Some folks say that dogs always look like their owners. Was that true for houses too? Take the home of Don Cabrillo, for instance. I wasn't sure at first, and as I grew to know him, I became less and less sure. It was like navigating a boxwood maze: the deeper I went, the more confused I became. The man - and his home - were a complete cipher to me, one of those diagnostic dilemmas I couldn't crack no matter how much time I devoted to it. I'd think I was headed in one direction, then find myself somewhere completely different. Aggravating. Fascinating. A mystery I couldn't quite leave alone. His house struck me the same way too.

I'll always remember the first time I saw his casa. It deceived me. Totally. At first, I had mistaken it for the sprawling adobe hacienda down the path, but instead, I'd been redirected to an austere white clapboard house. It was missing the usual knobbed or rickrack gingerbread trim that was popular now, and there was no fussy flower garden or delicate lace curtains that would hint of a woman's touch. The house was ... plain, and its very plainness made it seem even more unique compared to the other fancy Victorian homes in the city.

It stood completely alone on the edge of Black Point bluff, overlooking the wide gray bay. Except for the hacienda, there were no other homes for miles. This was still Rancho Cabrillo land. Apparently no one had dared to squat this land like they had on other rancho's, which had been overrun by forty-niners. The reputation of the Don was too formidable. Any would-be squatters had been evicted ... permanently. Soon the stories spread, perhaps exaggerated, perhaps not, about the menacing phantom in the night: quiet, deadly, efficient. Whatever the truth was, squatters decided that a home just wasn't worth the gamble, or so Major Wolfe had told me. So except for the land that the Don had sold, the rancho was still the same as it had been since the very beginning when the first five Spanish families had settled here.

Stretching my cramped limbs from that stupid carriage ride here, I stood on the front porch and looked around me. To the west rolled miles of sand dunes, tufted with grass and the occasional scrub oak, and somewhere beyond even that, farther than I could see, was Ocean Beach and the Pacific. I could see fishing boats riding low and heavy with their catches as they chugged past the Golden Gate back towards Yerba Buena harbor in the east. There were masts of great ships and the dockside warehouses, hemmed more and more by the encroaching city. It was a spectacular view of San Francisco. I felt like a bird flying over the city. I could see everything from here.

My palms sweated inside my gloves but it wasn't because of the heat. I vainly rubbed them against my voluminous sky-blue skirts, pausing for just another moment as if I could put off the inevitable. This uncertainty was no good, no help whatsoever. Pointless to wait any longer. A good surgeon never hesitates, does she? So I gritted my teeth and picked up the polished brass door knocker. Rapped it sharply against the front door. I stepped back, drew a sharp breath, suddenly remembering my dratted dress, which had been crumpled by the carriage ride here. I still felt like a pumpkin that had been tossed in a moving crate: smashed in places, a little bruised in others. I hastily smoothed down the front of my dress skirt, but it was too late to fix it. The wrinkles stared at me in reproof. And there was something suspiciously looking like oil near the hem. How did I get that? Judas. Too late. What a mess! I never wore sateen outfits like this. This was why. I didn't care if the flower-sprig pattern matched my eyes. So what? Why on earth had I let Lily talk me into wearing this get-up instead of my sensible navy blouse and split skirt? I didn't care what she said (Lecture Number Two: A Woman Always Displays Her Best Assets, Front and Center.). It didn't matter. I felt like I was wearing a costume instead of clothes. My one contribution to this outfit was something I had no business wearing. The whole thing felt awful, but there was no turning back. I gripped my black bag so hard that the bone handles cut into my palm.

The house was still silent, the front door closed. I peered through the stained glass window, but no one was there. Where were they? They were sure taking their time. Maybe they were busy. Maybe no one was home. Oh, too bad. I'll just have to come back another day. Maybe never. Better go now. I was turning on my heel when the door opened behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, then teetered a little, stopping mid-spin. Caught my balance just in time. Managed to turn right-way around again, feeling even more foolish and awkward than before. Hadn't thought it was possible.

I cleared my throat. "Hello, I'm Nikita Spencer. I'm here to see Don Cabrillo."

A tiny Oriental woman stood on the other side of the threshold. She was small all over and well-proportioned like a porcelain doll: from her clear oval face to the fine bones of her hands and her miniature feet, peeking out from under her black worsted skirt. I'd always heard that Chinese women had their feet broken and bound. Had her feet suffered through that? Curious, I stared. It was rude, but I couldn't help myself. Couldn't tell the difference. Not at all. I glanced up again, and caught the amusement that quickly flashed through her beautiful almost-black eyes. The rest of her face remained impassive. It was as if she knew what I was thinking, and found it funny instead of offensive. She bowed quickly at the waist. When she straightened up again, her small jade butterfly earrings bobbed and swayed as if they were flying. She stepped aside. "Come, Missy. Here. In here. You come."

I followed her into the vestibule, through the long narrow hall, and past the front parlor. It was well-appointed with large masculine oak and leather furniture: spare and Spanish-style instead of fringed velvet nonsense. I paused in front of the open door in case the woman had misunderstood me. "Aren't I ... going in there? I'm visiting Don Cabrillo. Visiting. Parlor. Me."

She stopped suddenly, the keys at her girdle jingle-jangling against each other. "No, no." Her black head shook vigorously as she resumed walking. "Study. In study. He say so. He ... expecting you."

He is? That new information disturbed me. I'd thought that I would have the advantage of surprise. I made a note to myself. Perhaps I shouldn't underestimate Don Miguel after this.

Without another word, I followed my strange escort into the back room. She gestured to the leather-back chairs in front of the wide oak desk, then clasped her hands together so that her wide cotton sleeves slipped forward and almost hid them from view. "You want chaw? ...Tea? I get."

"No, thank you, ...?"

"Lin-Fong. I ... Lin-Fong. I tell him Missy here. But ... he probably already knows." She tittered behind one hand. "He always seems to know." She bowed again, then closed the door behind her.

The click of the latch meeting the strike plate sounded as final as a jail door slamming. I almost jumped. What was I doing here? I was a doctor, not a spy. I had no business doing this, never had, yet here I was. Again. I felt like a picture bride on her wedding day: all nerves and strange finery, about to meet the groom for the first time and so desperately uncertain if I would meet his expectations or he would meet mine. I told myself it didn't matter. Better not to think about it. Better not to feel anything. Just get through it. That's all I would need to do. Get through it. Survive.

I set my bag on the floor, untied my new bonnet, and tossed it on to the chair. Its feather was already bent at the tip. Figures, just figures. Ruined already. So much work to reach the heights of fashion, even more work to maintain it. How did women do such things every day? It mystified me. Give me a herniorraphy or a good gout case any day. Now that I could handle all right. But this - this was different. This was foolishness. I was no femme fatale. My skills were in the operating room, not the bedroom. The major would be sadly disappointed.

Sighing, I unclasped the foolish cape that Lily had talked me into, and dropped it over the unfortunate hat. There. Hidden. Out of sight, out of mind.

I paced around the room, pushed the globe on the desk and set it spinning. There were maps, account books, and correspondence about a oil-run motor. On a small table sat a model of a clipper. She looked neat. Very neat. Clean lines, fast build. I would like to sail her all right. Then I walked towards the bay window. There was a spyglass on the sill. I picked it up, peered through it, focused, and the details of the harbor gradually sharpened as if I were only four feet away and looking straight at it. I pulled back a little, and watched a man, a girl and a small pigtailed boy flying kites off Black Point. They looked like they were having fun. The girl clapped her hands while the boy was running, his queue bouncing off his back. His red kite bobbled.

"Go, go, go," I murmured. "Ahhh. Cripes." The kite crashed to the ground. "Too bad. Better luck next time."

"Next time? Perhaps ... now," said a low soft voice behind me.

What? It couldn't be.

My heart suddenly stopped. It hurt as if someone had reached inside my chest, seized it and squeezed and squeezed. And squeezed some more. I could barely breathe.

My hands turned numb so that I couldn't even feel the spyglass any longer. Then the numbness spread down my arms, into my body. I was shocked, absolutely shocked to hear that voice. I knew it. I had heard it a million times, saying a million impossible things. Foolish things I had no business thinking about because no sensible woman would. That voice had haunted my dreams, even my waking moments. I hadn't told Lily. I'd die before I admitted it. The spyglass fell from my eyes. I fought the impulse to rub my marks off it with a bit of my skirt. Hastily I set the telescope back on the sill, nudged it closer to the window pane so it wouldn't tumble to the ground. I felt a little ridiculous, as if I'd been caught doing something I should not. I took a deep breath. I slowly turned around, disbelief still rioting through me.

