"Has it only been a couple weeks?" He laughed. "It was worth every hour I hid in closets so none of you could find me.”

"I'm so happy. I'm so happy, and I love you. I love everybody today," she said with a laugh. "Everyone in the world, but today, next to Remy, I love you best of all so I want you to be happy.”

"I am.”

"Not enough." She turned her lips to his ear. "Declan, there's something in this house that's just not finished. I didn't think I believed in that sort of thing, but … I feel it. Whenever I'm here, I feel it. I feel it even today.”

He could feel the tremor move through her, rubbed his hand over her back to soothe it away. "You shouldn't think about it today. You shouldn't worry today.”

"I'm worried for you. Something … it isn't finished. Part of it, somehow part of it's my fault.”

"Yours?" He eased her back now so he could see her face, then circled her toward one of the corners. "What do you mean?”

"I wish I knew what I meant. I only know what I feel. Something I did, or didn't do for you. It doesn't make a bit of sense, but it's such a strong feeling. The feeling that I wasn't there for you when you needed me most. I guess I'm a little afraid something bad's going to happen again if it's not all made right. So, well, as silly as this sounds, I just want to tell you I'm sorry, so awfully sorry for letting you down however I did.”

"It's all right." He touched his lips to her forehead. "You couldn't know. Whatever it was, if it was, you couldn't know. And sweetheart, this isn't a day for looking back. It's all about tomorrow now.”

"You're right. Just … just be careful," she said as Remy walked up and gave Declan a mock punch.

"That's my wife you're holding, cher. You go get your own girl.”

"Good idea.”

He hunted up Lena, found her in a clutch of people. The red of her dress was like a sleek tongue of flame over her dusky skin. He imagined his reaction to it, to her, transmitted clearly enough as he saw that knowing and essentially female look come into her eyes as he stepped toward her.

He turned slightly and held out a hand to her grandmother. "Miss Odette, would you dance with me?”

"Day hasn't come when I'll turn down a dance with a handsome man.”

"You look wonderful," he told her when they took the floor.

"Weddings make me feel young. I had a nice talk with your mama.”

"Did you?”

"You're wondering," she said with a chuckle. "I'll tell you we got on just fine. And she seemed pleased when I told her I saw how you'd been raised up right the first time I met you. She paid me back the compliment by saying the same about my Lena. Then we chatted about things women often chat about at weddings, which would likely bore you-except to say we agreed what a handsome young man you are. And handsome young men should find more reason to wear tuxedos.”

"I could become a mamtre d'. But they get better tips when they have a snooty accent, and I'm not sure I could pull that part off.”

"Then I'll just have to wait until your own wedding to see you all slicked up again.”

"Yeah." He looked over her head, but Lena had moved on. "This one's working out pretty well anyway. I was a little panicked that the storm last night would screw things up.”

"Storm? Cher, we didn't have a storm last night.”

"Sure we did. A mean one. Don't tell me you slept through it.”

"I was up till midnight." She watched his face now. "Finishing the hem on this dress. Then I was up again 'round four when Rufus decided he needed to go outside. I saw lights on over here then. Wondered what you were doing up at that hour. Night was clear as a bell, Declan.”

"I … I m/'ve dreamed about a storm. Pre-wedding stress." But he hadn't been up at four. Hadn't been up at all, as far as he knew, after midnight-when he'd walked through the house to turn off all the lights before going to bed.

Dreams, he thought. Wind and rain, the flash of lightning. The yellow flames of the fire in the grate. Pain, sweat, thirst. Blood.

Women's hands, women's voices-Effie's? –giving comfort, giving encouragement.

He remembered it now, clearly, and stopped dead in the middle of the dance.

He'd had a baby. He'd gone through childbirth.

Good God.

"Cher? Declan? You come on outside." Gently, Odette guided him off the floor. "You need some air.”

"Yeah. Southern ladies are big on swooning, right?”

"What's that?"

"Never mind." He was mortified, he was awed, at what had happened to him inside his own dream. Inside, he supposed, his own memories.

"Go on back in," he told her. "I'm just going to take a walk, clear my head.”

"What did you remember?”

