All roads lead to Rome, and there were times when it might have struck us that almost every branch of study or subject of conversation skirted forbidden ground. -- Henry James, The Turn of the Screw

Not-Varan -- no, Varan -- nodded. "It's about time you realised it! It's really quite rude of you, to accuse someone of being a figment of your imagination and then not to listen to them until they prove they aren't."

Gialma tried to wrap his mind around this. "But-- You're-- How? How can I see you?"

They made an odd picture, the mortal and the Reaper, standing in the middle of a brightly-lit library. Varan's all-black clothing and bone white skin made her look disturbingly unreal, like an ancient photograph given life. All the colour in the room seemed to fade and dull around her. It was as if she stood under a perpetual shadow.

Varan shrugged. "Good question. I wish I knew the answer. But I can't stand around here talking. I haven't finished today's work."

It briefly occurred to Gialma to wonder what sort of work his cousin had now that she was dead. But she was gone before he had the chance to ask.

~~~~

Over the last few months Kilan had noticed Gialma was looking increasingly haunted and harried. He attributed it at first to a guilty conscience. But now Nimetath's spies began to report the prince's odd behaviour when he thought he was alone -- waving to an empty garden, apparently having a conversation in an empty room, looking up when there was nothing that could have attracted his attention.

Put together, all these incidents painted a worrying picture. Was Gialma going mad?

There was nothing he could do about it at present. He had no solid proof yet. But it was alarming.

Kilan had more things to alarm him than just his cousin's eccentricity. Malish had sent ambassadors claiming Nalginton only wanted peace. Neither Kilan nor Qihadal believed a word of it. But at present they could do nothing without seeming to be the aggressors.

And the agreed-upon year was rapidly running out.

Neither of them had mentioned the inevitable consummation of their marriage. But it hung over them all the time -- like a death sentence, he thought when he felt especially bitter, then realised that phrasing was quite unfortunate in this case. Death had nothing to do with this.

Qihadal was the one to raise the subject. For reasons known only to herself, she chose the middle of breakfast to do this. At first she spoke of things that had nothing to do with their marriage, making her sudden change of subject even more of a shock.

"I see the Duchess of Glynren has written yet another long epistle," she observed, glancing over the day's post. "And there is a petition of some sort here." She pushed the letters aside to look over later. "The wallpaper in the small sitting room is becoming faded. I think I'll buy some more today."

Kilan tried to remember which sitting room she meant. There were dozens throughout the palace, and more than half of them were small. Oh well. Qihadal wasn't the sort of person who bought things for no reason. If she thought the wallpaper needed replaced, she could decide that for herself. "Watch out for photographers. They seem to have a sixth sense for when royals go shopping."

Qihadal nodded and changed the subject. "I've been to see the royal physician several times lately."

This was the first Kilan had heard of it. His mind immediately jumped to the most alarming conclusion. "Are you ill?"

What if she was seriously ill? Would she blame Death for it?

She shook her head before he had time to truly panic. "No, I am well. I wished to ask her what the chances are of my conceiving on our wedding night."

If she had thrown the bread-knife at Kilan, she could hardly have startled him more. His eyes widened and he almost knocked over his cup. "You-- What?"

Qihadal nodded again with an outward appearance of calm. If Kilan had been less shocked, he might have noticed that she was biting her lip and her hands were shaking. She had the air of someone who was determined to confront an unpleasant duty once and for all. "She gave me a medicine that will make this more likely than it would otherwise be. But she told me it will be most effective today and tomorrow."

~~~~

Gialma's house in Esergot was grand, well-decorated, and close to the palace -- everything a prince and member of the High Council could need in a residence. When he first moved in he had thought it was somewhat too large for him and his retinue of twelve servants. Lately he had revised that opinion.

The house had been too large for thirteen living people. It was nowhere near large enough for thirteen living people and three hundred dead ones.

Word had spread among the Reapers that he was able to see them. Now he couldn't take a step without bumping into one or more of them. When he woke up in the morning there were Reapers perched on his windowsill. When he had his meals or discussed the household accounts with the butler, there were Reapers sitting on every available surface. When he went into the city, there were Reapers on the streets, on the rooftops, and in the buildings. He was the only person who could see them. And it was driving him mad.

"Have I become a magnet for you people?" he complained as he had to reach over a Reaper's head to take his coat off its hanger.

The Reaper obligingly moved out of the way. "Of course not. We're just not used to mortals seeing us unless they're about to die. So we're curious. It's nice to speak to someone who isn't dead."

Gialma struggled to put his coat on without elbowing yet another Reaper in the ribs. Really, this was getting beyond a joke. He couldn't even call his home his own any more! "Am I the only mortal in the world who can see you?"