Seeing was not believing. It made no difference at all. The capitán. He stood there - just across the room from me. Right there. On land, instead of sea. He was here. Of all the places, he was here? Then suddenly the thought struck me - bam! - right between the eyes. Worry swamped, then drowned my pleasure over seeing him again. Why now? Judas Iscariot. He knew me. A prior acquaintance. Different circumstance. This was terrible. Connections were bad. Very bad. How did these two men know each other? One wrong word, and the capitán would ruin everything. Absolutely everything. I had to stop him first, but I didn't know how. I only knew that I must.

###

I wasn't a good spy. Didn't have a lot of experience, didn't really want to. But I was a darn good doctor, so I fell back on that hard-earned learning. Walter had taught me long ago about the first rule of a physician: Observation. Don't rush. Learn by watching. So I followed his advice. I stayed by the bay window, and studied the capitán. I'd forgotten how tall, how commanding he was. The long line of his black frock coat and pants accentuated his lean muscles. And his cheeks, his jaw looked sharper so that the slight cleft in his chin stood out in relief even more. How odd. Most sailors gained weight, eventually losing their beef-jerky look after a week or two on shore leave. But he hadn't. If anything, he'd lost some weight instead.

Was he ill? I checked for other signs of grippe or scurvy or the trots. But I found none. His skin looked toned, still bronzed from our recent voyage, and his sclerae were clear and non-icteric. Then I looked deeper into his jade green eyes, and noticed that he wasn't looking into mine any more. His attention seemed to have wandered elsewhere ... I followed his gaze downward.

What was he was looking at now? A skirt fetish? My hips which were now hidden under useless yards of flounced material? I looked even lower, trying to figure him out. He was staring at what? My hands?! Oh no! Those gloves. Those damnable beautiful gloves. How mortifying. Absolutely mortifying. I wanted to slip through a trapdoor right then, and disappear forever from the room. He probably thought I was wearing his gift and mooning over him, or something equally ridiculous as that. What a wrong impression! What rotten timing! Without thinking, I hastily stuffed both hands behind my back. Flushed miserably when I saw his lips quirk at one corner. I waited for him to say something, but he didn't. In the next moment, his mouth returned to the same stern line I remembered. Maybe I had imagined the whole thing.

I left the bay window and walked around the desk until I reached the edge of the Turkish rug. Now I was only a few feet away from the capitán. I stared up at him. My chin tilted; half positional, half stubborn. "What are you doing here?"

He jerked his head towards the model clipper.

"Oh, of course. Sailing. You're a captain of a ship. Do you work for Don Miguel?"

"No."

"No?" I hoped that he might elaborate, but he didn't. He only looked at me with a brooding intensity that made me uncomfortable. I felt like I was being turned inside out, examined, and maybe - just maybe - found lacking. Somehow that bugged me. Bugged me mightily. Irritation mounted. This man ... I couldn't believe it. This was like pulling teeth on a combative patient. I should have been a dentist instead. "Oh, I see. Well, I can fill in the blanks. So you don't work for Don Miguel. Then you must be one of those independent contractors who work for Cassam Shipping. Cripes. It's hard to stay independent these days. Takes guts. Real guts. Something tells me you've got those, all right. Got them in spades. You know, a lot of independents are running the blockade these days. High risk, high profit. I hope you're not doing that. The Captain of the Jeremy was caught last week. Strung him up from the yardarm. Left for the crows. To set an example, you know. Doesn't seem worth it. Too much danger."

"Danger ... is not a concern," he said quietly, precisely. He spoke as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. No bragging, just facts. The plain, simple, severe facts of life. Of death. His tone sent shivers through me.

"That's foolish. You don't care? You should."

"You care, señorita. Why do you?"

"Because I should. Everybody should. If we all did, then the world wouldn't be at war all the time. And things ... things would be much better, a better place to live. Everyone should care about everyone else. That's what makes us human."

"You believe that."

"Of course," I said hotly. That was the basis for everything I did, had sacrificed for, worked towards. "Don't you believe that? You should."

"So passionate," he murmured to himself. "And very young."

Not that again. So I was being dismissed once more. This time because of my age instead of my gender. "Now, see here. I'm not ..." But then I drifted off, suddenly noticing that he was closer than I'd realized. Only a few inches away now. When had he moved in on me? Now he was close enough to smell. I caught his bay rum aftershave and the scents of brine and damp wool as if he'd just come from the sea. Maybe he'd been checking over his ship or trading at the harbor warehouse. Maybe ... My mind started to spin little stories about him.

Stop. Better stop. Those speculations were becoming more and more like petit mal seizures, little unexpected attacks that made the real world go away for awhile. I had to stop. Some observer I was. I was noticing too much of some things and not enough of the others. How had I let him sneak up on me like that? He was too close now. Close enough to pounce.

Stop acting like an idiot. Do something. Say something. I felt adrift, the wind completely gone from my sails. I needed something, a little edge. So I pretended that he was a pesky hospital orderly instead of the tall dark capitán who intimidated the hell out of me. Pretending made it easier, gave me a small puff of courage. I pointed a finger at him. "I don't know why you're here, but you better not tell Don Miguel about me. Don't let him know I was on the ship. I don't want him to think I'm some kind of greenhorn, okay?"

"Too late, niña."

"Oh, no! But how did he find out? Did you tell him about me? How could you? I just got here. So did you." Then Lin-Fong's words came back to me. He always seems to know. I definitely was in deeper waters than I'd expected. Deeper shark-infested waters. What had I gotten myself into? I silently cursed Major Wolfe. "How could Don Miguel already know?"

"He knows because he was there."

"What?"

"He was there all the time."

"No, he wasn't. Couldn't have been. Didn't see him. No one talked about him. No, sir. Not once. Not during that whole three-month voyage."

The capitán looked a little surprised, as if he wasn't used to being contradicted. "My crew is well-trained. That is my way."

"Your way?"

"Permit me to introduce myself. I am ... Don Miguel."

"You?!" I strangled on the word. Now I really felt like an idiot. Nothing before compared to how stupid I felt now. Thick-as-a-brick stupid. You could run a four horses and a dray wagon over my head and do no damage. No damage at all. I still couldn't believe it. "You're Don Miguel Samuelle Cabrillo? You can't be!"

"I am," he said gravely.

"Well, you're too young."

"Old enough," he replied. "Thirty-two."

I eyed him suspiciously. Should have checked a likeness before starting this mission. Should have asked Wolfe for a daguerreotype. My mistake. I couldn't afford to make another one. Monte was counting on me. "Well. Right. Let's get to it. Where's your bedroom?"

His brows lifted to his hairline. Now it was his turn to look surprised.

"Bedrooms are more private. But I don't care. Whatever's comfortable for you. We can do it right here. The study's fine. No shirking now. Take off your clothes."

###

Location, they say, is everything, but this was a little too much for me. You see, Don Miguel's bedroom was next to his study. Could you believe it? Right next door. How convenient. Too convenient, I thought sourly, wondering how many women had taken advantage of this convenience. Therese, no doubt. She frequently conducted business outside of the Golden Lily. I could see them - her and the capitán - concluding their deal right here. And then, there was also that little doll Lin-Fong, too young and pretty to be a housekeeper. Looked more like a concubine to me. I wondered who else belonged to his harem. The question rankled.

He was a man of regular habits, according to Mrs. B. Probably rotated through his women on the same day of the week; week in, week out, year after every darn year. I'd heard enough stories about him from the girls below-stairs. Don Miguel? Wrong name. He should have been named Don Juan instead. And on the ship, well, it felt bad to admit it, but I'd been no different than other susceptible females. The kind of girly-girls that giggled over beau's and calling cards and who suffered from vapors. Me? Foolish? Like that? It galled me. Absolutely galled me. At least that bad taste in my mouth made my job easier now. I told myself I didn't care. I didn't.

And if I didn't care, then it didn't really matter that I was here, doing this inside his bedroom. It was a small room, but the high ceiling made it seem larger. Soft afternoon light streamed through the thin six-foot stained-glass windows, making quilts of reflected color on the inlaid floor. There was a violincello propped against a leatherback chair near a music stand; several small tables; and one long clean worktable with half-planed wood and carving tools neatly laid out. I didn't see a single stray shaving. And on the walls hung masks: a Mexican jaguar, a Zulu warrior, a long-nosed commedia-del-arte clown, and other wide-mouth funny-looking faces from places he must have seen. And all of a sudden, this bedroom reminded me of that wooden gift box he'd given me: a plain exterior hiding a rich interior, which was surprisingly ornate. You'd never know just from looking at the outside of the box. I felt as if I was inside that gift box right now. There was more. Much more.

