Indian summer had finally arrived, melting away the fog and heating the crowded ballroom at the Calhoun mansion. Frizzled hair and collars wilted. Fans flapped everywhere like a flock of jeweled butterflies under the high plastered walls that were draped in patriotic red, white and blue. I smiled, sweated, then smiled some more to all the introductions. On the anniversary of California's statehood, everyone, it seemed, had something to say to Don Miguel, whose Californio heritage and hard gold commanded respect. Old power and new. You could sense both, standing next to him. As his companion, I was under intense scrutiny ... more than I'd expected. It reminded me of the first time I'd entered the auditorium full of male medical students; all curious, most hostile, a few undecided. All had been waiting for one false step that would serve as an on dit later on at my expense. The society nobs here were exactly the same: predatory, pausing, circling for just one faux pas from me, the tall blonde greenhorn in borrowed finery. I didn't belong here. I knew it, and I think they did too. I was being tested constantly. I ignored another pointed remark from a red-headed beauty with more rubies than good sense. Cripes! Did I just see that? Had she really been licking her lips while she was eyeing Miguel? She was as bad as that fat student Frederic salivating over his pastries while we'd learned anatomy at l'Ecole. Anatomy, all right. Well, this was no different, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time. No different at all. I wanted to toss my glass of ratafia in her face. That would snap that redhead out of her drooling state. Snap her out quick.

"More ratafia, my dear?" asked Miguel quietly.

I shuddered inwardly, the sweet fruity taste not to my liking at all. "Oh no. I'll just taste yours." I took his still full glass before he had a chance to react. Sipped it. Mmm. Lemon, a touch of nutmeg, and ... liquid fire. A ball of it hit my gut, then shot upward, squeezing out my breath. Miguel took his drink back while I coughed a little behind my hand, trying to suck in air. I managed to gather enough to wheeze, then eventually to speak. "What ... is that? Strongest whiskey ... I've ever tasted." The men laughed around me.

Our host Thaddeus B. Calhoun laughed the loudest. His nose was red and veined, the effect of an over-indulgence in spirits. "No, it's Pisco punch. Peruvian brandy."

"And cocaine. Very refreshing," whispered Miguel into my ear. My eyes widened with horror. Cocaine? From the coca plant? Cripes, this was just like Coca-Cola. I'd been poisoned! I wondered where I could politely rinse out my mouth with ratafia and spit it out. Maybe behind that potted palm. I considered the idea as the men resumed their conversation.

"And the feds wanted to buy my munitions with greenbacks. Paper money." Thaddeus' gray side whiskers shook with righteous indignation. "Pah! I can hardly believe that. Can you believe that? What good are those?"

"Only good enough to wipe your arse with. Like that newfangled Scott tissue paper. Pardon me, ladies, but I'm a plain-speaking man. I call it how I see it. What's the point? Printing up money like they were newspapers. Boosts the circulation, but lowers the value. It's no good," said a young cigar-stoking gentleman standing next to me. "No good at'all. Isn't that right, Don Miguel?"

"You would know, Bill."

I added, "After all, you're a banker."

Looking glum, William Tecumseh Sherman puffed on his cigar some more. "Not for long at this rate. Too much politics. I may yet go back to the army. Things were simpler there. At least there you know when you're fighting a battle and which side you're on. Everyone wears their true colors there. Not like this den of thieves."

Thaddeus harrumphed like a gaseous walrus. "Now, now. None of that, Bill. No Union, no Dixie talk under this roof. We're all Californians here. I may be born and raised in Virginia, but this is where I'm rooted. This is my home now. I take no sides."

So you can profit by selling to both sides, I thought cynically. I'd done my share of eavesdropping tonight. War was good business for an iron foundry and munitions manufacturer. The best kind of business. And if talk were true, then Thaddeus B. Calhoun was making out like a bandit. He didn't wear blue or gray. The only color he pledged allegiance to was the color of gold. Pure gold.

The men argued for a bit longer before Sherman held up his hands as if surrendering. "All right, all right. Point your guns elsewhere. My apologies. No more politicking tonight. Only I will say this - as your friend first, a banker second, a Union man last of all: It's a bad deal. Don't do it, Thaddeus. Paper's no good. A fad. It won't last. Settle for hard currency only. That's my best advice. Excuse me. Ma'am." He bowed to me, then to a dark-eyed woman of middle years who just joined us.

She was preceded by a puff of honeysuckle perfume and the genteel swish-swish of her petticoats and hoops. Clearly she knew how to walk in those contraptions so that she seemed like a flower floating in a stream instead of an elephant garrumphing through the ballroom like me. Her glossy dark brown hair was elegantly coiled and decorated with fresh mauve roses that seemed to withstand even this heat. And her matching silk gown was unwrinkled perfection. I envied her grace. Completely.

"My dear, it looks serious over here. Absolutely serious. Like a meeting of Calvinist preachers. All sin-bashing and mortification of the flesh. Whatever are y'all talking about? Do tell." She offered her gloved hand to Thaddeus, who dutifully bowed over it and kissed it.

"May I present my wife, Madeline LaRue Calhoun of the Louisiana LaRue's. You know Don Miguel."

"Of course," she murmured sweetly over her fan. "A pleasure, a very real pleasure, to see you ... again."

The innuendo of her words was as sweetly sickly heavy as her perfume. Miguel seemed to ignore it, saying nothing. He only nodded a fraction.

"And this is Miss Nikita Spencer," continued Thaddeus grandly.

As Madeline looked from Don Miguel to me, something sharpened in those wide brown eyes. Her thick mink eyelashes fluttered down. By the time they fluttered up again, her gaze had turned all sugary once more. She smiled brightly. "Why, Miss Spencer. How do you do? My, you are a tall one. Like Juno, wouldn't y'all say? I feel positively dwarfed in comparison. Positively."

"Vitamins and exercise. You must try it sometime," I murmured, feeling even more awkward and gawky all of a sudden. I didn't think it was possible.

"Perhaps I shall." She seemed a little surprised by my remark, but approving nevertheless. "Now whatever were you discussing? So gloomy and sobersides."

Thaddeus chuckled low so that the folds under his chin and his belly quivered like a large blancmange. He gave her a husbandly kiss on the cheek, then patted her arm. "Business, dear. Just business. No need to worry about that."

"Business? Oh la! I'll leave that to you men-folk. I cannot be bothered with that nasty, nasty word. It's too much for me. The Ladies' Auxiliary keeps me busy enough as it is."

Turning to me, Thaddeus said, "Madeline does have her little hobbies. Her good works, she calls it. Why, she almost runs the city as it is. Next thing we know, she'll be mayor of San Francisco."

