went down on his knees. She didn't hang around to watch him vomit, but headed back to the inn.

Once up in her room, she stripped off her jacket and ignored her laptop as she dropped onto the bed. The run-in with Bernard had left a bad taste in her mouth. He'd deserved the pain, but she had gotten too angry. If she'd really let loose on him…

I didn't cripple him, and I didn't hurt him permanently. I taught him a lesson. Lesson learned. Let it go.

She decided against working on the computer. If there had been anything real going on in this place, she would have found it by now. It was all smoke and superstition; a product of living isolated lives in a small, out-of-the-way village. Lettice was just another European woman obsessed with the Virgin Mary.

The Golden Madonna was not here in St. Valereye.

As for the dreams, they could only be a coincidence. The hammering sounds, sick locals, and water that turned the color of blood would have to be someone else's problem. Whatever was going on with Father Claudio and his broken-down chateau would have to resolve itself without her.

She'd get twelve hours of sleep and then leave the village tomorrow and head north. She'd passed through the village of St. Estéphe on the way here from Paris; doubtless there were some old churches and chapels around the Gironde River estuary, or tucked away behind the endless acres of vineyards with their clusters of dark purple grapes.

Despite her resolve, Nick didn't sleep, not for hours. Finally near dawn she drifted off, and in her dreams went home.

She knew she was back home on the farm, although she couldn't see anything. She could hear the cows, smell the bread baking in the kitchen, and felt the familiar dampness of the country air. She didn't recognize where she was at first, until she smelled herbs. Her mother had grown them, bundled them, and hung them to dry.

Someone had locked her in the cold pantry.

"Nicky?" Her mother was there, too, a disembodied voice, hovering somewhere just over her head.

"Mom?" Nick turned around, looking up, trying to see through the blackness.

"Nicky, I won't tolerate another minute of this," Annette Jefferson said, her sweet voice furious. "Come out. Come out of there this instant!"

A door appeared, although not the weathered wooden one at the farm. This one was made of pure gold, and shaped like a peaceful woman's face. It shook from the pounding someone on the other side was giving it.

"Wait." Nick reached for the face/knob, but it scowled at her and began moving up and sideways and down on the door, always just an inch or two out of her reach. "I can't get out, Mom. I don't know how."

"Open the door, Nicola." The deeper, kinder voice belonged to Malcolm, her stepdad. "Let us in and we'll help you. Come on, girl. We'll put on the kettle. I'll make that Irish tea you like so much."

Despite her stepdad's soothing words, Nick was abruptly afraid to let them in. Her parents had the keys; she knew that. They had put her in here, locked her in, hadn't they? So why did they want her to open the door?

The knob grinned at her. "They saw you watching, Nicola. They knew. Before they died, they knew."

She backed into a tall, hard cabinet, and turned to see its doors opening. Books packed the four shelves at the top, as well as the three long drawers someone had left open on the bottom. There was more light now, although from where it was coming, Nick couldn't tell. She read the titles on the book spines—Le Voyage d'Hiver, Quand Je Dors, Amour Immortel—and wondered why her mother had been hiding French books.

Annette couldn't read French; neither could Malcolm. That was why he'd sent for the translation of the old book he'd found. The one with the legends of the Golden Madonna. To be sure what he had dug up from the cellar was real.

"… aurem tuam ad preces nostras," Malcolm was reciting on the other side of the closet door, "quibus misericordiam tuam supplices deprecamur, ut animam famuli tui Abbadon…"

The cabinet fell forward onto her. Nick had time only to fling her arms over her head before she was dragged into the cabinet and through a mirror that didn't shatter. On the other side stood the dark figure of a man, his hands tied together, his eyes covered by a black shadow, like a blindfold. He stood bent over, bowed by the weight of the cape on his shoulders. A green cape, edged in pine needles.

You cannot leave me.

Nick went to him, ripping the rope from his hands. Where are you?

I do not know. Find me. His freed hands framed her face. And I will save us. Blood trickled out from under the black shadow over his eyes and ran down his cheeks. He was weeping blood.

She couldn't bear to see him like this. How can I find you? Tell me, please, and I'll leave right away. I'll come to you as soon as I wake up.

You were there. Come back to me.

Nick found herself back in the cold pantry, alone, and terribly afraid. Something had gnawed a hole gnawed through the base of the wood. The sight of it made her shudder; she hated rats.

The hole began to grow.

In a panic she backed away, her shoulders colliding with the golden door. The knob opened its mouth, baring jagged teeth, and tried to bite her. The hole stretched up and out until it became large enough for her to walk through it.

Nick couldn't see what was on the other side. Light poured out of the hole and onto her face, and the moment it touched her all the fear and worry inside her melted away.

Like the sun… Because she traveled mostly at night, she hardly got outside during the day. Feels so warm…

Gold and red and lovely, the light caressed her with the touch of a reverent hand. The way his hands had felt on her face.

So nice. Nobody had ever touched her the way he did. She wanted to close her eyes and wallow in the sensation.

The light drew her, pulling her toward the hole, and although she couldn't see now, there was nothing she wanted to do more than to step through it to the other side.

What does he want? He couldn't want her; she was nothing, no one. She could feel his presence growing stronger. What do you want from me?

True ben wall.

His voice, low and soft, barely a whisper, speaking in the language she knew but could no longer understand. So much sadness, so much need, as if he were in terrible pain. She had to go to him, but…