Next I paused in front of a painting with thick heavy blobs of aqua and green and purple. It was dashed here and there with pink and gold. Close up, it looked obscure, but from far away, why, the colors looked less blurry. They blended into a peaceful picture of water, light and water. Maybe a pond. "Are those water lilies?"

"Yes."

"It's not what it seems. Like a puzzle, isn't it? I've seen something like this before once. In Paris. Who did this?"

"An art student. Monet."

"Claude?" I made a face.

"You know him."

"Sure, sure. He's so old-fashioned. Thinks women were made to be models or mothers. Nothing else. We met at the Café Guerbois. Paul took me there."

The capitán frowned briefly. "Paul?"

"Paul Cézanne. Another student. We know each other from the university. He used to dissect cadavers with us. Artists need to know anatomy too, you know." I took another second to look at the painting. Even if I thought Monet was a jerk, I could still appreciate his artwork. The painting wasn't exactly what I expected in the home of a Spanish Don: not the usual severe family portraits or the grotesque religious paintings of saints-in-the-making who always looked as if they enjoyed being barbecued or shot full of arrows.

Surprise trickled through my nervousness as I looked everywhere but at the main piece of furniture that dominated the room. Finally, I couldn't avoid it any longer. My eyes flew back to the great four-poster bed that was large enough for an entire family to sleep in or an orgy to play in. The bedcover was a wide turquoise lake of Chinese silk. Silk! The sunlight made it shimmer. I'd never seen the like of it before.

It reminded me of my mission. Of the man who was silently watching me. Our eyes met from across the room. Now. Now or never.

As if he heard me, Don Miguel slowly undid the ivory buttons of his coat. He shrugged it off, and neatly laid it over the back of the chair. Then he checked his fob watch before replacing it in his vest pocket.

"Is there a problem? Do you have another ... meeting?" I injected as much sarcasm as I could into the last word.

"No. Cleared the rest of the day for you."

The rest of the day. My heart beat a little faster.

I watched his fingers push the hammered gold buttons through the embroidered buttonholes of his black silk vest. Then it parted, hung open, and I could see the outline of his hard muscles underneath his crisp, pleated cambric shirt. He undid his tie so that it hung at the ends of his collar, then started to unfasten the first stud along the front of his shirt. Fabric gaped, revealing the "V" of his sternum, then a few dark brown chest hairs for the first time. My stomach dropped. I reminded myself of his reputation, but the reminder didn't help very much. Get a grip. You've seen male bodies before. Sick, well, alive or dead. This is no different. None. But it was. It was all the difference in the world.

"Well." I turned around. Suddenly felt flustered. "Well," I said again, sounding like an idiot but not being able to help myself. "Do you have a dressing gown? Maybe you should use one."

"Whatever makes you comfortable," he said quietly, throwing my words back at me. His footsteps padded across the room. The dressing room door opened. I heard the plop-thump of his patent leather shoes being toed-off and falling to the floor. Fabric rubbed together, then slid against skin. More footsteps, the mattress giving, the bedsprings creaking.

I swallowed hard, then turned around to face him. Don Miguel wore a pine green robe. He was sitting on the edge of the bed; knees apart - as men do - so that the front of his gown was split open near the hem. His calves were firmly muscled, his feet long and well-shaped. Undressed, he seemed even larger than ever to me. Overwhelmingly large, undeniably masculine.

"It's hot in here. Too hot. I'll open a window."

"No. Sounds carry."

Sounds? What exactly did he think we were going to be doing?

"Draw the drapes," he said.

"I like the sunlight."

"Privacy."

"I need good light. Otherwise ..." I stopped, fumbling with my gloves. The loop closures were tightly fastened around the pearl buttons. I struggled more, feeling more wretched by the moment. Fashion be damned. I was ready to forget about manners and use my teeth on the loops, when Don Miguel spoke up.

"Let me."

I extended my right hand. He deftly unfastened the first button, the second, a third. The glove parted for him, air brushing up my wrist and over my palm. I could feel the warm pads of his fingers work over mine as he finished off the remaining buttons. Then he gradually worked the ends of the fingertips; tugging here, then there. And slowly, slowly the softest of kid leather slid over my fingers until my hand was bare in his.

"I'm ready," he said.

###

Temptation sat in front of me; wrapped in a green robe, ready to be unwrapped. Don Miguel looked expectantly at me as if to say, "Your move." But it seemed like the active - not passive - acquiescence of a hunter, who was already ready with his next three moves, and only curiously gauging his prey.

That prey was me. Me? That knowledge ruffled down my spine, then somewhere deeper through me; somehow pleasing me even as it infuriated me at the same time. I didn't understand my reaction. I only knew that it was there. My hands fisted tight, then tighter until the pearl buttons on my discarded gloves dug into my palm.

Temptation. Don't touch. This is wrong, said a little shrill voice inside my head.No, insisted another more silky voice,This is right. For the first time, this is right. For the first time in your miserable life, don't think about it. Just take what you want. Take it and run. "But I don't know anything about you," I said, half in protest, half thinking out loud, as I sat down at the head of his bed, a good three feet away from him. Three important feet. Distance was sanity. I put my gloves on the bedside table. "I don't know you at all. Tell me about yourself." There. Auscultation. Listen to your patient. The second rule of a good physician. I was on familiar ground again. Felt a little better already. I looked encouragingly at him. "Go ahead."

"There's nothing."

"Nothing? That's hard to believe. There's always something to tell. Even about the lowliest peon working the land. And especially about a high someone like Don Miguel. I bet people think they know you, but they really don't." I watched his mouth pull at one corner, then smooth out again. Well, that was some reaction. Good. I pointed to the miniatures on the bedside table. "Now who's that? He looks like you. The shape of your face. And serious. That same stone-dead serious expression, but you can see a little humor around his eyes. Who is he?"

"My père. Michel Samuelle."

"Not the explorer? That Michel Samuelle?" Surprised, I looked at him. "I've read his stories. All his stories. 'Journey to the Sandwich Isles'. 'The Golden Gate'. They're wonderful."

"They were written by my madre."

"No kidding. Good for her. Too bad she never got the credit. But I suppose then she wouldn't get published. And her family wouldn't think it was proper, would they?" I could feel his silent waves of disapproval as I picked up the miniature of a young woman. A lace mantilla and wavy auburn hair framed her gamin face, which seemed full of life and mischief. Her green gaze sparkled with it. Not a quiet little señorita. Not at all. "Is this your mother?"

"Yes. Ana Cabrillo."

"I remember reading about your father's trip. He explored the Bering Strait, the Aleuts, then down through Alta California. Right to here, when it was still called Yerba Buena, before it changed to San Francisco. Away, way back. Back then. That's when your parents must have met. The sailor and the señorita. And then ..."

"Mama knew the ranchero days were ending."

"Yes. Each ship brought more people. More people, less land. Less land, less cattle. So is that why your family started the shipping company?"

"A small effort at first. Shipped our own tallow and hide. But Papa expanded the business."

"Cassam Shipping. Everyone's heard of you. The Horn trade, even the Orient route. You're one of the largest now." I set the miniature down again, carefully placing it so that it faced the one of his father. I liked the notion of them, sitting side by side on the table. There. They looked perfect now. "So your father married into the Cabrillo family. And he took their name."

"No," Don Miguel said quickly in a harsh soft tone. "We were always Samuelle. Always. Until now. My uncle the Don died, then cousin Diego. When I became the Don, I changed my name. Had to. Duty."

"Oh. The laws. I see. No heir. Otherwise, the American courts would have taken everything away from your family. But don't you have another cousin? Pedro, isn't it?"

Don Miguel's face softened a little. A small sound escaped him as he nodded. "Pedro. Si. Good-hearted but ... not capable. It all fell to me." He stuffed his hands into his dressing gown pockets, then gave a half-shrug again. Must be his Gallic half, I supposed.

"So now you're landlocked. Lots of responsibilities now, I bet. That's too bad. I saw you out there on the ship. I can tell. That's where you belong. That salt's as much in your blood as it is in the sea. It's part of you, your real home, isn't it? I don't suppose you get to sail much any more."

"Does it matter?"

Of course, it matters. But for once, I didn't voice my opinion. Or my pity. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand just to signal I was there. But I didn't. I just sat there. He wouldn't have welcomed it. "Well, what would you like to know about me?"

A little light flickered in his eyes. "I know."