"Thaddeus, I do believe you are joshing me. Mayor! Of a whole city? My goodness gracious. Whatever for? What would little bitty ole me do with a whole city?" She snapped her fan shut and thumped it against her husband, square on his brocade vest. "You silly man."

"Silly, indeed. Women can't even vote," I added. "We must be guided in these matters by our men. Too much thinking. Withers the female organs, you know. Renders us sterile."

"Did you read that somewhere?" asked Miguel solemnly.

"No, no. I don't read. I never read. That's bad for you too. Almost as bad as thinking."

"Really!" gasped Madeline. "Imagine that. I had no idea there were less than salubrious effects. It's a public hazard. It must be stopped. Right now. This instant. No ladies must think. None of us. I declare a holiday. A moratorium. Absolutely no thinking. Whatsoever."

"Just dancing. And good works," I said.

"Yes. My good works. I'm always looking for projects. Like Clara Barton, you know. We've been cutting up our old petticoats and folding them into bandages. Very quaint." She linked her arm with me as if we were now bosom buddies. We walked a little away from the men. Or rather, she led and I followed, scaling back my natural wide stride to her dainty steps. "But everyone's doing bandages now. Just everyone. It's been done, getting old. Why, I just think we all need to do something different. Something that captures the imagination. Do y'all have any ideas?"

I shook my head, then stopped suddenly when I felt a jeweled pin shift. The coil of hair it was holding up began to loosen. Drats.

Madeline's eyes moved unerringly to the spot. Her lips twitched. "I do believe the Ladies' Auxiliary must move on. I was thinking about other projects. Like that clinic, my dear. The Infirmary for Women and Children. A pity it's been closed for so long."

"The clinic?" Walter's clinic? I couldn't help myself. My arm jerked under hers. She couldn't know about me, could she? How could she know I was a doctor? Maybe she didn't know.

Madeline patted my arm. "There, there. I'm not looking for patients. Just someone to run it. Someone with a good head on her shoulders, a large heart. Why, that someone could very well be you. We have the funds. We just need the right person."

"Me?" Astonished, I could only look at her. What a perfect job. I knew my friends had struggled after graduation. Training was hard, but actually working as a physician was much harder. Many had ended up moving to Europe and working there instead. But maybe there was a way to really do this and stay near Lily and Walter, the closest thing I had to a family and home. And with influential sponsors like Madeline, I could afford to take care of the patients I really wanted to - the ones who had no place else to go. Quality care without skimping or worrying about tomorrow's bills. It was too good to be true. Tempting, very tempting.

"Come, come. You must have a little time to spare. Surely Don Miguel doesn't keep you busy all the time. All day and all night. Not in my experience anyway." Opening her fan again, she simpered behind it. Her eyes looked triumphantly at me as if she were savoring a secret that only she knew. It wasn't a cruel look or an angry one. But somehow, it hurt all the same. There was something between her and Don Miguel. She was letting me know. Nothing subtle about it. It was as plain as a raging case of measles. And just like measles, that sinking feeling spread all over my body. There wasn't a whole lot I could do about it. Not even willowbark tea could help the hurt inside. I felt completely out of my depth as we continued our circuit around the ballroom. We passed the potted palms, the string quartet that was just tuning up after their break. "Oh, really?" was all I managed to say.

"Now, I just hope you haven't taken offense. Lord, no. We're both women of the world, Nikita. I knew it from the moment I met you. I said to myself, 'Madeline LaRue, there's another lady like you with steel in her spine instead of her corset. Another lady who knows what she wants and just goes right out and gets it'. Nothing wrong with that. Life isn't like any empty dance card. You can't wait for opportunities to come to you. Why then you'll be a wallflower for all of your pitiful little ole life. So you saw your chance with Don Miguel. I wish you well. He's not an easy one. What do you Westerners say? He's a bull steer. Ornery. Tough to wrangle with, bring his head down. No lady is going to brand that man for her own. No sir. Many have tried. Lord knows I've tried ... but ... he's too tough. More stubborn than a boll weevil when the cotton is high. Can't shake him. Too stubborn. May be easy on the eye, mmm hmmm, but not to my taste."

Taste? Now I felt really sick inside. It swelled up inside me, making my throat tight. I choked out, "You don't think so?"

"Why, no. Absolutely not. I'll give you a little piece of womanly advice. Just a little." She tilted her fan so that it screened us from the rest of her room.

Oh no. I had a feeling that I didn't want to hear what she had to say. Not at all. But I was completely trapped between the wall, Madeline, party-goers in front and on both sides of me. There was no escaping. Her rouged lips twisted into a smile that wasn't pretty. "You know that ole saying about not changing a horse in the middle of a stream? It isn't true. You can. You can and be better off for it. Y'all look smart, so act smart. Pick someone easier to work. Someone like my Thaddeus. It's better to be an old man's darling than a young man's slave. I could help you out. I could introduce you to any number of men here. Old men. Wonderful old men. One hand in the bank, one foot in the grave."

We stopped near the entrance of the card room. The liveried footman opened the door, and I could hear someone saying "Gentlemen, place your bets." Chips clink-chinked on the table, then cards ruffled. The door closed again on the shouts of triumph or disgust.

"Do you gamble, Nikita?"

I shook my head. There were enough gamblers in the Spencer family as it was. I'd seen the consequences. I wasn't interested.

Closing her fan again, Madeline looked thoughtful for a moment. The tip of her fan tapped lightly once, twice against her red, red lips. "Why, you surprise me. You really do. Perhaps I did misjudge you after all, and I sincerely apologize if I did. No matter, my dear. If you don't gamble, y'all should give it a try some time. High stakes, neck or nothing. You think about my offer. Just think about it, you hear?" And with that, she left me alone in the crowd, the stench of honeysuckle vaguely lingering behind her.

###

I stood there stupidly, still feeling a little nauseated, a slight headache. Concussed, that's what it was. I felt as if I'd been knocked over by a coach-and-four that I didn't even see coming my way. Completely blindsided. Whoa. I pressed a hand over my mouth, took a couple of deep breaths. And then I heard someone approach. I prayed to God that it wasn't Madeline again, circling back for the kill. That was the last thing I needed right now. I might forget myself and let loose one of those kung fu moves Li-Chu had taught me. Ka-POW. One kick right to the solar plexus. Hardly appropriate behavior for high society but how satisfying that would feel! I grit my teeth, knowing she was approaching. Ready, set ...

"Why, hello, sugar."

