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For days now, Sibyl had seen glimpses of this place, even though she had only departed the ferry moments before. For days, her connection to Cleopatra had shown her the rocky peaks of the Cuillin Mountains; the sea inlets that divided these landscapes like fingers of ink. This narrow harbor of Portree with its row of stone buildings. But now she beheld these things with her own eyes.

She had a bookseller in London to thank for guiding her here. Her plan required several copies of her own books, and once she'd located a shop in London that carried most of her titles, she'd described to the bookseller within the places she'd been seeing in her mind for several days. The dramatic cliffs plunging to the sea, the lone lighthouse at the tip of a long green strip of land that stuck out into the sea like the overgrown finger of a decaying god. She'd told him these were images once seen in a book, drawings that hadn't been properly labeled, and she wished to visit these places before she returned to America.

Ah, it's the Isle of Skye you seek, miss.

She sought a great deal more than that, but there was no sense in sharing this with the shopkeeper. He was too delightfully puzzled that she'd paid him a visit, only to request several copies of her own books. He'd offered them to her for free provided she sign the entirety of his stock, and she'd happily agreed. And as she'd signed each book carefully, he'd attempted to engage her in talk about threat of war on the Continent, and Sibyl had no choice but to plead ignorance. The last time she had looked at a newspaper at all was when she'd rifled through clippings about the Ramsey-Stratford betrothal party.

War? Had her foolish brothers been correct?

What did the prospect of war mean for one who had experienced things such as she had these past few weeks? What did the prospect of death itself me

an?

While she trusted Ramses and Julie completely, and this mysterious queen who seemed to control them now only a little bit less, she still thought it possible they might change their minds about allowing her to complete this last leg of her journey on her own, so she had lingered in London for two days to be sure she wasn't being followed. Then, with a satchel full of slender hardbound editions of her own books, she headed north.

North to the far reaches of Scotland, to the place where Cleopatra now walked dramatic windswept landscapes with such frequency that some landmarks, the same slopes, the same stormy coasts, were transmitted to Sibyl again and again and again.

The nature of their connection had most certainly changed after the party, after they'd come so close to each other without realizing it. The visions were more stable, more rooted in their passing, everyday moments. And the great swells of emotion and physical sensation they now shared were entirely new. And, of course, they could, when they wanted, speak to each other as if across a telephone line that remained open for only a few minutes at a time. But alongside these visions came a great sense of despair, a sense of hopelessness that radiated from Cleopatra with such force Sibyl was tempted to speak to her, to comfort her with words.

But she knew this wasn't wise. She might tip her hand, say something to alert Cleopatra to her approach.

But if Cleopatra could see the world through Sibyl's eyes as well, there was no keeping her journey entirely secret.

On the train ride north, she read through her past tales of Egypt and used a pen to mark those passages she thought might be relevant to her new mission.

On the ferry ride that brought her journey to an end, she felt a strange tingling in her neck. A burst of energy seemed to course through her. The only way she could release it was to clench and unclench her fists. They were entirely new, these sensations. And she took them to be a sign that she was close. That Cleopatra was close.

Perhaps she would have felt these things at the party had she not glimpsed Ramses immediately and been overcome by the memory of him; had she not then been so quickly assaulted by Theodore Dreycliff and knocked unconscious soon after. As she set foot on the dock, these feelings continued.

And so you are here, Cleopatra said. Come to the pub above the harbor, Sibyl Parker. Come to me so we can end this.

It was perhaps the most reckless and foolish decision she had ever made, coming here by herself. Lying to Lucy once more about her destination and her intentions and the length of time she would be gone. Perhaps it would end with her neck snapped and her body cast into the sea.

She didn't believe it.

She couldn't believe it.

And so it remained between them, a connection much like those enjoyed by twins, but far more powerful. Surely, her emotions flowed across this connection into Cleopatra as much as those of Cleopatra flowed into her.

The pub wasn't too crowded, but there were several customers. The walls and floor were of such a dark wood, the gray sunlight streaming through the windows seemed blinding at first. And then her eyes adjusted, and she saw her seated in the corner, wreathed in shadows that complemented the dark dress she wore and the heavy black shawl that seemed intended for both concealment and warmth. Perhaps it was the wariness in her expression, the wide-eyed fear that seemed to exist behind a glaze of defiant anger, or perhaps it was the dark colors in which she'd draped herself. Or perhaps it was being this close to her. But it was in that moment that Sibyl realized Cleopatra had traveled this far north out of pure despair, a despair that led to utter surrender.

For the first time since departing London, Sibyl no longer feared for her own life.

It felt as if it were the longest walk she'd ever taken, this short stroll from the pub's entrance to the table in the far corner, and by the time she'd taken a seat across from Cleopatra, her hands were shaking and covered in sweat.

"How will this unfold?" Cleopatra asked. "How will you exert your final dominion over me? Do you expect the last vestiges of my soul to leave my body? Did you expect to claim me the moment I was within sight? Perhaps it happens now, as invisible as the connection between us. What would these men think if they knew?"

"If they knew what?"

"If they knew you came to claim me."

"I'm not here to claim you. I'm here to restore you."

"Restore me? You are the vessel for my spirit reborn, are you not?"

"I don't believe these words."

"Why not? They were spoken by an immortal thousands of years old."