That irritated me. Irritated me bad. Men. They look at a woman, and that's all they need to know - vital statistics. Vital, my foot. It meant nothing. Nothing at all about the woman, the real person inside her. But what else should I expect from Don "Juan" Miguel. Cripes. My sympathy for him vanished like the dew on the grass. Poof. Gone. "You know me? Already. I see. Just like that! What can you possibly know about me? I'm not just a pair ... a pair of big blue eyes. We hardly know each other. We've barely even spoken. You don't know me at all."

His mouth pulled upwards as if he were amused by me, by the silliness of my question. "I know everything on my ship. Everything, niña. When Madam Lefevre delivered; those warm bricks you stole to keep the baby warm. How you purged the first mate after he confronted you ..."

"Harassed me, you mean. It was for a good cause. Little Sophie would have died if we didn't keep her warm. It was touch and go. And that man was nasty. He deserved it. Each rotten second. I've never used my blister beetle for such good purpose."

"Poor Domingo. Won't touch Madeira ever again."

"Good. He drank too much anyway. It's bad for him."

For a moment, Don Miguel looked like he might laugh - really laugh - right now. But he didn't. His lips only twitched a little before settling down again. "And you graduated from L'Ecole de Medicin, first in your class. Very impressive ..."

"For a woman, you mean."

He tilted his head slightly. "No. Just ... impressive. The dean wanted to rank you lower. A woman. First in their class? Impossible. But your professors refused. Supported you. So you remained where you deserved. At the top."

"How do you know that? No one else outside of the faculty knows. Not even the students. Not even Major Wolfe knows ..." I halted, suddenly unsure of how much more I should say, could say. I wondered if I had just blundered because Don Miguel's body seemed to tense up.

"Major Wolfe. Ah." He rested one palm over his belly. Rubbed a circle. "Our mutual acquaintance."

"Does he run you? Are you a spy? My father was, from time to time. He was a sailor, in and out of port. A great place to be, you know. Everyone comes, goes. All walks of life. Good cover for catching information, passing it on. So that's all right. I won't think badly of you. I don't think it's low dirty work. Well, not too dirty. Do you work for Paul Wolfe?"

"No. He relies ... on me."

"For what?"

Don Miguel looked reprovingly at me as if I had just interrupted the middle of a fine elegant dinner with the most egregious burp; perhaps a burp so loud and gaseous that I even blew out the candles too. Bad manners all around. Horribly awfully bad. "I guess I shouldn't have asked you that."

He shook his head, his mouth tightening a little more. "No."

"Okay, wrong question. Sure, sure. I know better than that. But I will ask this one, and you better answer it. No holding back now. Come on, Don Miguel. You can trust me."

He withdrew a few inches as if I suddenly pulled a gun on him, or perhaps even a veterinary syringe with a needle the size of a chopstick. He looked wary.

"You must tell me. What is wrong with you?"

###

For a long time, Don Miguel remained silent as if I had never asked him a question. He looked past me as though I had suddenly disappeared. I felt invisible, ignored, dismissed. I sat there, waiting patiently for him, but frankly, I was stumped. The man was as talkative as a rock. They never taught me how to diagnose rocks. I was a doctor, not a geologist. I stood up and walked slowly around the room. Sometimes closeness seemed too intimate and disturbed patients. Maybe giving him some distance would make him feel more comfortable. When I reached his chair halfway across the floor, I paused, resting my hand on top of his coat. This seemed like a reasonable safety zone, far but not too far. I gently cleared my throat, but Don Miguel still stared at the far wall where the masks and a clock hung. So again, I asked, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm ... fine," was all he said.

"Oh. You're fine. I see. Is there anything troubling you at all? Tell me anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Nothing's too silly."

He barely lifted one shoulder.

"Major Wolfe said that you'd been sick lately. What have you noticed?"

The clock quietly tick-tocked like the steady pulse of the room. At least a minute passed before he said, "Nada."

"Nothing? Absolutely nothing? The major seems concerned about you. Maybe he's just worrying too much. Maybe he's not, and there's some small way I can help you. What do you think is going on?"

Again, he only shrugged, apparently unconcerned. Inwardly, I groaned. Men! They either pretended nothing was wrong when they were practically bleeding to death, or they moaned over the slightest paper cut. There was no middle ground. None. "Mind if I examine you?"

"I said ... I would cooperate."

Cooperate? he called this cooperating? Ha! I'd hate to see him being uncooperative. "Perhaps you'd like someone to chaperone us. Your manservant ...?"

"No." His brows knit together. "No one. No one must know. In my house. Or the hacienda. You must promise."

"Of course. It's confidential. I would never tell anyone without your permission."

"Even Wolfe?"

I bit my lip, hesitating. That was a harder promise to make. I thought of Monte, and my responsibility to him versus a patient. But maybe that's what I needed to do to gain Don Miguel's trust. "All right. I mean, yes. Of course! Patient confidentiality, you know. Everything that passes between you and me, well, that's secret. No one else should know. No one but you and me," I finally said, trying to add a little starch to my tone. I hoped that I sounded indignant enough with just the right touch of confidence. It seemed to satisfy him, because he appeared to relent.

He let me take his large hands, and now the touch of our skin, which had been so disturbing a moment ago, felt ordinary instead. I examined his palms. They were ringed with calluses, a scar there - maybe from a slipped knife; the hands of a working man, not an effete nob with more time and money than good sense. Then I turned his hands over. Faint silver lines criss-crossed the backs in exact even intervals. My breath sucked in at this evidence of deliberate cruelty. Someone had taken great care and pleasure in this work. "You were caned. At school?"

"Yes," he said blankly.

"The Jesuits are very strict, aren't they? Pain, they say, is one step closer to godliness. Like the military. Or medical school, for that matter."

"I was a boy," he replied softly as if that explained it all.

"That's no reason. No reason at all."

"After my parents died. The Don sent me there. Ran away. Kept running."

"So they beat you. Repeatedly. Sure, sure. What a great way to persuade a kid. Lots of fun. Like you'd want to stay there so they could beat you some more. That makes sense, all the sense in the world." I heard him make a small puff of laughter, and his hands relaxed in mine.

Next I examined his fingernails; turning them this way, then that towards the sunlight. They were well-shaped like almonds, hard and smooth, without lines or pitting. No sign of scurvy or malnutrition. Then I pressed my fingers to his wrist bone. I counted out the beats while I watched the second-hand move around the clock. His pulse was slow and strong like an athlete, but then, it started to race. Sixty, eighty, ninety ... tachycardic. Too fast.

I looked sharply at Don Miguel. His face seemed calm as always, lips unsmiling - not pursed to suck in more air. I looked lower. Above his breastbone, the skin fluttered like a leaf in the wind. What was going on? "Are you okay?"

"No," he said hoarsely.

Alarm shot through me as I watched his pupils dilate, his breath quicken. He looked in extremis. "What is it? Where does it hurt?"

His lips moved but no sound came out. I leaned close so that I could hear him. No better. Air rasped through his mouth, but still no distinct words. I moved even closer until I could feel his quick hard breaths brush my ear. "What is it? Show me."

His hand scrambled across the bedclothes and caught mine. He pressed it under his dressing gown and against his chest so that I could feel the bounding bump of his heart.

"There," he groaned softly into my ear. "Right there."

His pulse accelerated triple time under my sweating palm. My God. Was his heart seizing? Try nitrate pills, then tincture of foxglove. Good thing I'd brought my medicinals in the black bag.

"Niña." Suffering made his last word shatter and stretch out into many syllables. His mouth worked. His eyes pleaded with me; his anguish made all the more terrible by his silence.

It was horrible to see him this way - a proud quiet man reduced to asking for help. But pity was poor medicine. He needed more than that, and I needed to keep my mind clear, my feelings uninvolved. I had to do something - anything - quickly. "Yes. Right away."

I was about to get the medicine when his arm suddenly wrapped around my shoulders, and pulled fast, faster than lightning itself. I tumbled forward; falling, helpless; his whipcord strength pushing me. I landed, breathless, against his chest; my soft against his hard, curves against angles. His hands dove into my hair. My snood snagged and pins flew every which way as his fingers met and locked around the back of my head like he would never let me go. And then - oh, Judas - his mouth seized mine.

###

Have you ever fallen into fire? I did once. I was three years old then, and I remember the coals had been pretty, glowing like rubies. I'd reached over and tumbled into the fireplace. And I'd felt so hot, sizzling, then even hotter than whatever my nerves could register. Everything else had faded away because at that moment, I'd gone to some terrible wild place beyond feeling. Beyond words.

