“I’ll come back,” she assured them. Somehow, she would convince her father not to take her with him. She needed to stay with the only family she’d ever known.
Chapter Two
As Sister Fallyn scurried across the courtyard, Luciana followed at a slower pace, heedless of the heavy drops of rain pelting her head and shoulders. No doubt she would look like a drowned rat by the time she met her father.
Did it matter what he thought of her? A rebellious streak in her wanted to answer no, but she knew herself better than that. Whether it was her natural demeanor or a result of growing up dependent on the generosity of nuns, she didn’t know, but she had always been the sort of child who was eager to please. She simply hated to disappoint.
The wind seemed to mock them, shoving them back a step for every four they took. She turned her face away from the stinging rain and slowed to a stop when she spotted the two servants carrying the coffin into the chapel.
A streak of lightning lit up the sky so brightly she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, a movement and flash of color drew her attention to the graveyard. Through the sheet of rain, she detected a woman wandering among the gravestones, her head covered with a sheer black veil. Her gown looked expensive—a rich red brocade.
Thunder cracked overhead just as Luciana was struck with a sudden realization. Even though the woman looked as solid as Sister Fallyn, her skirt was not moving with the wind. Her red gown and black veil were dry. Red as blood. Black as death.
The inhabitant of the coffin had not remained inside.
Luciana sucked in a long breath. Her gift was still with her.
“Luciana!” Sister Fallyn cried out. “Why on Aerthlan are ye standing there in the rain?”
She glanced at the nun, who had reached the shelter of the portico, then looked back at the woman in red. The ghost must have heard Sister Fallyn, for she had turned toward them. She lifted her veil to uncover her face.
Luciana gasped.
It was her face. Automatically, she lifted her hands to form the sign of the twin moons. May the goddesses protect her. How could this spirit look exactly like her? Was this some sort of premonition that she would soon be dead?
But no, the ghost seemed real.
“Hurry!” Sister Fallyn yelled once more, and Luciana lifted her rain-soaked skirts to run toward her.
The nun shook her head disapprovingly. “Heavens, ye look like ye took a swim in the ocean.”
“I—I’m fine.” Luciana glanced back at the graveyard. Her look-alike ghost was gone, thank the goddesses.
Sister Fallyn knocked on Mother Ginessa’s door, then opened it slightly. “I’ve brought herself.”
Luciana’s heart pounded so loudly she couldn’t hear Mother Ginessa’s response.
Sister Fallyn opened the door. “Go inside now.”
This was it. Luciana brushed back wet tendrils of hair that had become plastered to her cheeks and hooked them behind her ears. Steeling her nerves, she stepped inside.
The room was dark, lit only by a candle on Mother Ginessa’s desk and the low fire in the stone hearth that illuminated the bottom half of a large man. His shoulders and face were still in shadow, but Luciana heard his quick intake of breath.
She attempted a curtsy. She’d never had a reason to do one before, so her execution was a bit wobbly.
“Luciana,” a deep male voice whispered.
She stilled. He knew her name? Had he always known it, or had Mother Ginessa told it to him a few minutes ago?
“Amazing,” he said. “You look just like your sister.”
Sister? Was that the ghost? Luciana shivered.
“By the goddesses, child, ye’re soaked through.” Mother Ginessa drew her closer to the hearth. “And yer hands are like ice. We cannot have ye catching a cold.”
“I’ll build up the fire.” The man turned toward the hearth and added a log.
Mother Ginessa wrapped a woolen shawl around Luciana’s shoulders, then used the edge to pat her face dry.
Luciana’s gaze met Mother Ginessa’s. Why did ye ne’er tell me? she asked with her eyes.
Mother Ginessa pressed her warm hands against Luciana’s cold cheeks. “’Twill be all right. Now sit yerself by the fire. I have some wine warming on the brazier.”
Luciana perched on a leather-covered footstool, her gaze venturing to the man nearby. He was leaning over, using a poker to coax the fire into a brighter blaze. The flames illuminated his face. A long straight nose, wrinkles around his eyes as if he’d spent too much time squinting into a bright sun, a trimmed beard with more gray in it than black. His hair, almost entirely gray, was tied with a strip of leather at the nape of his neck.
He continued to jab at the fire as if he knew she needed time to adjust to his presence. She attempted to feel some sort of connection … but he was a stranger.
He settled in an armchair across from her and leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees. His eyes were a sharp blue, as if age had not diminished his sight or intelligence. “Please allow me to introduce myself. I am your father, Lucas Vintello, from the kingdom of Eberon, where I hold the title of the Duke of Vindalyn.”
Luciana stiffened so suddenly she nearly slid off the narrow footstool where the leather had been made slick by her wet gown. She righted herself before he could grab her. He was a duke? Lucas? Had she been named after him?
He lowered his hand once he saw she was steady. “No doubt, my arrival has come as a great shock.” He gripped his hands together so tightly his knuckles turned white.