“Books are the world.” Curious, cautious, Dana sat.

“I think there’s been a mistake.” Zoe hung back, looking from face to face. “I don’t know anything about art. Not real art. And books—I mean, I read, but—”

“Please, sit.” Pitte nudged her gently into a chair. “Be at home. I trust your son is well.”

She stiffened, and those tawny eyes went tiger-bright. “Simon’s fine.”

“Motherhood’s a kind of art, don’t you think, Miss McCourt? A work in progress of the most essential, most vital kind. One that requires valor and heart.”

“Do you have children?”

“No. I haven’t been given that gift.” His hand brushed Rowena’s as he spoke, then he lifted his glass. “To life. And all its mysteries.” His eyes gleamed over the rim of the glass. “There’s no need to fear. No one here wishes you anything but health, happiness, and success.”

“Why?” Dana demanded. “You don’t know us, though you seem to know a great deal more about us than we do about you.”

“You’re a seeker, Miss Steele. An intelligent, straightforward woman who looks for answers.”

“I’m not getting any.”

He smiled. “It’s my fondest hope that you’ll find all the answers. To begin, I’d like to tell you a story. It seems a night for stories.”

He settled back. Like Rowena’s, his voice was musical and strong, faintly exotic. The sort, Malory thought, designed for telling tales on stormy nights.

Because of it, she relaxed a little. What else did she have to do, after all, besides sit in a fantastic house by a roaring fire and listen to a strange, handsome man weave a tale while she sipped champagne?

It beat eating takeout while reconciling her checkbook hands down.

And if she could wheedle a tour of the place, and nudge Pitte toward The Gallery as a vehicle to expand his art collection, she might just save her job.

So she settled back as well and prepared to enjoy herself.

“Long ago, in a land of great mountains and rich forests, lived a young god. He was his parents’ only child, and well beloved. He was gifted with a handsome face and strength of heart and muscle. He was destined to rule one day, as his father before him, and so he was reared to be the god-king, cool in judgment, swift in action.

“There was peace in this world, since gods had walked there. Beauty, music and art, stories and dance were everywhere. For as long as memory—and a god’s memory is infinite—there had been harmony and balance in this place.”

He paused to sip his wine, his gaze tracking slowly from face to face. “From behind the Curtain of Power, through the veil of the Curtain of Dreams, they would look on the world of mortals. Lesser gods were permitted to mix and mate with those of the mortal realm at their whim, and so became the faeries and sprites, the sylphs and other creatures of magic. Some found the mortal world more to their tastes and peopled it. Some, of course, were corrupted by the powers, by the world of mortals, and turned to darker ways. Such is the way of nature, even of gods.”

Pitte eased forward to top a thin cracker with caviar. “You’ve heard stories of magic and sorcery, the faerie tales and fantasies. As one of the guardians of stories and books, Miss Steele, do you consider how such tales become part of the culture, what root of truth they spring from?

“To give someone, or something, a power greater than our own. To feed our need for heroes and villains and romance.” Dana shrugged, though she was already fascinated. “If, for instance, Arthur of the Celts existed as a warrior king, as many scholars and scientists believe, how much more enthralling, more potent, is his image if we see him in Camelot, with Merlin. If he was conceived with the aid of sorcery, and crowned high king as a young boy who pulled a magic sword out of a stone.”

“I love that story,” Zoe put in. “Well, except for the end. It seemed so unfair. But I think . . .”

“Please,” Pitte said, “go on.”

“Well, I sort of think that maybe magic did exist once, before we educated ourselves out of it. I don’t mean education’s bad,” she said quickly, squirming as everyone’s attention focused on her. “I just mean maybe we, um, locked it away because we started needing logical and scientific answers for everything.”

“Well said.” Rowena nodded. “A child often tucks his toys in the back of the closet, forgetting the wonder of them as he grows to manhood. Do you believe in wonder, Miss McCourt?”

“I have a nine-year-old son,” Zoe replied. “All I have to do is look at him to believe in wonder. I wish you’d call me Zoe.”

Rowena’s face lit with warmth. “Thank you. Pitte?”

“Ah, yes, to continue the tale. As was the tradition, upon reaching his majority the young god was sent beyond the Curtain for one week, to walk among the mortals, to learn their ways, to study their weaknesses and strengths, their virtues and flaws. It happened that he saw a young woman, a maid of great beauty and virtue. And seeing, loved, and loving, wanted. And though she was denied to him by the rules of his world, he pined for her. He grew listless, restless, unhappy. He would not eat or drink, nor did he find any appeal in all the young goddesses offered to him. His parents, disturbed at seeing their son so distressed, weakened. They would not give their son to the mortal world, but they brought the maid to theirs.”

“They kidnapped her?” Malory interrupted.

“They could have done.” Rowena filled the flutes again. “But love cannot be stolen. It’s a choice. And the young god wished for love.”

“Did he get it?” Zoe wondered.

“The mortal maid chose, and loved, and gave up her world for his.” Pitte rested his hands on his knees. “There was anger in the worlds of gods, of mortals, and in that mystical half-world of the faeries. No mortal was to pass through the Curtain. Yet that most essential rule was now broken. A mortal woman had been taken from her world and into theirs, married to and bedded by their future king for no reason more important than love.”

“What’s more important than love?” Malory asked and earned a slow, quiet look from Pitte.

“Some would say nothing, others would say honor, truth, loyalty. Others did, and for the first time in the memory of the gods, there was dissension, rebellion. The balance was shaken. The young god-king, crowned now, was strong and withstood this. And the mortal maid was beautiful and true. Some were swayed to accept her, and others plotted in secret.”