And now I had fallen into the same fire again. That same feeling overwhelmed me as Don Miguel kissed me. A kiss? What was that? Some four-letter word. Silly, paltry, inadequate. It didn't even begin to describe what he was doing, how he made me feel as his firm lips slid over mine: moving, coaxing, commanding. He drew me closer to him, to the fire, as he completely devoured me.

And I kissed him back: tentatively at first, then more boldly as I needed more, as he encouraged me with his growls to take and touch and taste. So this ... this was his flavor: wine and spice and Miguel. I tasted some more; following the dance and retreat of his tongue, sometimes leading with a heat of my own. I was eager, curious. I admit it. I wanted this now, had wanted this from the very moment he had first ordered me below the hatch. I wanted to kiss all his arrogance and hurt away. It made no sense - absolutely no sense at all - but I could no more help myself than ash can turn back into wood.

His kiss deepened, hardened, as his hands swept over me again and again: touching, provoking, stirring me to even higher degrees. How hot could I get? How hot could we? Just one touch here, a kiss there, and a lifetime of rules and reason burned away.

During all this, he said nothing, but his mouth, his hands said everything. They became more eloquent by the moment. I listened, lulled, until I felt cool air wash along my back. Air? What? How? It shocked me. I let go of his dressing gown, and reached behind me. My hand groped, checked, found my dress unbuttoned, the back ties of my corset loosened. When did that happen? I pulled away, but his mouth followed mine. Then my thumb pressed on the corner of his mouth to break the suction between us, and his teeth scraped gently down my finger to my very sensitive tip. I groaned. Heard him laugh throatily, and it was that single sound of masculine triumph that extinguished the last embers of my passion.

No. This must stop. What was I doing? I punched him hard on the breast bone. Then I jerked backwards with all my might at the same time he suddenly let me go. I fell backwards on the bed, my skirt and petticoats flying upwards. Hastily I sat up again, then slid off the bed. Chest heaving, I stared at him. Saw his chest moving too. His intercostals retracted and bulged between his ribs as if he'd been working them too hard, running ten miles all uphill. And there were other parts of him that looked overworked too. I quickly looked elsewhere. Up at his damnable mouth. Slightly flushed and swollen. Still imperious as hell. The old orbicularis oris. It was for chewing, swallowing, breathing, speaking. And Don Miguel sure didn't use it much for talking, but now I knew how expressive it could really be. Far too expressive, too experienced for my liking.

I remembered the girls at the Golden Lily: their knowing looks and laughter, and a cold feeling congealed deep inside my belly. I was no better. Just the same as all the rest. How could I have lost my common sense so quickly, so completely? His kiss was like chloroform, totally knocking me out. And the side effects ... the wooziness lingered no matter how much I tried to fight it. This frightened me. I fumbled with my ties, gave up, then haphazardly buttoned up my dress. I crammed my hair back into the snood. There. Forget the strand straggling against my neck. Forget the pins. I didn't care how it looked. At least I was covered up again. Mostly. Sniffing, I said, "Don't bother to apologize."

One brow lifted. "Wasn't going to."

I ignored my part in this. I had never done something like this before. It was wrong, unprofessional. I was no better than those male doctors who took advantage of their patient's vulnerability. Or maybe ... My eyes narrowing, I considered. Maybe Don "Juan" Miguel had taken advantage of mine. Yes. He had. He'd used the closest weapon at hand ... a lethal weapon ... Him. I pointed an accusing finger at him. "You ... you were trying to seduce me."

"Trying? Only trying?"

Well, maybe he'd been more than trying, and maybe he'd almost succeeded, but I wasn't going to admit that to him or myself. "Why were you trying to distract me? Afraid I would find something out? Well, I did."

Worry seemed to flash through his eyes. He settled back against his pillows, and readjusted his dressing gown so that he was completely contained once more.

I made a great show of wiping my hand across my mouth. "Didn't taste almonds. My lips didn't tingle. So it wasn't cyanide or arsenic or even Spanish fly. And you didn't taste sweet, so it wasn't the morbid sugars. That's not why you've been wasting away. You've lost weight, haven't you? I can see it. So tell me, Don Miguel. Have you had any nausea? vomiting? How about any change in your bowel movements?"

"My ... what? Cristo." His vehement muttering sounded like a shout.

"Come on, tell me. When did this start?" I opened my black bag, and took out my stethoscope.

He eyed my instrument as if it were a Gatlin gun instead of a listening device. "Since our return," he admitted reluctantly.

"Don't be a baby about this. There's nothing to be afraid of. Remember ... 'danger is no concern'. That's your motto, right? You're one tough hombre. Well, how dangerous can one little bitty woman be to you?" Oh. That hit the mark. He looked stonily at me. Laughing silently, I walked to the bedside. Put the tubes in my ears, and plopped the wooden cone on to his belly before he could move away. I looked away; seeing nothing, concentrating on only the sounds. Borborygmi. Big time grumbling. No bowel obstruction then. Hungry and empty, by the sound of it. Next I straightened up, took the stethoscope out of my ears, and left it hanging around my neck. I tapped around his rib cage, moving downwards, until I heard a dull thud. Then I repeated the same process from his belly moving towards his last rib. Another thud. Whoa. Low, too low for that sound. His liver was enlarged. Should be just underneath the intercostal margin, but his was hanging down like an untucked shirt tail. Why? Wondering, I gently pushed my hand into his belly, then moved deeper and upwards. Hit a soft rubbery edge somewhere inside him. He flinched. Evidently tender too. So his liver was not only large, it was also inflamed. Something was very wrong here.

"Any fevers or chills?" I watched his lips tighten. "Please. You must tell me. You travel where there's malaria. Sometimes the quartain fevers can effect your liver. It's twice as large as it should be. Let's do something. I have quinine. It would help."

"It's not that."

"How do you know?"

He sighed, looked away. Finally said, "No fever."

"Oh. Well, that's good. You don't look jaundiced. How about your urine? Is it dark? You're not going to make me look, are you?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he only folded his arms across his chest, and the sleeves fell back. His arms were marked with the small circular bruises.

"Cripes. Who did that to you? Leeches. Yuck." I pointed to the round wounds and the many dried scabs all along his forearm. Half-inch lines. Precise. Ghastly. Cruel. "And someone lanced you. They did bloodletting. I can't believe it. In this day and age." I pushed back his sleeve and examined his armpit. Ugly bruises there too. "My God. They cut your brachial artery. You could have bled to death."

Don Miguel smiled faintly. It wasn't pretty or seductive. It was cold and certain. Dead certain. "Stopped him."

Frightened, I didn't want to know how. I forced out, "Stopped who?"

"Doctor Lister. Wolfe sent him too. You are the third physician."

"And they said ...?"

"No answers. Just more of the same." Don Miguel looked bored, as if his patience was finally, finally wearing thin. "So do it. Do it and go."

"No, I won't."

His head turned listlessly towards me. He didn't seem to care at all.

"I won't go. Not until I figure this out. Not until I can help you. Really, all this misery ... It's all your fault. They're poking and prodding you like you're a dumb animal because you're acting dumb. Silent and strong and Grade A stupid. You must tell me. If you don't, I can't help you. What do you think I am? A fortune-teller? I can't read your mind. I only know that you're sick, sicker than you'll admit. Well, there's no help for it. There's only one thing to do. I'll have to stay."

"Here?"

"Yes. Here. I'll watch you, dog your every step. You won't shake me. And then, I'll get to the bottom of this. You can't hide everything all the time. You will get better. I'll make you."

"You ...make me? You? Such a long time since anyone has made me do anything ... You can try." Don Miguel slowly closed his eyes. When he finally opened them again, he seemed almost amused. "On one condition."

"What's that?"

"No one must know."

"We've already been through that. I won't tell anyone. Not even Major Wolfe. My lips are buttoned tight."

"People will wonder. Ask. Why you are here? Speculation ... bad." Something rippled over his face. His hand rubbed his belly again.

"Oh." I hadn't thought of that. I chewed my lip. "Well, I could be a servant. Or ... or a governess. Yes, that's it. I saw those kids out there flying a kite. That little boy. The girl?"

He looked me over from the top of my messy hair to the bottom of my rumpled skirts. One brow arched. He shook his head. "No governess. No one would believe it. No, niña. You must be ... mi querida."

I shrugged. "Sure, sure. What's that? The housekeeper? I could do that."