"Walter!" I wheeled around, heedless of my skirts that swooshed around me, then rebounded and rushed in the other direction. Hearing his voice was like a cool breeze in this stuffy ballroom. Refreshing. Relief. Something I badly needed after that last conversation with Madeline. What a tonic! My face cracked into a grin. I didn't care how gauche I looked. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Duty calls."

"Really? Is Lily here? I need to talk with her. Give her a piece of my mind. Do you know what she did to me?" I craned my neck, looking over the coiffures and diamonds; hoping to catch a glimpse of my aunt. But I didn't see her among the circles of bright people and brighter laughter. She had to be here. This was her element. "Well, where is she?"

"Aren't you glad to see me?"

I heaved a breath. "You don't know how true that is."

"Hmmm. I can imagine. I can just imagine. I saw you talking with Madeline."

"Mrs. Calhoun?"

"None other. My dear sweet sister-in-law. Butter would not melt in her mouth."

I pointed to where Madeline was currently holding court. She said something, then the circle of men around her burst out laughing.

He nodded. "Poor Thaddeus. Married to that viper. Rattles on sweetly but bites nasty. Real nasty. Should have been de-fanged at birth. Thankfully I am the black sheep of the family and was of no great interest to her. She just passed me over and moved on to some choicer prey. Someone like Thaddeus." Walter pretended to shiver. "Need some snakebite medicine?" He tapped the secret pocket in his coat where he stored his silver flask. I shook my head. "Well, then. You're one of the few survivors."

It didn't feel like that. It felt worse. Far worse. "Maybe. I'm not sure if that's the case. She was after something, but I'm not sure what. And there's something else I don't get. Madeline knew all about me already. I swear she did. How could she already know I was a doctor? Do I have it printed somewhere on my forehead?"

Walter stroked his chin, thought for a little bit. "We-e-ell, Miss Maddy does have her way of finding things out, but it may be a lot simpler than that. Nikita Spencer's not exactly what you might call a common name. I might have said something about you over the years."

Aghast, I could only stare at him, my mouth open for a soundless second. "About me? What could you possibly have to say about me?"

"Don't rightly recollect at the moment. I could have said anything, you know. Could be the time you were only eight and you delivered those Flores twins all by yourself when I stepped out of the house. Had them all cleaned up and wrapped neat like little baby dolls by the time I came back."

"Señora Flores did all the hard work. I just caught the babies so they didn't hit the ground."

"Whatever you say, sugar. Whatever you say. But then again, maybe I told them about that time Deadeye Dick was choking on his tobaccy. Turning blue under all that dirt, eyes bulging, arms flapping. All the chippies screaming their fool heads off, and then calm as you please, you jumped on his back. That plug flew outta his mouth, clear across the saloon, and hit the painting of Venus on the wall. Splat. Right near her umbilicus. Plumb in the middle. Never did get the stain out of that one." He slapped his leg, chuckling. "You always did think fast. Even when you were a little scrawny thing coming up to my knee. Suppose I could have mentioned that to Maddy at one time or another. Can't rightly say."

"Well, she offered me a job in your infirmary."

Walter looked remarkably calm. He examined the tips of his fingernails, then looked up at me again. "Is that so? And you said ...?"

"Doesn't matter. She was probably just bribing me. Probably not a genuine offer anyway. Or if it is, it probably has a zillion strings attached to it. No thanks."

"Hmmmm. Don't be so quick to say 'no'. You might find out that you can wrestle with snakes better than you think. We-e-e-ell, never mind that. I believe I am being remiss. I haven't complimented you on your fine, fine appearance." Leaning back a little, he clasped my hands and looked me over. "My, my, my. Looky here. Aren't you a picture?"

"A picture of what? Nothing I'd want to hang on my walls."

"Now there you're wrong, very wrong. You always have been a little myopic in this particular area. Take another look, Doctor Spencer. A real good look."

"No thanks." I smoothed down my skirts, then felt the unfortunate pull of gravity on another part of my dress. Hastily I grabbed the middle of my bodice and tugged upwards. Forgot. Blushed. I whispered, "I need some of your sticky crepe paper here. What do you call it? Tape? Whoever made this dress didn't know what they were doing. It doesn't fit."

"Seems to fit perfectly to me," said Walter blandly, his eyes twinkling. "I'm sure your dashing escort approves. He's male and he's not dead, you know. By the way, Lily's very impressed. The woman's completely beside herself with delight over your 'catch' as she see so poetically puts it. 'Catch'! And we men think of ourselves as the aggressors of the species. Nothing could be further from the truth. It's the women who are the hunter-gatherers. And now, you too. I had higher hopes for you, Nikita. But it seems you are as sorry a female as all the rest. Never mind, never mind. So where is this 'catch' of yours? That fine, fine specimen ... Don Miguel?"

"I don't know. Somewhere in this crush. The man shows up, then disappears again like a ghost. I can't keep track of him."

"Ahhh, the universal female complaint. Sugar, there's no need to keep track of the Don as long as he always returns home. That's the main thing. Don't get all worked up over nothing."

"Nothing? You don't understand. He may get into ..." I was going to say "trouble," barely biting off the word in time. But by the look on Walter's face, it didn't seem to matter. He knew what I meant to say. Only his idea of "trouble" and mine were completely different.

"We-e-e-ell, I may just be able to help you out of your predicament. Give a little assistance, so to speak."

"What do you mean?"

Walter looked around the room. "My, my, my. It's Almighty stuffy in here. Must be all the conversations full of hot air. The downright pomposity and bombast. Shall we take a turn in the garden? A little fresh air?"

"Sure. Whatever. I can take a hint." I picked up my skirt, started walking until Walter coughed a little. Too late I noticed his crooked elbow. He looked pointedly at the arm he offered to me. Oh, that's right. I'd forgotten. A lady wasn't supposed to walk across the ballroom unescorted. I laid my hand on his elbow. He patted it.

"What's up?" I whispered out of the corner of my mouth.

"A surprise," murmured Walter.

"I hate surprises. You know I hate surprises."

"This one you'll like. I guarantee it. Slow down. Smile. It's not a race."

"Sorry." My heart beat a little harder with every step toward the open French doors leading to the garden. My skirts swished against the wainscoting, then the shiny brass pots that held the palms. I could barely hear the chatter around me or the violins playing. Had Miguel sent Walter to me? Maybe he needed help. Judas. What was wrong now? Stubbornness - that was his underlying disease. Worrying, I walked faster.

