Is it Dimitri's imagination, or is it suddenly easier to breathe? The same Spring sun shines, the same Autumn wind blows, but does the garden smell sweeter? Is the air clearer?

"I owe you an explanation," he begins haltingly. "Of -- you know who he is, but what he is ... a ghost. A haunting. His soul is bound to mine, until the day I see justice done. Don't -- don't try to talk me out of believing that. You're not Faerghan."

Dimitri steels himself. His throat constricts; he breathes through it. He feels safe here, and so when the breeze brushes the back of his neck, it's only cool air, not bony hands and withered nails.

"He speaks to me. All of them do. He's always been with me. That was just the first time you could see him."