A soft sound exploded from his chest. Alarmed, I started to rush closer to him, then remembered what had happened the last time. I kept a safe distance. Was he all right? I looked carefully. He was struggling ... struggling not to laugh. I wanted to hit him, but you should never strike your patient, no matter how infuriating they may be. Bad form all around. "What's so funny?"

"Not housekeeper."

"Then what?" Dread slowly seeped through me as my suspicions grew. "What is it?"

"Wrong position. Or ... the right one." His lips quirked. "You must pretend to be ... my mistress."

My mouth opened, then closed again without making a single sound. I couldn't have heard him correctly. He couldn't have said that. "Mistress!?" To my dismay, the word wheezed out like an asthmatic cough. Feeble and reedy. "Querida means 'mistress'? Like a ... a paramour? I can't be your ... I can't do that. Just because Lily's my aunt doesn't mean I'm a ... I don't ..."

His brows lifted. "Is there a problem? Do I disgust you? Please be frank."

Disgust? I wished he did disgust me. I wished that Don Miguel was a wispy old man with a mouth full of rotten teeth, clammy hands, and warts - horrible warts. But he wasn't. He was far too appealing. It only made my job harder.

"No," I said slowly, walking to the chair. I picked up my bonnet by the ribbons. Twisted them over and over again in my hands. "You don't disgust me. That's not the problem. It's just that ... I'm not like that. And it's no good pretending. I'm a lousy liar," I added miserably, jamming my hat on. "Everyone says so. I wouldn't know how."

"You think ... that's a fault, niña? It is not. Honesty is rare. Rarer than gold." He looked at me carefully, his gaze lingering over the places he had recently touched. And I warmed all over as if each memory were real and I could feel his hands right now.

Damn him. He seemed to know. His eyes lightened to a leaf-green, his mouth tugged at one corner. Assessing, he tilted his head slightly. "But why lie? Why pretend? Real is better."

My mouth dried suddenly as his words echoed in my head. Real. Better. Why pretend? It was tempting, far too tempting for my liking. Desire fought with disbelief. "You can't mean that. You don't."

"I do. The more real, the more convincing. You already know that. After all, you work for Wolfe."

No, I don't. Not really. I'm a doctor, not a spy. But my protest stuck in my throat when I saw his cynical look. Perhaps he'd already heard about the French Ministry job. Don Miguel knew so much about me already. He knew everything, it seemed. Everything except the most important thing - the truth. He wasn't going to believe me, and even if he did believe me, he wouldn't trust me. What was the point? I was learning ... slowly. I didn't like it all. "I see. So you and me ... this arrangement would only be for the mission, right? Nothing more than a job. After all, what else is there? There's no other reason ... Do you do this often?"

His face betrayed no reaction. The clock ticked for a full minute. Another passed. "Whatever's necessary," he said eventually.

"Necessary?" I almost choked on the word, feeling suddenly sick inside. Cold passion, served up for the sake of duty. Now that disgusted me. Really disgusting. Made my stomach ache just like the plate of jellied eels I once ate in Brighton. I didn't understand it. If I didn't care, why did his business proposal hurt me so badly? It didn't make any sense at all to me.

Glaring, I added, "Well, it's not necessary for me. Forget it. That's despicable. I won't. I'll find out what's wrong with you. I'll even go along with this charade of yours. I'll try to pretend. I'll do my best. But that's it. I won't go any farther than that."

"Your choice, niña."

And somehow the way he said it made me feel as if I'd made the wrong choice; maybe for all the right reasons, but the wrong choice all the same. My throat suddenly felt all tight and hot as if I'd gulped down some coffee that went down the wrong way. Even my windpipe hurt. "That's right. My choice. And you better not forget it either. Now when do we start this ... arrangement? Tomorrow?" I gathered my black bag and cloak.

"Now."

Now? This minute? "But my things. I need to pack some things, then ..."

"Clothes?" He looked at my hair, half inside the hairnet, half straggling down my back; my crumpled blue skirts; the old shoes that even a new coat of polish couldn't quite fix up. The corners of his lips flexed downward in a brief look of distaste. He barely shook his head. "No. No need. Perhaps ... something more appropriate."

"There's nothing wrong with my dress," I said hotly. "Lily picked it out for me."

"Lily? That explains it. Too plain. The mistress of a Don would never ..." He spared a pained look at my bodice.

"Forget it. That's not important. Do whatever you want. I don't care about that ... that stuff. I'll wear a flour sack if you want me to. Or even a chandelier on top of my head. That's not what I was talking about. I meant my equipment. I need to go back to the house and get it. Lily has it all - my apothecary chest, distillery, the surgery kit. The things I really need." I watched his pupils dilate then return to normal again while I spoke. Maybe the phrase "surgery kit" had finally registered. I walked to the door. I reached for the knob. "Until later, Don Miguel. We'll finish this later." There. Finally, I'd gotten in the last word. My hand grabbed the knob and twisted.

"No. We start now," he said softly. "This moment. Inside this room. It begins now. And you must begin ... by calling me 'Miguel'."

My lips formed his name, but no sound came out. It felt wrong to say it. My mouth burned as if guilty, his name as forbidden as a kiss. Too intimate. Uncomfortable, I wanted to leave. This moment. I willed myself to turn the knob, open the door, walk out. I should be able to. It would be so easy, but somehow, I couldn't.

"Look at me, querida."

From across the room, his endearment reached me. It sounded so real, so warm that I could almost believe he meant it. Almost. And yet, some foolish part of me must believe it, because ripples were washing over me even though I steeled myself against them. Just a word, I told myself. Just a silly word, just a job. It meant nothing. Perhaps even less than that.

"Look at me."

I felt hypnotized by the sound of his voice. I found myself obeying him even though I told myself not to. My head turned slowly: sliding past the door, over my shoulder and my dratted flyaway hair, then back towards the bed where he sat.

He reached towards me, palm up. His gown parted to the waist. "Say my name."

"Miguel," I barely whispered. His outstretched hand suddenly fisted as if he'd caught my word. And he smiled.

###

I am not a cowardly woman, nor a foolish one. Yet somehow I felt like both when I walked out of his bedroom after that. If I had only been stronger, I would have stayed and danced in his fire. If I had only been more sensible, I would have left that house and never returned, my poor brother be damned. But I didn't. Duty made me stay. Yet duty, I feared, had nothing to do with the rest. Was it wrong to enjoy myself? Because I did. No man had ever treated me this way before - as a woman, a whole woman, instead of a mannish freak. It was heady, exhilarating; made me feel lightheaded like riding on whitewater or chewing coca leaf. I felt alive in his company. I had never felt more alive.

Alive and sinful - I was ripe with it. Don Miguel embodied at least two of the deadly sins. And more and more, Major Wolfe seemed like the very devil to be offering this to me. He'd said nothing about this temptation, only that I was to diagnose and treat their most important agent, who'd been stricken with a mysterious illness. Only Don Miguel countered the Confederacy's threat to the West. Without him, the gold and munitions would continue to be stolen and channeled to the Rebel cause. So the fate of California - and the Union -rested in his hands. It was impossible to replace him now. At a moment's notice, he needed to be well and available for action. Well, he seemed available all right, but not for what Major Wolfe had in mind. What Miguel wanted was another kind of action all together. He had made that quite plain in the bedroom.

As plain as he acted ordinary at dinner. He was charming. Nothing overt, mind you. No groping under the table between courses or leering at my bosom while he leaned over and refilled my glass. Nothing as lecherous as that. I felt as if I'd hallucinated the whole thing; the kiss - a dizzy concoction of my imagination. Miguel didn't even seem sick. He acted well. His manner was quiet, alert, not lethargic or fatigued, and he ate with spare but good appetite.

"Try this." He offered me something that was looked like a cluster of dark green roses on a platter. It was one of those things that you could never tell if it was food or garnish. Which was it? Edible or not? It was hard to say.

I watched him peel off a petal, dip it into butter, then scrape his neat white teeth along its tip to bottom. I imitated him. Not bad. A little strange and muddy but overall okay. Well, anything tasted better with butter - even the bristly part at the top. I must have chewed on it for at least a minute. Swallowed the lump. Gack! Felt like a burro, eating this roughage. Hastily I swallowed some wine. "What was that? A thistle?"

"Artichoke." His finger traced the bottom. "Eat only this part."

"No thank you."

"It's worth it," he murmured. "Once you get past the prickly parts."

I ignored him. Ate my soup instead. The consommé was light and delicious, the French bread sour and chewy. I passed on the dish that looked like pieces of chopped black rubber. "Truffles?" I asked suspiciously.

He nodded.

"Ah." I set down the serving spoon.