###

Outside, the night was nice and cooler, but not enough to cool off my anxiety. Walter squeezed my arm once more before leaving me alone on the terrace. Unfortunately lush honeysuckle vines grew on the surrounding trellis, and the air was thick with their perfume. Ugh. Trying not to gag, I looked around. The manicured hedges were taller than me, tall as the rangy man standing next to them. The tip of his cigarette glowed in the night. Then his white teeth flashed around it when he saw me. His hand flicked. Something hissed. Then hw-w-w-wit, a quivering knife jutted from the ground, barely shaving the tip of my slipper. Not a millimeter to spare. I glanced up again. The man swung his arms wide, holding them open for me like a grand welcome.

That dramatic gesture. I knew it in a flash. The same way I knew that fool blade of his and that way he threw back his head and laughed like he was doing right now. I stopped in my tracks, suddenly feeling uncertain about the next step. Was this a dream? Or real? Maybe the ground would give way in the next second, and I would tumble down, down, down; landing finally and waking up the next moment in my bed. I stared at him. It couldn't be. It wasn't. But it had to. Who else could it possibly be? "Monte?"

"Hey, hey. Come on over here, darlin'. Get a move on. Why are you just standing there like that? Don't you recognize me? What's wrong with you? Just seen a ghost?"

Ha! Too true. Maybe I was seeing things these days; hallucinating my brother because I wanted to see him. No one understood me like he did. All the good parts. And the bad. Maybe he could make sense of this muddle I'd gotten myself into. I certainly couldn't.

"What's the matter? You're looking kind of peaked. Like that time you jumped from that balcony on to the drunk. Saved my bacon all right. Yee-ha! The flying banshee. Never seen anything like it."

And you never will again. Just remembering that incident made my insides quiver. Didn't have a head for heights after that. Even going upstairs had taken willpower to just go and do that simple daily act. Eventually got used to it, but I couldn't even climb a ship's rigging any more. And the crow's nest? Forget it. Now I kept my two feet firmly planted on the ground at all times. That was the way I liked it. Cowardly but true.

"... Man, oh man, you looked bad. Real bad, darlin'. Remember? You spewed all over everyone and everything like some goddamn gross-out Roman candle. Yup, I'd have to say that you kinda look like that now." Monte turned his hand up, palm out. "No, no. Just stop right there. No closer. Not one step. Don't want you spoiling my new duds. The latest from gay Par-ee. Or so the tailor said." He smoothed down the shiny black lapels of his evening coat, then pretended to straighten his collar.

"Okay, mister. That ties it. That really ties it. I wasn't sure if that was really you, but now I know. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Or even a shadow's shadow. Montague B. Spencer. Who the hell else could it be?"

He grinned. "What gave me away? Was it the threads?"

"Nope."

"Then it must be my indescribable charm. That certain savoir faire. Yup. That has to be it. Dollars to donuts."

"No! No way. Are you kidding?"

"My old knife trick? Clever, isn't it?"

"Clever? I don't call nearly amputating my toe clever. Showy, that's what it is. Risky. A gamble. A real gamble."

"What isn't?" Shrugging, he puffed on his cigarillo. Looked up at the sky and sighed. "All right-y. I fold. I give up. How did you really know it was me?"

"Because you're unique. There could only be one of you."

His grin widened, his chest poking out a little.

"You're the real genuine item. No one is quite like you. No one at all."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really. You see, Monte, here's the thing. You are so ... so rude. So completely jackass rude." I snorted hard through my nose, watching him deflate. His smile sagged at the corners. Served him right. "Cripes. Why'd you bring that up? I hate ... remembering that. It was terrible. The worst thing I've ever done."

"It was the best. The absolute best. You saved my life," said my brother gently.

"But I'm a ... a mur-"

"Don't say that. Don't even think that. You're not. You never were. You are a hero. My hero. Can I be you when I grow up?"

"You? Grow up? That will be one fine day. Idiot," I muttered.

"Now, now. No sweet talkin' me. No use pouring it on."

"Anencephalic."

He chuckled. "Ooh. There you go. Mighty fancy ten-spot insults you've learned in that medical school of yours. Just lay it on me. That's more like it. That's my girl." Flicking his cigarette over his shoulder, he rushed towards me; crossing the flagstones in three loping steps. He swooped me up in his arms, and swung me around and around until my head spun. "Nikita! Well, well. Look at you. Just look."

"What's wrong with me?" One hand crept up to my head, and gingerly felt over the sapphire pins and intricate loops of hair. It felt okay to me, but what did I know? I checked my bodice again. No. That seemed all right this time. Maybe my shoes were on the wrong feet.

"Nothing, darlin'. Nothing at'all. Just that ... Well, hell. You look like a ... I don't know how else to say it, but damn it! I have to call it or cash out. There's no way around it. All right, all right. I'll tell you. I can hardly believe it, but I'll tell you. You look like a lady. A goddamned lah-de-dah lady." He sounded a little puzzled.

"Because I am. Sort of. All grown up now. That bad or good?"

"Neither. Both. I don't know. It's been so long since we've seen each other. When was the last time? Not since that new casino on the Riviera ..."

"Monte Carlo."

He snapped his fingers together, then pointed at me. "That's right. My namesake. Thought it would bring me luck. And it did. A couple of thou'. Enough to bankroll the next plan. Fine pickings, real fine. Those English lordlings were just born to be plucked." Laughing, he squeezed me even tighter so that it was hard to breathe. "My God, it's good to see you, darlin'. Damn good. Feels like it's been forever. Forever and a day."

"At least forever. At least that long. I've missed you."

"And I missed you," he said, finally allowing his baritone to turn softly sentimental. All traces of his habitual joking vanished for once. He kissed me lightly on one cheek, then the other. Then he rapped his knuckles on top of my head.

I returned the favor. Knock, knock.

He grinned, made a big show of rubbing the offended spot. "Ye-e-ow. Is that any way to treat your older brother?"

"Older. Ha! Older by not much. Just five measly minutes. A mere technicality. Listen up, mister. You may be older, but you're definitely not wiser. I'm the wise one in the family."

"Just a wise guy. Just a wise guy. You always had a smart lip," he said with affection.

In reply, I ran my hand over his wavy black curls. He felt real. Real and well, not dying in some hellhole of a Union prison. He was free. Too good to be true. I didn't know what amazed me more: Monte's sudden appearance or Major Wolfe actually keeping his word.

