The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

halfway between.”
    “Isn’t that what happens to a ghost? His body is in one reality and his spirit in another.”
    “Our spirits and bodies remain intact. ’Tis reality around us that wavers.”
    “You’ve got a point there. Let’s follow and see what Vareena conjurs up in the library.”
    “An apt description, I believe.”
    Together they caught up with Vareena as she pushed open the door to the library.
    “I don’t remember closing the door. Did you close it, Robb?”
    Robb shook his head and scrunched his face in a puzzled frown. “I believe the ghost wishes to be left alone.”
    Marcus tasted the air with his magical senses. Dust, mold, stone older than time, staleness, and . . . and something sour tingling on his tongue that did not belong there.
    “It’s waiting for us,” he whispered.
    “Stuff and nonsense. I’d know if another ghost had come here. I’m a sensitive.” Vareena resolutely pushed the door open and stepped into the vast room. “Yoohooo! Anybody home?”
    Her words echoed around the nearly empty room. Silence followed.
    Marcus and Robb poked their heads around the door, Robb above, Marcus slightly stooped. Diffuse sunlight filtered through the dust in broken shafts. “The dust should have settled by now. There isn’t a breeze to stir it,” Marcus whispered.
    “I know,” Robb replied.
    “Look for the sparkles, for movement.”
    Vareena walked around the free-standing bookshelves. Her skirts raised clouds of dust in her wake. It swirled and eddied, drifting to new locations. But none of her dust stayed in the air more than a moment or two.
    The other dust—the stuff that lingered in the corner far away from her circuitous path—took on a vaguely human shape, the glint of red and metal showed the knife now tucked into his old-fashioned belt sash over yellow tunic and orange sleeveless robe. Brown trews and boots faded into the shadows, making him look almost legless. He made mocking faces at Vareena, waving his arms in a parody of drawing attention to himself.
    Eventually, Vareena climbed the spiral staircase to the second-floor gallery. The gloating dust followed her only within touching distance of the cold iron structure. Then it jerked back as if burned.
    “Behind you,” Marcus hissed at her.
    “What?” Vareena turned on the sixth step, looking over her shoulder at them.
    “The ghost. In the dust. Behind you.” Marcus held his breath, not daring to come closer, yet fearful for her well-being.
    “I see nothing.” Firmly she marched up the stairs.
    “She didn’t even look,” Robb protested.
    “Perhaps she truly cannot see this ghost. Her sensitivities are limited, as is her magic.”
    “I wonder if all of her other ghosts have been mundane,” Robb mused.
    “If so, they might not have seen this ghost. If mundanes couldn’t find a way out, perhaps the solution lies in magic.” Hope brightened Marcus’ heart for the first time since coming here.
    “But our magic has become quite limited by whatever force holds us here. Without a dragon to combine and enhance our powers, we may not have enough magic to break the spell.”

    Ariiell loosened the ties of her gown and shifted the pillows behind her back. She sighed at the relief of pressure on her swelling belly.
    Outside her bedchamber her father and stepmother continued to argue over her plight. Her father’s second wife wept more than she spoke. “Think of the disgrace of bringing that monster into our family. Everyone will know ’tis not a love match. ’Tis not even a good political move.” Lady Laislac choked out the words between sobs. “Better we send her to a convent overseas for a year and foster the baby elsewhere. It’s likely to be as hideous as the father.”
    Ariiell frowned. Her stepmother repeated some of the arguments Ariiell had put forth against the marriage to Mardall. Arguments she expected and hoped to lose.
    “My honor is as much at stake as the girl’s. She’ll never be able to make a more advantageous marriage. Whoever we pawn her off on will know she’s not a virgin and will renounce the marriage on the wedding night.” Lord Laislac’s boots pounded the floor rushes into a distinctive path from his repetitive pacing.
    Her father always won family arguments regardless of the wisdom or lightness of his position.
    The best way for Ariiell to get what she wanted was to counter her father with the opposite of her goal. In four years of marriage, her stepmother had never