It had been raining, but now the sky was clear and the night was clean and soft. A gentle, whistling wind rustled the damp leaves that clung to the rounded sides of the stone fountain in the terrace garden; a small amount of fresh-fallen rainwater reflected the woman's face as she bent above the fountain's base, showing her wide blue eyes, her oddly youthful complexion, the blonde hair caught back into a thick net behind her small, still-shapely head.

She moved with quiet grace in the soft night. The sounds of her tiny, dainty boots were muffled by the damp leaves clustering thickly on the flagstone terrace floor. Small, delicate hands drew the edges of her thick woolen shawl more closely about her slight form -- a form that had thickened and matured in the years since she had first come to Collinwood, but was nonetheless still somewhat girlish.

She had borne several children to her husband during the past twenty-three years; borne them and watched them grow. She had not minded that it was Tad Collins, Quentin's son, who was to inherit the great estate and not one of them. Along with the estate came manifestations of evil -- and while she had not seen any signs of evil during the past year or two, she knew it was always there.

And she watched for it, guarded against it.

It must not touch her family. Not ever again.

A breath of wind stirred a dry leaf that had somehow escaped the earlier shower, and the woman tensed before realizing what it was. She turned to cross the empty garden and return to the house, where golden larnplight spilled across the terrace from the rawing-room windows. The faint sounds of the harpsichord floated through the thick storm glass and reached her where she stood; her daughter playing a pensive war ballad. She would go indoors and join her in this rare moment of peace.

It was when she had turned away from the fountain that the first uneasy sensation struck her -- a sensation that she found all too familiar.

Oh, no -- no, please. Please don't bring it on again -- not again! Not when things have been so quiet and peaceful...

Pain -- the familiar, burning throb of pain inside her head, the foretokening of danger. She had lived long with the signs, and knew them for what they were. If she tried to force the scene away she would invite a deeper, more lasting pain, one that would invade her entire body and make her ache for hours on end, the consequences of not listening to the Second Sight when it tried to warn her.

Gripping the edge of the empty fountain, the woman bent her head and opened her mind and body to the pain. It danced behind her closed eyelids, transforming into brilliant, blinding colors -- red, gold and blue -- colors that swirled and changed shape in a constant, kaleidoscopic dance. It was only when she had concentrated on the heart of these colors that they began to take on a definite shape: a blue gown, golden leaves and red hair; and everywhere moonlight, stark and uncaring. And over the figure in her vision, a darker one -- a tall, menacing shape.

A sudden, stabbing sensation brought her to herself with a sharp gasp and her eyes flew wide open. But the sensation was not part of her own reality -- rather, it was that of the figures she had seen.

And with it, came certain knowledge: This was not supposed to happen. Someone was interfering... changing the course of What Should Have Been. Someone evil...

Without stopping to do more than latch the gate behind her, she slipped quietly out of the garden into the night.

The woods were dark and unlit by what little moonlight there was tonight, but her inner sense of direction did not fail her. Unerringly she made her way through the close-grown trees until she came to the road to town, the road where, she somehow knew, she would find her quarry. Caution silenced her steps as she drew nearer, nearer -- she drew a protective mental shield around herself as she sensed the Presence of a power greater than hers. Waiting until she was entirely surrounded with an egg- shaped shield of white, she paused before venturing to the very edge of the woods to peer out at the road.

She was in time to see the tall, dark figure as it swirled away, a flowing cape seeming to float behind it as it vanished among the trees. She had to close her eyes for a moment to recover from the enormity of the Power that had smote her with the force of a blow. Power that was not even directed at her --just emanating from the being that had gone. But more than that, behind the Power, there was a sense of Evil. Purest, deadly Evil -- love of power for its own sake. No, it was more than love -- it was lust.

She shivered and turned to leave. Then it came to her -- a tiny, threadlike flicker. A lifesign, feebly attempting to flicker into health. But it never would again -- it was far too weak.

Someone was dying.

She turned back, remembering her vision, and walked cautiously out onto the road. Of a sudden, the moon burst out from behind a scudding cloud and its pale brilliance poured down onto the earthen pavement. And it was then that she saw the huddled, dark form where the person of Evil had dropped and left it lying there to die.

Apprehensive that it might be one of her own, she drew nearer. She had barely time to notice the dark opening in the rocks of the cliff wall that rose up beside the road, before which the figure was lying -- an opening that seemed to be a doorway - - before it somehow closed itself up. Taking a step over to it, she laid her hand against the rocks and allowed herself a moment to ponder. A hidden door in the cliff face?

Then the figure moaned, and she abandoned all else.

It was a woman. A woman in a blue gown and matching jacket that seemed oddly out-of-place on her slight, birdlike form, as if the garments had not been made for her originally. The body was almost weightless as she turned it over and attempted to lift the head and turn the face into the moonlight so she could see who it was.

Then she gasped.

She knew her.

It had been twenty-three years, and a lot had happened to take her mind off those long-ago days of Gerard and Judah Zachary, but she knew the woman who lay dying in her arms now. Knew the enormous, exotic eyes, knew the fine bones of her face, knew the wavy auburn hair that had lost none of its rich, deep color despite the passage of time.

The woman's eyelids fluttered -- large, luminous eyes looked up at her and her heart turned over. She knows she's dying, she thought, and pressed a frantic hand to her old friend's cheek.

"Can ye tell me," she begged, keeping her voice low for fear That Other would hear them speaking and return. "Can ye tell me wot 'appened?"

"Must... help... me," the dying woman gasped, struggling for each breath she drew into her small chest. "Please..."

"Ay, I'll 'elp ye," she promised. "But ye must tell me!"

"Can't -- talk," was the labored response. "Can't... breathe..." The large eyes closed, and she seemed to be making a supreme effort. At last she opened her eyes again and looked up. "Family -- Must -- change -- it -- must -- prevent --"

"I understand," she said quickly, smoothing back a tangle of hair from the other's brow. "I understand. Let me look into yer mind. Relax -- don't try to talk. It'll be quicker this way -- let me see wot 'appened there."

"Only... chance," her old friend continued stubbornly, still struggling to breathe -- to live. "Prevent--" A fit of coughing stopped her from going on.

"Wot did'e do to yer?" she demanded sadly. And fearfully. It would take a great deal to snuff out this particular individual, as she recalled.

"Life... force," was the gasped reply. "He... he..."

"Don't try to talk," she begged, her heart lurching as she realized it was almost the end. "Let me see into yer mind... be still. I promise, I promise I'll 'elp ye." She laid her hind on the ghost-pale forehead of the other, and opened her mind to the flood of images that came rushing to meet her. Foremost among them were two small children and a tall, dark, sad-eyed man -- a man she remembered as well as she remembered this woman. And mingled with their images were others: people who had died, people who still, perhaps, lived -- and two others.

Two others. A woman and a man. Both strangers to her.

The man, she had just seen. A man of evil.

The images flashed past, a story that was slightly incoherent but understandable to one who knew how to interpret it. And then, without warning, the images flickered and came to a stop.

Julia had died.

Leticia Faye Collins sat very still for a long time. Finally she stirred, looking down on the pale face that had always been so animated, so much alive. "If it'adn't been for you and your Barnabas, me own life would'ave ended twenty-three years ago. You ave me my life, my Desmond -- and even my children." Her lips compressed as she thought of them and remembered the two little faces she had seen etched in Julia's mind. "A life for a life, eb, Luv? You 'elped me so long ago... now maybe it's me own turn o 'elp you."

She nodded, her mind made up. "It'll start, I think," she whispered softly, "with a dream.........."

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