I hadn't expected it just yet, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was that Monte was safe ... for now. Relief slowly seeped through me as I laid my cheek against my brother's smoothly shaved one. His hand pressed the small of my back. I automatically stepped closer, my head dropping on to his shoulder, his head resting on top of mine. We fit together as we always did, as we probably had since we shared our mother's womb. Even after all those years away, it seemed so right, as though we'd never been apart. I felt like a missing piece of me had finally returned. I was whole again in a way I couldn't even begin to explain. We stood there for a long time, holding each other, swaying gently to the music as a quadrille ended and a Viennese waltz began. "The Blue Danube" swept over us with the opening bars of its slow uplifting tune. And even when I heard a footstep barely whisper over the flagstone, I didn't think to move away.

"Am I interrupting?" Don Miguel said in a soft voice that didn't sound as if he cared whether or not he was. His words hung in the air like the first few trembling notes of music; glittering with challenge.

Monte slowly lowered me to the ground. He kept one arm around me, his hand resting against my hip. "Not at all," he said, but he still held me.

Didn't budge, even when I gently elbowed him. "Miguel! There you are. I'm glad to see you. May I introduce my brother Montague Spencer. And, Monte, this is ..."

"Don Miguel Cabrillo." My brother gently squeezed my hip to silence me. His smile was the one I knew and dreaded from childhood: total mischief with a touch of malice. Judas. What was he going to do next? He murmured, "Interesting. Very interesting." He offered his free hand to Miguel. The handshake was brief, barely cordial; more like two swords crossing for the first time instead of simple etiquette. The men stared as if testing each other's mettle.

Eventually Miguel spoke first. "Have we met?"

"No. I know your cousin Diego. Or should I say - I did know him before he died. A shame about his murder. Imagine that. There he was, singing it up at the Golden Boar, and then bang. They didn't even let him finish the last verse. Philistines. Obviously they didn't appreciate a real musician when they heard one. Rough crowd, eh? That's one helluva curtain call, I'd say. But then again, if Diego hadn't been popped, you wouldn't have inherited, would you?" Monte's grin deepened, but it wasn't a humorous expression. Far from it.

"Yes," was all Miguel said, walking towards me. He paused just in front of me. His bow was low and formal. "I was going to ask for the honor of your first dance, but ..." He looked from me to Monte, then back at me again. His gaze looked cold now. He seemed as remote as he had on the ship when he was by himself on the bridge. Gone was my charming dinner companion. The Don had returned in full force. My Miguel had vanished. "But perhaps, I am ... too late."

"Stuff! Don't be silly," I said crossly, ignoring his implications. How dare he? I wasn't the one walking around town with the reputation of a neo-Romeo. I didn't even have a thimbleful of his vast varied experience. Mister "Whatever It Takes." What the hell did that mean anyway? I wasn't sure. I only knew it aggravated me something terrible. But I'd be damned if I'd show it.

"Now, wait a minute. Just wait a darn minute here. Are you implying that ...?" began Monte.

"That's all right." I laid my palm on my brother's chest to stop him. "I'll take care of it. No need to defend my honor." I stepped away from him and took Miguel's arm. "What is this? A waltz? Might as well get it over with. I hear it's perfectly painless. No chloroform needed."

"Depends," said Miguel, leading me through the French doors and back into the ballroom. The stuffy air immediately hit me: Cologne. Tobacco. Spilled punch and the underlying cut of stronger beverages. The sweat of humanity at play. All those smells choked me like a fist around my throat.

Everyone seemed to be watching. Why were they looking? What was the big deal? We were just two people returning to the ballroom after a little fresh air. So what if my skirts were a little crumpled? That didn't mean a thing, did it? I barely kept myself from nervously adjusting the front of my dress again as we walked through the room. The crowd parted for us like an opening curtain. No one - it seemed - wanted to get in Don Miguel's way. Then the last couple stepped aside, the man bobbling his monocle, the woman fluttering her fan in their nervous haste.

Now the polished parquet floor lay open before us. Under the Italianate gaslight chandeliers, the dancers swooped by in their diamonds and silks. Dresses of yellow, mauve, and burgundy swirled by like blossoms caught in a whirlwind. The waltz was in full swing, and the turns looked even faster than before. It was enough to give any right-minded person vertigo. Serious vertigo. I tugged on Miguel's arm, but he was immovable. His grip was unbreakably no-nonsense. Through clenched teeth, I said, "Slow down, will you? What do you mean by that? Depends on what?"

Silently he led me on to the floor. Without waiting a beat, Miguel immediately spun me into his arms, his other hand guiding my back with a firm warm pressure that I could feel even through his kidskin glove. He paused, then plunged, and a moment later, we joined the whirl of dancers. It was smoothly done with the spare athletic authority that dictated all his actions - gracefully like a swordsman instead of a ballroom dancer. His muscular legs pushed through my skirts, his whole body propelling me this way, then that. As we spun another hundred-and-eighty degrees, his lips touched my ear. I could feel his smile, then his words brushing me. "Depends ... on how well-suited we are."

###

One, two, three. One, two ... It all came down to simple mathematics. It always did. Counting. A pattern. Child's play, really. I tried to convince myself, but it wasn't working well. If this was so darn easy, how come it felt like it was so hard to do? One. Two. Three. Turn. One, two, three ...

"Nikita."

Trying not to frown, I glanced down at our feet: my silk slippers peeking under a froth of lace and fabric, retreating, turning; his black boots advancing, commanding. Waltzing was tricky to do well - like stitching figure-of-eight's in a bleeding artery. I needed to be quick and neat. Should be a piece of cake, right? Only problem was that I'd had a lot more practice suturing than dancing. And now, to my chagrin, that lack of experience showed.

"Look at me, niña."

"Huh? Oh, sorry." Moving backwards, I faltered for a second, and my inside foot stumbled between his feet. My hoop tilted, and I trod on it. Cripes. For a horrified second, I felt myself falling away until Miguel quickly lifted me a little as we turned, freeing me from my skirts. He set me down again, but he was still holding me close. Too close. His hip rubbed against my belly. My cheeks heated. "Stop it."

His brow lifted.

"Too close," I whispered.

He smiled a little as if to say, "Not close enough." His fingers fanned over my back in an affirming caress as he drew me even closer.

I tried to pull back a safe inch, but he would have none of it. His strong arms flexed against me, keeping me there. I pulled harder, and during the subtle tug-of-war, a lock of my hair finally fell down across my neck. He reached up, his hand barely tracing a line up my spine, shoulder, then to the curve where my stubborn hair lay. He swept it up and tucked it behind my ear. The woman dancing next to us gasped aloud at his audacity.

"Miguel." My voice sounded lower, thicker with warning.