All the Reapers within earshot shook their heads and began to talk at once. A stranger might have thought the room was full of jackdaws. But then, a stranger wouldn't have heard anything at all. Gialma's black-winged uninvited house-guests were not only invisible to the average person; they were inaudible and intangible too.

Finally they stopped babbling long enough for him to get a word in edgewise. "I didn't understand any of that."

A white-haired Reaper, who seemed to be in some position of authority over the others, glared around at the crowd. "Of course he didn't, when you were all shouting fit to raise the roof! Do you want the Queen to hear us?"

Everyone winced and looked thoroughly ashamed of themselves. Gialma watched curiously. They had frequently spoken of their Queen, in the sort of tone used by students about a teacher who they laugh at and ignore when they feel they can get away with it, but who they respect and even fear in spite of it. This mysterious queen had never deigned to favour Gialma with her presence. He almost wished she would, so he could see what the Queen of the Reapers was like.

The white-haired Reaper turned back to him with the air of a professor about to start a lecture. "Technically we're only supposed to visit the mortal world to collect souls. But it gets very dull in the Land of the Dead when you've been there a few centuries. So we pretend to be mortal and go to places full of people -- parties, weddings, anywhere that's attended by so many mortals that we're just another face in the crowd. But being able to interact with living mortals while still appearing as our true selves is rare. You and your cousin are the only people in Carann who can see us as we really are. And we rarely dare go near him. We never know when the Queen's visiting, and she doesn't like any of us to see her softer side."

Gialma tried to make sense of this. "You mean your queen knows Tinuviel?"

One of the Reapers snorted. "Knows him? Knows him pretty well, I'd say! They're married."

This made absolutely no sense. "Qihadal is your queen?"

The white-haired Reaper glared at the one who'd spoken. "Bilnulekh, you idiot, when will you learn to hold your tongue?" She turned to Gialma and began to explain. "No, our queen is Death. But she and Kilan -- he who you call Tinuviel -- made a deal years ago, and then some mix-up led to their marriage, and they've been married ever since. Qihadal is only Kilan's official wife."

If she had told him snow was black, he might have believed her. But this...

"Do you mean to tell me," he said slowly, "that the emperor of Carann is married to Death?"

They all nodded. Gialma felt like the room was spinning before his eyes.

~~~~

Death knew her Reapers were up to something. For months now they had been mysteriously disappearing in large numbers, and avoided answering all questions on where they went. But the fate of the world hadn't dramatically altered, and there had been no unexpected major catastrophes, so for a while she was content to let them continue with whatever it was they were doing.

Ranoryin had been reincarnated almost a week ago. That meant one less headache for her, but it also meant... Well, she knew what it meant for Kilan. And Qihadal. To herself she had to admit it was disconcerting yet true that she found herself constantly expecting to hear Ranoryin screaming at her about something.

At least I needn't fear her opera threat any more, Death thought wryly. It would be a considerable time before Ranoryin's new life was old enough to take any interest in opera.

The mysterious absence of the Reapers meant that Death found the number of souls she had to personally collect was slowly increasing. After a week of gathering more than twice the usual number of souls, she decided enough was enough. Inexplicably vanishing was one thing. Shirking their duties was another.

Death picked up her scythe and went in search of her servants.

~~~~

There were many things Kilan wanted to forget. He could say with certainty that his wedding night with Qihadal was the first on that list. It had been the most awkward, uncomfortable night of his life. He and Qihadal had barely been able to look each other in the face for a week afterward.

He sincerely hoped the doctor was right. No offense to Qihadal, but he never wanted to endure that again.

Death's continued absence was both a curse and a blessing. On the one hand, he missed talking to her. On the other, he doubted he could look at her without feeling that he'd betrayed her.

He needn't have worried. When Death finally deigned to reappear, she had much more important things on her mind than Kilan's shame and embarrassment.

She didn't bother with "hello", "nice to see you again", or any explanation of where she'd been. She just appeared in his rooms, scowling like a thundercloud.

"Did you know about this?" she demanded.

Kilan thought of all the things he knew about or might be expected to know about. "What do you mean?"

"About Gialma and the Reapers!" she snapped.

The words conjured up an image of Gialma talking some of Death's Reapers into helping him plot to become Emperor. Kilan dismissed this idea as absurd. There was no way his cousin could have done that... was there?

"What about Gialma and the Reapers?" he asked. That phrase would make a good name for a theatre troupe, he thought in passing.

Death sat down on the armchair and folded her arms. "Your cousin, who I can only assume has a very tenuous grasp on sanity, is able to see my Reapers. I don't know how, I don't know why. All I know is what's come of it. They've turned his house into a day trip destination for the gatherers of the dead!"