"They're very good. Périgord from France. Brought it back on the last voyage."

"I can't. I'm allergic to mushrooms. Makes me all spotty and itchy. Besides, I don't like eating things that have been found by an inspired pig."

His fork paused mid-air. He looked puzzled. "Inspired?"

"Yeah, inspired. You know. Hot-to-trot. Spring fever. There's something in those truffles that inspires pigs. Really makes them excited when they find them. Snorting, rooting, shaking."

"Wild."

"Coitus rigorus. That bothers me. I'm funny that way."

"I see." He chewed his last mouthful very slowly, then swallowed even slower as if struggling with something. There was a strange light in his eye that I couldn't decipher. Maybe Miguel was on the verge of laughing. He dabbed the napkin against his lips, and when he returned it to his lap, his face was solemn again without any hint of humor. Maybe I'd imagined the whole thing. He pointed to another dish. "Perhaps the lima beans. They have no ... untoward effects."

The lima beans, as it turned out, were just fine. And over the wild rice and fish, we discussed Paris: evening strolls along the banks of the Seine, the salons, the smell of spring rain. It seems we'd both been to Café Moulin Rouge, but at different times - barely a month apart. The coffee had been superb, the conversation even better, we agreed. Miguel had listened to Flaubert there. He'd liked it.

I did not. "Madame Bovary? Give me an emetic! It's a lame book. Gustave doesn't know women. Never did. You know. That kind. He lives with his mother for crying out loud. He has no business writing about women. Doesn't know how to do it."

Miguel took his time selecting a round rosy-golden fruit from the bowl. He gently squeezed them, then finally selected one. Held it to his nose, inhaled, smiled. He picked up his silver knife. "What is wrong with the story?"

"Emma Bovary croaks in the end."

"She gambled. Enjoyed. Is that so bad?"

"She still dies. I don't call that a happy ending. In fact, it stinks."

"A romantic."

"No, I'm not! That's a terrible thing to say. I'm just practical. Can't afford to be otherwise."

"Ah. As you wish." Deftly Miguel peeled the fruit, his long fingers turning it here and there. He cut it quickly with remarkable precision. He certainly knew how to handle a knife - like a surgeon or an assassin. He picked up his plate, offering me a slice.

"What is it?"

"So careful!" he said mockingly. "Just try it. Don't worry, querida."

Frowning, I looked over my shoulder. Except for us, the room was empty, the house still, the children asleep. I hissed, "Don't call me that. No one else is here. What's the point?"

He only slanted one eyebrow as if to say "All the point in the world." Silently he held out a single piece just an inch from my lips. Juice slid down his fingers, collecting at the tips. He softly said, "My servant Xi made this. Peach grafted to plum. Yin and yang, he says. Strange marriage, beautiful fruit."

He gestured for me to open my mouth, but I reached over and took it away with my hand instead. Fed myself, bit down. The flesh was soft, chilled. And juice ran like sweet sunshine down my throat. I closed my eyes, almost sighing as I chewed. Delicious. When I opened my eyes again, I could see that he was amused, almost pleased.

"It's called 'nectarine'. Like it?"

I nodded, unable to speak.

"Good. There's more. Much more."

I had a sinking feeling he was telling the truth. Cripes. I'd have to add another sin to my list. Gluttony. I didn't think I could stop now that I'd started. We ate together in silence. I was working on my second fruit when he said, "So you went back to Lily's. Got your things."

"Some of them," I said, feeling more than a little disgruntled. My opportunistic aunt had claimed that my few clothes had been sent to the laundress. Unavailable. Sorry. But what a stroke of good fortune, according to Lily. I'd been forced to accept Miguel's largesse: a blue tulle gown with a terrifying amount of ivory ribbon and lace. I was sure I would rip it.

He seemed to be appreciating my off-the-shoulder neckline. "All settled?"

"No," I whispered fiercely. "There's a problem. A real big problem."

He set down his knife. "Tell Lin-Fong."

"But she's the problem. I don't think she understands English so well. You see, she put me in your bedroom. I think there's been some kind of mistake."

"No."

"No what?"

"That was my intention. What else did you expect, niña? Where else could you possibly sleep?"

"Well, this is a large house. There must be another room. A guest room. Or the dressing room. Cripes. I don't care. I'll even bunk outside."

"And start rumors? They will think I'm like poor Gustave. Do not be ridiculous. It is not ... a mistake."

But I was afraid it very much was. And I needed to change it - soon - before I made another mistake. An irreversible one. With compound interest.

###

I didn't usually panic, but this couldn't be right. This was turning into a nightmare. I must be losing my mind. I was sure of it. Seeing something one moment, not seeing it the next. Where was it? I knew I'd packed my nightgown, but now I couldn't find it anywhere in my valise.

I was searching frantically when the bedroom door opened. The sound of his soft footfall across the rug made me freeze. I stood there: cowering like an idiot, wondering how long I could hide in the dressing room. Did the door lock? I hadn't checked. Dear God, the door wasn't even closed properly, and here I was, dress off, down to my over-petticoat. The thin struts of my corset stabbed into me as I breathed frantically, tip-toeing to the threshold. I could see his back. He had changed from his evening clothes into something severe and black. Miguel leaned over his desk. A drawer opened, then closed with a soft snick. He looked once towards the dressing room, but if he saw me through the crack of the door, he didn't say anything. Hastily I shut the door.

Hurry. Better cover myself. I turned over my valise and emptied the contents on the dressing room floor. Looked again. Didn't see it. Missing. Completely vanished. I was afraid I had my aunt to thank for this dilemma. Fuming, I picked up the nightgown that had been already laid out for me. Suspiciously sniffed it: fresh, not overly like soap, no one else's heavy perfume. Vertical creases ran up and down the front of the gown as if it had sat there, folded, for a long time. Perhaps this was new, not borrowed from some former paramour. Feeling a little appeased, I untied, unhooked, uncovered myself. Then I slipped the gown on. The sheer batiste settled over me like a whisper, soft as butterfly wings. I stared at my image in the mirror over the bureau; watched myself pinken ... my skin, everywhere. I could see everything: hints under the wispy cloth, my bare facts wherever there were slits or holes. I fingered the Chantilly lace which enhanced more than concealed. The fine cream-colored embroidery was more like a hideous painted arrow that pointed to key places. Like a sign screaming "Look here. Look here now." I groaned.

Judas! What was the point of this negligee? Why even bother wearing anything at all? I spied more gowns on the shelf. I put another one on backwards, then two more. I checked again in the mirror. There. Much better. I was thoroughly covered by a cocoon of them before I felt brave enough to leave the dressing room.

Breathing deeply, I turned the knob, pushed the dressing door open. This is it. Come on, now. No hesitation. The first cut. I finally stepped into the bedroom. It was empty. Completely empty. Panicked, I looked behind me. Was he there? No, even that monstrous four-poster with its turned-down covers was vacant. I searched the room again. Where had he gone? Hadn't heard him leave. I crossed the floor, rushing around a divan couch, past a bookcase to the window. Squinted into the darkness. A tall slim piece of it seemed to be moving fast between the wisps of fog. It was him. Where was he going?

Did it matter? As long as he wasn't here, right? Stepping back from the window, I congratulated myself on my fortunate escape. It was better this way. Of that, I was certain. Lucky, really. Very lucky. But somehow, I didn't feel like celebrating. I felt a little hollow inside as I carried a pillow and a quilt from the bed to the divan. I laid down, exhausted but alert. I turned on to my side, pulled the quilt tighter around me. Drafty. These Victorian houses. They just sucked in the cold air like one of those Bernoulli wind machines I'd seen in an exposition once. Not like a snug adobe or Lily's brownstone with that newfangled steam heating. I'd grown soft. My blood must have thinned. I'd gotten used to that luxury during the short time I'd been at Lily's. Cripes, I was missing my warm flannel neck-to-toes nightgown right now. Stupid negligees. Even four of them. What good was fashion if I died of pneumonia first?

This was too cold. Teeth chattering, I got up, checked the window. Shut tight. Not that. My gown fluttered as I passed by the bookcase. I halted, held up my hand. Something cool brushed against my palm. The breeze was coming from there, somewhere behind the shelves. I pushed the end. Tried pulling. Nothing happened. Frustrated, I smacked my hand against it, and accidentally hit something rough, maybe a knot in the oak siding. There was a faint rubbing sound. The bookcase swung away from the wall, and revealed a secret passage. I stared into the night.