Again he barely smiled. We were both breathing harder now. I could tell. I was miserably aware of it, and how my hands shook inside my gloves, the flush creeping over me. The buttons of his evening coat touched the ribbons and lace of my gown; rubbing, rubbing, almost snagging but not quite. We glided into another tight turn, and every hard inch of him pushed against me. Was that ...? No, it couldn't be. It couldn't. This wasn't mere anatomy any more. Such a difference, a remarkable difference, between a dead man and a living one. How could he be so aroused? This was just a waltz, wasn't it? Yet I couldn't deny the very real evidence - his reactions.

I saw the way his cheek tightened, his eyes darken to near black when they met mine. I heard his need as surely as if he shouted it. I knew it. It must be real because it echoed mine. I wondered if he felt that same heated ache in his belly, all that pain without blood. Judas. What were we going to do? This couldn't be. Shouldn't. Miguel seemed to be asking me for permission even as his body already commanded mine.

No, said a voice inside of me. Yes, said the other one. Why not? Shocked, I looked up and away. Over us, the rotunda was amber and cobalt glass, touched here and there with Arabian silver stars. And at that moment, I felt as if I were swirling up, up, up ... flying to the sky in his arms, both of us on the wings of music. The rest of the room fell away into nothing. The crush, the smells, the "should not's" disappeared. I forgot to count. I forgot about everything else. Everything that made sense. We were airborne, Miguel and I. Silently flying together. We were high; higher than high.

Time seemed to slow down, then stop all together. Our hearts beat somewhere between each eternal second. Then eventually, one of us spoke. I think it was him. I wasn't sure at first. Into that perfect magical silence Miguel said, "Muchas gracias, niña."

His voice startled me. "Thank you? For what?"

"For this."

Abruptly I came back to myself, realizing - too late - that the waltz had ended. There was a brief hush, then the muffled clapping of gloved hands and the rising pitch of conversations resuming. I halted. Stepped on his boot. Expressionless, he said nothing while his hand slid from my back to waist, steadying me against the momentum of those skirts. "Drats. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." His eyes darted back and forth as if checking who might have overheard my question. Oh. I get it now. He was worried that someone might find out about his illness.

I hastened to reassure him. "No, no. Not that. I meant your feet. I stepped on them a couple times. All right, all right. More than a couple of times. Sorry."

Understanding lit his eyes. "Ah. I will need your ministrations. Your very ... careful ... ministrations."

"Ha! Not on you life, mister. Horse liniment for you. Or maybe a mustard plaster. It was all your fault. You distracted me."

"Mutual pleasure is never ... a distraction. Not if it is done well."

"Well, you would know."

"And you."

"Me? What on earth are you talking about?"

"Maybe your brother has already told you. Has he?"

"You mean Monte?" I asked slowly. All this concentration was making my temples ache.

"Do you have ... others?" His brows snapped together into a thunderous line. He scowled down at me.

Others? What others? Did he mean other brothers? What was Miguel talking about now? For a moment, I wondered if he was having one of those demon fits that Lin-Fong had hinted at. He needed to be handled carefully. Very carefully. "No. Monte's my only brother. I only have him. Just me and him. It's been that way for a long time."

"A long time. I see. Excuse me. El gusto es mio. My pleasure." He stepped back suddenly, drawing his legs together and bowing. Then he moved into the crowd.

###

"Wait." The word poised on my lips. I wanted to throw my fan, hit him square between his broad shoulders. Knowing that a bunch of flimsy sticks and silk wouldn't be enough to stop Miguel. I needed a darn harpoon with a stout leading chain. Now that might do the trick. Maybe. Damn him. This had to stop. Where was he going now? I felt foolish, left alone on the fringes of the dance floor. I followed him at a distance, watching Miguel's progress. He was cutting a wide swathe through the partygoers. Paused briefly when his bookkeeper George suddenly appeared in his plain workaday clothes. He looked like a short brown sparrow quite out of place among the peacocks. George handed him a message, which Miguel read quickly. Then the men conversed for only a minute - no more - before George clicked his heels, bowed his head, and left the party.

Not even sparing him another look, Miguel continued toward the door. He moved easily through the crowd. His lean black back progressed past the burgundy, verdigris, and brightly brocaded bunch. Then he suddenly turned towards the right as if trying to meet or trying to avoid someone. He walked a little faster until Madeline stepped before him. She said something, smiled, and he nodded in return, touching her arm gently as he passed her by. Judas Iscariot. What had that been all about? I was dying to know, dying to not know. I heard my fan crack. I stared down at the broken shafts.

"They just don't make fans like they used to," confided a young woman whose heavily rouged cheeks made her look like she had erysipelas. Or an awful case of rosacea. Even her thick make-up couldn't disguise her bad skin. I wondered vaguely if she knew how comedogenic her make-up was, and how witch hazel and bearberry might be helpful. Otherwise she certainly seemed to care about her appearance: from the smart feather clipped by a diamond to her hair, to the matching reticule and slippers. Her gloved hands fluttered over her flounced lilac skirts, which were drowning in creamy white lace. More lace and chiffon were artfully layered and tucked over her neck, chest and broad shoulders. Fashion - it seemed - certainly had its uses. Disguise and enhance, as my aunt always said. Yes. This young woman seemed to understand that principle. "I see you're admiring my dress. Venetian, you know. Don't you love Venetian? Although I have a secret passion for Greeks."

"Sure," I agreed absently, not really knowing or caring what she was talking about. Lace, I think. I looked closer at her narrow knowledgeable eyes. There was something familiar about them. I couldn't quite place it. "I'm sorry. Do I know you from somewhere?"

"Oh la! It's possible. I can't think why." She snapped open her fan and gracefully began to wave it just under her eyes so that the rest of her was masked by a genteel flutter of painted lilac silk. And lace: Venetian, Greek or otherwise.

Who was she? It bugged me. I never forgot a face or a name, a definite advantage in my occupation. But somehow, I couldn't remember hers. No time to puzzle it out further. I needed to catch Miguel.

"Excuse me." I moved on, ignoring her insulted "Well!" On my way out of the room, I declined several invitations to dance, an offer of champagne punch, and other more unprintable offers. During all of my life, no one had ever paid me these type of attentions before. What an inconvenient time for them to start! I couldn't stop. Not for a moment. I was going to lose sight of Miguel.

It was like running an obstacle course full of bumper barrels. Who had invented this insane fashion? It was fine if you kept perfectly still, looking effete, but I wasn't. I was chasing after Miguel. I kept bumping into someone's hoop skirt, apologizing, then bouncing into someone else. Fortunately no drinks were spilled during my progress, but how I wanted my sensible split skirts right now. Or trousers. A good pair of trousers like Miguel's. Then I could really move. I compressed my skirts with both hands so that I could slip more easily between the other women. So what if my hoop tilted up in back or people gasped whenever I showed too much ankle? Couldn't be helped. I had too much work for social niceties right now. I was a woman on a mission.

