Nonetheless, the dinner depressed Fran. It would seem that Riarté had no problem with long-term imprisonment. Up until then, Fran had assumed that she'd only be there until Riarté's purpose was fufilled. Now she wondered if she would end up like Fynn, accepting her life as normal and forgetting she was a captive.

There was no chance of rescue, nobody had the faintest idea where she was. There was a phone in the front hall, but it was dead. (Fran learned later there was nothing sinister about this, Fynn just wasn't very together about paying bills.) And every exterior wall was warded to within an inch of its life. Fran had a hazy idea that the room she was tortured in was in the basement, so nothing would induce her to explore there. That just left the attic.

It took a surprisingly long time to find the hatch that led to the attic. Fran eventually found it embedded in the ceiling of a tiny guest room, and only reachable by carefully balancing three tea chests on their sides.

The air of the attic smelled faintly of boiling cabbages, and the sharp smell of mothballs. The junk had been piled up in almost chronological heaps, the oldest in the centre. Curiously untouched, a child's rocking chair stood apart from the piles, with a teddy bear sitting arms outstretched to Fran. Mindlessly, she picked it up and held it to her. It even smelled... reassuring. She couldn't see any windows or hatches, but maybe further on- she fell over a tennis racket, and landed lengthways.

Fran cursed softly. Still, she'd managed to hold onto her teddy. The heap shifted in front of her.

The rest of the pile fell away almost glacially, to reveal a tied up collection of newspapers, from the late seventies. These in turn fell from wood and canvas, and Fran realised there was a badly warped painting at the heart of the mess. She found the painting's plaque.

It said simply 'CORA',as though that was everything anyone needed to know. It was like a portrait of Henry the Eighth. There was no need to mention that he had six wives. Some names resonate in time with history.

The memory of Gregor's voice arrived in Fran's head, quietly but filling every corner.

"That cow Cora broke his heart."

And now Fran looked again, she could see that the canvas had undergone a psychic blast. Carefully, she pressed her fingers against the cracked paint, smoothing out the ridges. Fran gaped. She'd seen a face like Cora's before, but only in the mirror.

Eventually Riarté found her, dragged her to the dark room and hurt her until, basically, he became bored with it, but Fran never made a sound and never let go of the teddy bear that was hers.

Fynn was there, stroking her forehead. She gave him a look, and he backed off.

"You knew, didn't you? You saw it at dinner."

Fynn sighed. "You look very like him, sometimes. Funny, all these years, and Riarté never mentioned having a daughter."

Fran felt tears starting. "Then why? Why torture your own child?" Her voice didn't sound like hers, so she somehow got a grip on the encroaching tears.

Fynn smiled down at her. "It's all right," he said gently. "Sheltered I may be, but stupid I'm not."

"Meaning what?"

"Look, I'm not the enemy, Fran. In fact- oh. Oh dear."

Fran followed his gaze. It was the white cat from the pool, watching the pair curiously.

"Hello, sweetheart, I was starting to think I'd dreamed you. Why so worried, Fynn? Does she spit mind-controlling acid, or something?"

"Fran, this is Alicia. Liccy, this is Francesca. Alicia had this room before you did."

The cat leapt onto the bed, and Fran recoiled. "She was a girl?"

"An enchantress. Yes. I had to bargain for her life, in the end. Gave up all contact with my family." Fynn smiled. "The ironic thing was, we couldn't stand each other."

Fran closed her eyes and wanted it all to go away. But this was her chance for information.

"Why weren't we introduced before?"

"My guess, she's a warning. Don't cross Riarté."

Alicia curled around Fran's wrist. She frowned.

"Tell me, Fynn, what do you dream about?"

The young man lowered his eyes. "Don't remember."

"I dream of sunlight and little tucked away cafés, and even Gregor's bookshop."

"Those sorts of dreams fade." Fynn grabbed her arms. "Don't, Fran. I've nothing left to bargain with, and I don't want to see anything happen to you. I like you."

"Then don't look. What am I supposed to do, wait to be turned into a cat? As a best-case scenario at that. No, you're going to tell me where Riarté is. Daddy dear is in for a nasty shock."

 © Naomi 'Ni' Claydon 2000. No copying without permission.