"A miracle," he murmured. "Remind me to buy my mother a really great present. I don't know how the hell you women get through it once. She did it four times. Amazing," he mumbled, and headed down the steps. "Fucking amazing.”

He walked all the way around the house, then slipped back in for a tall glass of icy water. He used it to wash down three extra-strength aspirin in hopes of cutting back on the vicious headache that had come on the moment he'd remembered the dream.

He could hear the music spilling down the steps from the ballroom. He could feel the vibrations on the ceiling from where dozens of feet danced.

He had to get back up, perform his duties as best man and host. All he wanted to do was fall facedown on the bed, close his eyes, and slide into oblivion.

"Declan." Lena came in through the gallery doors, then shut them behind her. "What's the matter?”

"Nothing. Just a headache.”

"You've been gone nearly an hour. People are asking about you.”

"I'm coming up." But he sat on the side of the bed. "In a minute.”

She crossed to him. "Is it bad?”

"I've had worse.”

"Why don't you just lie down a few minutes?”

"I'm not crawling into bed on my best friend's wedding day-unless you want to keep me company.”

"It's tempting. Seeing a man in a tux always makes me want to peel him out of it.”

"Mamtre d's must just love you.”

"There now, you made a stupid joke, so you must be feeling better.”

"Considering I gave birth less than twenty-four hours ago, I'd say I'm doing great.”

Lena pursed her lips. "Cher, just how much have you had to drink this evening?”

"Not nearly as much as I plan on having. You know how you had this theory that I was Abigail Manet? Well, I'm starting to think you're onto something seeing as I dreamed I was in that room down the hall, in the bed I've seen in there-that one that isn't there. I wasn't seeing Abigail on that bed, in the last stages of labor. I experienced it, and let me tell you, it ain't no walk on the beach. Any woman who doesn't go for the serious drugs is a lunatic. It beats anything they dreamed up for that entertaining era known as the Spanish Inquisition.”

"You dreamed you were Abigail, and you-was "It wasn't like a dream, Lena, and I think I m/'ve been in that room when I had the-flash or hallucination, or whatever we call it. I can remember the storm– the sound of it, and how scared I was, how focused I was on bringing that baby out.”

He paused, replayed his own words. "Boy, that sounded weird.”

"Yes. Yes, it did." She sat beside him.

"I heard the voices. Other women helping me. I can see their faces-especially the young one. The one close to my age-Abigail's age. I can feel the sweat running down my face, and the unbelievable fatigue. Then that sensation, that peak of it all when it was like coming to the point of being ripped open. Bearing down, then the relief, the numbness, the fucking wonder of pushing life into the world. Then the flood of pride and love when they put that miracle in my arms.”

He looked down at his hands while Lena stared at him. "I can see the baby, Lena, clear as life, I can see her. All red and wrinkled and pissed off. Dark blue eyes, dark hair. A rosebud mouth. Tiny, slender fingers, and I thought: There are ten, and she is perfect. My perfect Rose.”

He looked at Lena now. "Marie Rose, your great-great-grandmother. Marie Rose," he repeated, "our daughter.”

Their daughter. She couldn't dismiss it, and something deep inside her grieved. But she couldn't speak of it, wouldn't speak of it, not when her head and heart were so heavy.

Lena threw herself back into the crowds, the music, the laughter. This was now, she thought. Now was what counted.

She was alive, with the warm evening air on her skin, under the pure, white moonlight with the fragrance of the flowers and gardens rioting around her.

Roses and verbena, heliotrope, jasmine.

Lilies. Her favorite had been the lily. She kept them, always, in her room. First in the servants' quarters, then in their bedroom. Clipped in secret from the garden or the hothouse.

And for the nursery, there were roses. Tiny pink buds for their precious Marie Rose.

Frightened, she pushed those thoughts, those images, aside. Grabbing a partner, she flirted him into a dance.

She didn't want the past. It was dead and done. She didn't want the future. It was capricious and often cruel. It was the moment that was to be lived, enjoyed. Even controlled.

So when Declan's father took her hand, she smiled at him, brilliantly.

"This one here's a Cajun two-step. Can you handle it?”

"Let's find out.”

They swung among the circling couples with quick, stylish moves that had her laughing up at him. "Why, Patrick, you're a natural. You sure you're a Yankee?”