This time would be different. I promised myself it would. I was probably the only doctor who had to wrangle her patient before curing him, but if I had to, I would. I wouldn't lose Miguel this time. Breathless, I finally reached the edge of the ballroom. Paused at the door, peered around. Miguel was at the other end of the dim hallway, then he disappeared through the very last door on the right. I glanced over my shoulder. No one was looking. So I picked up my skirts and ran softly down the corridor until I almost reached the final door. I stopped, just shy of the threshold when I heard men's voices. I pressed myself against the wall, was about to sneak a quick look, when I saw the mirror in a hideous rococo frame on the other side of the hall. In its reflection, I could see the entire room. Two older men sat around a gaming table. From the look of their brocade vests and hammered silver buttons, they were probably the kind that Madeline had offered to introduce to me. My social security. In fact, they were the men in Madeline's circle earlier tonight. One was portly, his leg propped up on a little ottoman. Gout, no doubt. And still drinking! A glass full of something golden brown rested at his elbow. I couldn't figure it out. Seemed like a no-brainer to me. A disease never upped and went away if you kept doing the cause of your disease. I wanted to march in there and chuck his liquor into that potted palm. I'd stick my nose next to his pug nose, and say, "Stop drinking!" His white face, which gleamed like a buttered dumpling, would probably turn indignantly red and apoplectic. His thumbprint eyes might even bulge out from the folds of his doughy face. Now that would be something.

No, probably not a good idea. At least, not right now. Thinking better of it, I restrained that impulse, and continued to survey the room. On the other side of the table sat a gaunt man with wisps of gray side whiskers growing from his cadaverous cheeks. One foot in the grave, indeed. And he appeared to be counting every parsimonious second of life he had left. Time was of the essence. Grunting, he stared down at his gold fob watch, closed the lid with a quick click, then slipped it back into his vest pocket.

They'd been waiting here a long time. On the table, a porcelain dish was already piled high with cigarette ash, and the surface was ringed with many watermarks from past imbibing. There was a third empty glass. And cards were still laid out: four face up with chips at their corners. The classic layout for Monte - real Monte, not the card con. I smiled to myself, remembering days on the dock when my brother and I might earn some food money that way. Either game was for suckers - or winners. I wondered which these men might have been. One looked too much like Santa Claus to play a good game. Now that Ichabod Crane fellow, he looked sharp. Maybe he'd been dealing this game. He stood near the pile of discards, one face up on top. It looked like ... I craned my neck. The Jack of Spades. Black Jack. My father's card, I thought. And later, my brother's. His trademark. Could be chance, a one out of fifty-two odds, or it could be ... oh, no. Monte himself. Not for the last time, I wondered what exactly my brother had been up to and how quickly he might have to leave town again.

The portly man picked up all the cards, and shuffled them. He laid them down again in neat pile. "Glad to see you, sir. You could say I am mighty glad, Don Cabrillo."

Miguel stood straight and tall, legs slightly apart and ready as if he were standing on a deck. My capitán . I knew him right away even though I could only see his back.

"Mister Hamilton. You called," said Miguel softly.

The fat man harrumphed, folding his sausage-like fingers across his wide chest. A diamond pinky ring sparkled under the gaslights. He waved a genial hand to an empty chair. "Sit, sit, my boy. Make yourself comfortable. All the standing in the world doesn't make anything happen a little faster. Not at all. And even if it did, what would you do with all that extra time?"

Miguel said nothing, only folding his hands in front of him. He waited.

"Yes, yes. Well, that don't make no never mind, does it?" continued the fat man. "You see, sir, I've been discussing this with Buckner here, and we have come to an unfortunate conclusion. Or fortunate for you, you might say. Fortunate for you. Don Cabrillo, I fear we need your help once more. Just got a report from General Beauregard. Dixie is holding strong, but the blockade is having its effect."

"Not an obstacle," said Miguel. "The Union navy. No matter." He lifted his shoulders in the slightest of shrugs.

The old men exchanged a pleased look. Buckner said, "The Confederacy needs the money."

"When?"

"Tonight."

"Too soon." Miguel shook his head once. "What kind of cargo?"

"Silver. Comstock silver. And ... gold," Buckner said.

"Mined or ... acquired?"

Buckner opened his mouth to continue speaking, but Hamilton cut him off with a sudden slashing motion of his hand. If it were possible, the fat man looked even more genial as if he'd just been offered a paying mine or a free month at a whorehouse. His jolly smile didn't fit the situation. Not at all. That incongruent kind of smile seemed real out of place like finding broken glass inside your candy all of a sudden. Such cruel cunning and unexpected pain under all that sugar. I didn't trust him - not by a long shot. So it disturbed me double when Hamilton only chuckled a long while. Finally he said, "Well, sir, I don't believe it rightly makes a difference to you, knowing the where's and whyfore's. No difference at'all. Does it?"

"No," said Miguel. "Only there is more risk involved if it's hot gold. Like the payload from the USS Columbia for instance. No one has moved it yet. There was lot of it, and gold is heavy. How much is your cargo worth?"

"A million dollars," admitted Hamilton.

Miguel nodded. "Then we'll need a stronger ship. Fast but strong. Well-armed."

Hamilton tapped the ends of his fingers together. "Just so, just so. Now tell me, sir. Don't be coy. May we once again rely on your terrifyingly efficient ... hospitality?"

Miguel slanted his head. "Tomorrow. Midnight. The usual fee. Up front. Beforehand."

"Fifty percent now, fifty when you complete the job," Buckner countered.

"No. All of it. Now. I do not need this job. You on the other hand ..."

"Unacceptable!" The small veins at Buckner's temples stood out sharply as if they were going to burst at any moment. "Why, that's unheard of! How do we have any assurance that you'll finish the job if we pay you off now?"

"My word, gentlemen." And the certain way Miguel said it left no doubt that they would do well to trust it. He didn't need any volume to make himself heard. Not at all.

Buckner paced around the room, his hands on his hips so that his elbows jutted out like a large gawky weathervane. He stopped suddenly. "And you ship guns and money for the Union as well. How do you think Uncle Sam might react if he knew that Cassam Shipping was assisting the rebel cause? That the famous Don Miguel Cabrillo was nothing more than a money-grubbing turncoat? Treason is punishable by hanging, you know."

Miguel remained still for a few seconds. Then at last, he turned his palms up, lifting one shoulder in another half-shrug. "Threats ... bore me. Threats have a way of returning to their sender. Be careful." He started to turn away.

