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Oh, so many things. “How old are you?”

“There isn’t a simple answer to that question.”

“Then give me a complicated answer. I’m sure I’ll work it out,” I snapped back.

He scrutinized me. “In spite of it all, you’re quite feisty, aren’t you?”

“Don’t tell me it’s because of my hair.”

He snorted. “I thought you’d be frightened of me.”

“Should I be?”

He blinked again, rapidly—surprised by my forthrightness? Or was he considering his response?

“No, Emily. You shouldn’t be frightened of me. I mean you no harm. I come in peace.” His voice was gentle and sounded sincere, though exasperated.

Dylan shouted my name up the stairs. Tristan stood, and I noticed the rocking chair didn’t move.

“Don’t go,” I pleaded in a panicked rush. I dashed out to the landing and called down to Dylan. “I’m just drying my hair.”

“I’ve made you something to eat.”

It’s all about food with him. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

“Okay.”

When I turned, Tristan was standing on the landing behind me. “I’d better go,” he said.

“Do you have to?”

“To be honest, it’s tiring, manifesting like this.”

“Oh, but will you come back?”

“I don’t think you could stop me,” he murmured, his green eyes darkening. And for some insane reason, I found this thought pleasing.

“Good.” I smiled.

He stepped back, surprised. “You’re really not afraid of me at all, are you?”

“No.”

He frowned and seemed thoroughly disconcerted. “Last time I checked what the year was in the land of the living, I was nineteen. Or I’m twenty-one, I think, depending on the way you perceive time. But then, my concept of time is very different to yours. I’ll see you later, Emily Beauchamp.”

“Wait…”

But with one last intense look, he vanished, as did his intoxicating fragrance.

It is him!

The heavenly smell was him, which meant he’d been here since I arrived. Briefly, I remembered walking around my new bedroom before it was decorated, trying to identify that scent. And in the dream I had the other night, I was retracing my first steps in that room and he was there, watching me. I clawed my fingers through the wet hair on my scalp, trying to make sense of Tristan.

One thing I was sure of, though—he was other. He wasn’t me, nor my subconscious. Definitely not my subconscious, I thought as I wandered back into the spare room and picked up my hair dryer. My subconscious was not that good-looking.

Dylan had toasted crumpets with honey and made some tea. He glanced up when I entered the kitchen, and his face went blank.

“What?” I asked.