###

I rushed outside, and the fog swallowed me, making my skin turn into millions of bumps. Where was Miguel? I couldn't see a thing. Trying to peer around, I moved cautiously past the back of the house and the black shapes surrounding it. In the extreme dark, everything looked flat and strange. I felt disoriented, unsure of what was in front of or underneath me. I walked forward, my hands held out like a blind man. Another step, a second, a third ... then something grabbed my gown.

My heart stopped, my elbow flying defensively up and out. Then I realized my attacker was only four feet tall and very still. A bush. Just a silly bush. Relief pounded through me as I jerked hard. Fabric ripped. Barbs scratched the back of my hand as the branches snapped backwards. There was a squishing sound, then the thick sweet smell of blackberries.

I walked faster, anxious to find Miguel, certain I had lost him. The ground was cool and hard under my bare feet but I didn't care. I started running when ... Cripes! A pebble jammed right into that soft place between my arch and the ball of my bare foot. Nerves jangled up my injured leg as I hopped on my other one.

There are times when the brain doesn't work, but the body does. It's called a reflex. And afterwards, regret - almost always the secondary reflex. The two go together. Well now - of all times - my brain was working again, suddenly inconveniently reconnected with the rest of my nerves. Hurt. Ow. It was telegraphed, loud and clear.

Idiot. What had I been thinking? I hadn't been. What was I going to do? Chase after him in these pieces of nothing, armed only with my good intentions? And supposed I had caught Miguel. Then what next? The man had his reasons for sneaking out. Maybe some secret rendezvous with another spy. Or even worse, with Therese. Was tonight her night? I wondered glumly about men and their "regular habits" at the Golden Lily as I hobbled back into the bedroom. Speculation was pointless. I had only one job to do here. Better to remember that. Remember and stay focused. I firmly closed the bookshelves behind me.

I sat down on the divan, and rubbed my bruised foot. That was a switch. I'd been cursed at, bled on, cried over, but never this before. Me, injured in the line of duty! Think I'd get a medal for that? Not likely. Some shadow I was. I hadn't even noticed that he'd sneaked away from the house. Well, I wasn't a secret agent. I was a doctor. The doctor and her runaway patient. And I hadn't even sent him bill yet. That was the best part of the joke.

I laid down again, and wrapped myself up in the quilt. Better get some rest. It was going to be a long night, and even a longer day if I had to find Miguel and chase him down. No one ever properly diagnosed a patient by staring at his retreating back. I didn't care what the psychometrists said. Measuring the colors of auras wasn't very accurate to my way of thinking. Not accurate at all. What I needed was a bucket of tar and some baling wire ... or a good length of rope. Some good nautical knots. Ship right, snug tight. Maybe I could even use some of Walter's sticky crepe paper that smelled like chicle and glycerin. There had to be something I could use to fix Don Miguel down until I was good and done with him. I thought about other possibilities, each more delicious than the last. He would finally answer all my questions. Tell me everything. Do everything I said. Every little last thing. The fantasies made me smile as my lids grew heavy, then heavier still. Yawning, I snuggled deeper into my pillow.

###

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you couldn't tell the difference? I sometimes did, but last night's had been a whopper. A real whopper. When I woke up this morning, I lay there for a long time, feeling warm and confused. I didn't know if I had dreamed it or lived it. It all seemed so hazy but solid, as if my body still felt what my mind couldn't exactly remember. I only remembered feeling large warm hands. Callused fingers had brushed the hair off my face, then touched the torn hem of my blackberry-stained nightgowns.

"Zarzamora," a voice quietly said with exasperation, maybe a little affection. Then it fell silent again while someone watched me for a long time. It was comforting - not creepy - as though I was absolutely protected. Safe. It felt unfamiliar, something I had never known during all of my chaotic childhood and new independent adulthood. Love, I knew, but this felt different. Strange but secure; like trying on a good pair of boots for the first time. Firm footing. That feeling surrounded me, and I remembered liking it just like I remembered smelling the mutton-y oil from a thick fisherman's sweater; the tang of salt and sea; and something more bitter ... more unfamiliar. Sweat. Gunpowder. Sulfur. The smell of danger itself.

I frowned, stirring, until I felt a hand gentle me. Little pats on the shoulder, another stroke down my hair.

"Shhh." The patting continued for some time. Then something soft fell over me like a cloud: warm and fluffy. Absolute comfort.

Had that really happened? It seemed real. I wasn't sure. I struggled, trying to bring it all back, as I lay on the divan; blinking back the morning light, and stretching my cramped muscles. The harder I tried to remember, the faster the memory vanished like dew under the rising sun.

I turned. Something slithered off me on to the floor. I reached down and picked it up. What was this? It was smooth like silk and softer than anything I had ever felt before. I bent closer, looked, and even though I was sleepy, I recognized the quality. A Kashimir shawl. What all the high-top fashionable ladies wore in Paris these days, worth as much as those Siberian mink capes. A miner's take for one year, here under my hands. Judas, it was beautiful. Its tear-drop paisley design was worked in purple and blues, embroidered here and there with gold thread. It looked like sun and sky. I held it to my cheek. My warm cloud. Mine.

###

I'd always heard that Orientals were stoic, never showed their feelings. Sure, sure. It was just one of those stories that everyone believed like the ones about that Bigfoot monster up in gold country. I was smarter than that. I knew better than to believe in stereotypes, so I was completely surprised by the servants' reaction. Or lack of it. Perhaps Miguel had given them special instructions. I didn't know. Hadn't seen the man since he'd disappeared into the darkness after dinner last night.

His absence didn't seem to matter to the servants. Maybe they were used to this. The household ran smoothly without him even though there were so few servants: the housekeeper Lin-Fong; the giant manservant Xi with a mysterious wide scar around his neck; and the English secretary George, who worked mainly on the docks. And none of them said anything at all about my sudden arrival at the home of Don Miguel. They all treated me as if I'd always been the mistress of the house. Perhaps they were also used to strange women taking up residence all of a sudden. Perhaps it had always been that way. They didn't seem to care.

For instance, Lin-Fong took me all in her little stride. Here I was, a day later, distilling herbs in her kitchen, and she didn't seem to mind at all. I couldn't imagine Mrs. B being so accomodating. The late afternoon sun shone through the tall windows while we worked companionably side by side in the small kitchen. On the Windsor stove, something was sizzling in a wide deep-dished pot called a "wok," and the air smelled like mushrooms and garlic and the fleshy salt of fresh fish, just sliced. The long pine table was covered: clay bowls of half-prepped food, cut into neat cubes and matchstick slivers; a platter of small cakes dusted with powdered sugar; and my bundles of herbs that I'd gathered today. Lin-Fong even lent me her favorite cleaver to cut up the poppies.

Thwack. Thwack. Chop. The large square blade split the pods open without bruising the seeds. A thick milky liquid began to seep out. I quickly turned the blade sideways and scooped them off the chopping block and into the glass flask. A piece of stem fell into the slop.

"Drats." I tried reaching inside it with my fingers but they felt slow and clumsy, sluggish from lack of solid sleep. I had lain awake on that divan for a long time, waiting for a meeting that had never happened. And after I'd finally fallen asleep and woken up later in the day, I hadn't seen a sign of Miguel. For the rest of day I'd felt sleepy and edgy and more than a little irritated with myself. Nothing worked well. My fingers fit but wouldn't work through the narrow glass neck.

"Here, Missy. You use this. Quick, quick." Lin-Fong handed me a pair of wooden chopsticks, worn smooth by frequent use.

It had been a long time since I'd used them, and I wasn't sure if I remembered how. One rested across my index and ring fingers. The other I held like a pencil in the same hand. Now, open and close like a pair of tweezers. Carefully I inserted the sticks into the flask. After a few false tries, I fished out the stem.

"Good, good. Don't want the wrong parts in your tea. Some parts help. Some parts hurt."

"Yes, that's right. Even if all the parts are from the same plant. And you always have to make sure it's the right plant. Some of them look the same. Like wild potato and nightshade. You don't want to mix them up." I scooped up some more chopped poppy and poured in into the flask.

"This 'Happy Tea'?" Lin-Fong giggled behind one hand. "The Don. He no need 'Happy Tea'."

"Oh really? Goody for him." "Happy" or "Joy" anything was the name given to Chinese restoratives and aphrodisiacs. Why on earth should Lin-Fong know about that and the Don's need? My suspicious question rested on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn't bring myself to ask it. I picked up a fistful of poppies, shook off the last petals, then put the naked pods on to the block. Thwack. Thwack. Thud. The cleaver caught in the wood, and I had to rock it back and forth before I could free the blade again.

"Of course, you know. You already know, Missy Spencer."