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A child called out to her now.

She didn't recognize the voice, couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. Mitera, Mitera, Mitera, the child called. Distant, but urgent. Echoing through the strange and endless alleyways and tunnels through which she ran. There were glimpses of blue sky overhead.

She was not deep beneath the earth. She was in a city.

Alexandria, a woman's voice said.

Suddenly she stood at the edge of a slender canal that cut between great sandstone walls. Its banks were paved. Sunlight poured down through the break overhead, washing the rippling water in gold. And there she was, the raven-haired woman she had only caught glimpses of before now. Perfectly clear, practically an arm's length away on the other side of the canal. She wore a modern dress, deep blue, a lustrous shade, and she gazed back at Sibyl with as much astonishment as Sibyl felt.

Are you the one who took me? The woman's voice echoed. Her lips did not move, but the pain in these words swam in her expression, in her blazing blue eyes.

It was she. It had to be. The woman who called herself Cleopatra. And they were together now, for the first time, but in some place that was neither dream nor hallucination. But was it truly Alexandria, or some vague recollection of it, sanded free of detail, rendered immutable and stark?

No, I did not take you. I would never mistreat you.

Then leave me. Then leave my mind.

I cannot. You have entered my mind just as I have entered yours.

The voice. The voice again. The child's voice calling. The raven-haired woman turned and looked over her shoulder. But Sibyl felt as if the voice was coming from behind her as well. Mitera, Mitera, Mitera. It was Greek, this word. Mother, the child's voice called over and over again. Mother.

Where do you hide him? Where do you hide my memories of him?

I don't understand. I seek to find you. From you, I would hide nothing.

The woman spun to face her, as if astonished by these words.

Something in the rippling water caught her attention.

She let out a terrible scream.

When Sibyl looked down, she saw that her reflection was not her own but that of the woman at whom she'd been staring only seconds before.

29

When Sibyl jerked awake, a tall handsome man with black skin rose from the chair next to her bed. He had an elegance about him. He extended one graceful hand as if he thought she might leap from the covers.

She felt no such urge. The bed in which she found herself was a small sea of luxury. Soft sheets kissed her bare legs. Her head rested on a veritable field of soft pillows. All of it was so soothing she had no desire to sit upright. Not yet.

But when she realized that someone had undressed her down to her undergarments, she stiffened. Even the corset had been removed, all without waking her. Had this strange seductive man done this?

The thought embarrassed her into a deeper silence.

"It was a woman who prepared you for bed," the man said, his voice a low, comforting rumble. He was incredibly tall, black skinned, with a sweet, boyish face. "A woman, I assure you. Your modesty was protected."

She could only nod in response to this.

Gone was the dream. The strange vision of Alexandria. The sight of her reflection replaced with that of another.

Now there was just this bedroom, with its high stone walls and iron chandelier filled with flickering candles. No, they were electric, these candles. And for some reason this comforted her, to still be connected to the modern world even amidst these austere walls and the thundering surf outside and the roaring fireplace across from the foot of the bed.

It was a windswept coastline she'd been brought to.

How far was this place from Yorkshire?

She didn't know the map of England well enough to even guess. But it was a warm place and it had been cared for and the man near to her showed no malice or aggression. All of these things calmed her.

"A man," she said. "A man tried to kill me."