"Wait a moment. Now wait a gosh-darned moment here. Let's not be hasty. Please, Don Cabrillo. Don't leave. You'll have to forgive Horace. He's a lawyer, and lawyers are natural born hagglers. We don't mean to quibble. Do we, Horace? Not at all, not at'all. Really, we're very grateful. We accept the terms." Hamilton removed the top from a cut crystal decanter, then splashed the liquor into his glass. "Care for some fine, fine Kentucky bourbon, Don Cabrillo? Miss Madeline keeps the best stock. Really and truly. It doesn't get much finer than this."

"No thank you."

"Well, I don't know, Hamilton. I don't rightly know. Don't know if I can trust a man who won't drink with us. Seems kind of shifty to me. Downright ungenerous, you might say."

"Come, come. It's all been a matter of misunderstanding. But it's cleared up now. After all, we're all gentlemen here. Let's not muddy the waters again. Shall we?" Hamilton refilled Buckner's drink, then pushed another glass to Miguel. He raised his own. "Let us seal the bargain. Gentlemen. To the deal!"

"Deal," muttered Buckner, looking suddenly sour and pinched as if his colon was complaining.

"Salud."

The men all raised their glasses and clinked them. Miguel tossed back his in two gulps. I shuddered, watching him, knowing that there'd be hell to pay in a few minutes. His liver was not going to be happy about this drink, and unhappy livers had a way of making their feelings well known. Miguel set the glass down again. Without another word, he crossed the room. He left through the back entrance. The French doors latched behind him. Click.

Cripes. Where was he going now? Into the garden. Not again. I'd lose him for sure. I picked up my skirts and ran the hell out of there.

###

The new moon was a faint silver mark in the sky. As soon as I left the warmth and light of the mansion, I was plunged into darkness. All the trees and shrubs were soft black shapes, and beyond that, was the rounded domed silhouette of a summerhouse. I put my hands out in front of me like a blind person. The blackness of the night felt almost thick enough to hold. How was I ever going to find Miguel here? I walked tentatively along the gravel path; away from the strains of dance music and into the near silence of the night. I could hear the crickets singing, and then there were my mortifying sounds. Crunch, crunch. Crrrrrrrunch. Drats. That gravel. Some spy I was. I tried to tiptoe, but there was no help for it. I was making a hell of a racket.

My noise was probably warning him a mile off. He could be good and gone by now. He was so slippery. Slippier than a wet uterosaccral ligament on a hot day under the operating room lights. Just wouldn't stay still long enough for me to get a good handle on him. Elusive, that's what he was. Where was Miguel now? I squinted into the inky black night. Couldn't see hardly a damn thing. Promised myself that I would start eating carrots the next day. Lots of them. My hand brushed against prickly branches, short leaves. A hedge. I circled around that. Wouldn't do to wander into the garden maze. I'd be lost forever. I turned back to the house, using it to orient myself. All right. Finished west. Try the next quadrant. Going south.

I walked faster, straining my ears for any sign of him: footsteps, retching, any sounds at all. How was I supposed to find him if I couldn't hear or see him? This was hopeless. I started jogging, scanning the area around me. There. To the left. What was that sound? Heart racing, I looked over one shoulder.

"Oof." I collided into someone head-on. Knocked the breath out of me. My face hit a hard chest. Long muscled arms wrapped around me. "Let me go! Let me go, I said. Right now." I spoke in my low growly surgeon's voice, the one I used when I meant business ... or else. But it wasn't working here. Whoever this was wasn't easily cowed like some squirrelly patient about to get stitches removed. This was a different person all together, someone who wouldn't listen to reason. More brawn than brains. I could tell by the hard planes and ridges of his restraining muscles. I was locked in. Completely. Knee-deep in trouble now and the level was rising fast. Time to shift to plan two. I was getting ready to stomp down on his arch or use my head to butt his chin, when his scent finally registered. Bay rum enveloped me just like his arms, and I felt him - all of him. Like a call and response, my body answered, suddenly remembering a sneaky seduction on his bed, a waltz not too long ago. An uncomfortable memory. Uncomfortable and inconvenient.

For him too, it seemed. His breath caught. "Niña."

That urgent soft voice. It was Miguel. My capitán. Relief and worry swirled uneasily inside me like oil and water. He seemed so familiar but completely different. Larger. Taller. More dangerous. It emanated from him - a strange and dark charisma. It frightened me thoroughly, the fine hairs raising on the back of my neck. I'd found him all right. Couldn't get much closer than this, and now that I was here, I didn't know what to do exactly. I swallowed hard. "How ... are you feeling?"

"Fine," he said automatically.

"Fine. Oh, right. You'd say that on your last gasp. You can't hide from me. Not forever. You were sick. Violently sick before the ball. What happened?"

He shrugged.

"Did Lin-Fong dose you with any medicine? Did you eat anything dark and oily?"

"Certainly not." He seemed to hesitate, then reluctantly said, "Bad food perhaps. The fish."

"No. I ate the fish too, and I'm fine. We ate all the same food." All the same except ... something was bugging me. Something in the back of my mind. I was trying to remember, but it slipped away again. No matter. I'd circle back around to it once I remembered. I always did. Right now I had other matters to take up with him. Abruptly I poked him in the right upper quadrant of his abdomen. He grimaced, his hand protectively rubbing the sore spot.

I stamped my foot. "See! Look at you. Just look. I can't believe you drank that liquor. With your liver! Idiot. You'll be puking six ways to Sunday. Maybe to the next Sunday after that. At least. Serves you right if you turn out looking like a lemon - all yellow. Amarillo Cabrillo."

A breath exploded from him as if he were surprised by my question. I couldn't tell. His face was still cloaked in shadows. Miguel took my arm and started walking back towards the mansion. The dance music grew louder with each step. Almost military precision. Beat after beat. More math than music. Another quadrille. And all of a sudden, I felt like a prisoner being marched back to prison. "Hey."

He ignored me. Cripes. The man kept dragging me from one place to another. Places I didn't want to go. Did he ever - just once - think of asking me? That might be a nice change. Then again, if he ever did, I might actually drop dead from surprise. Thonk. There. Right to the ground.

"Hey. Where are we going? I'm not going back in there. Not yet." I dug my heels into the ground so that gravel spurted out behind me. Crrrrunch. Clink-clack. Crunch. "We've got things to talk about. I mean it, Miguel. I'm not budging until we're done hashing this out. And I want some privacy to do it."

"Privacy."

"Yes. That's right."

"As you wish." He stepped off the garden path and deeper into the darkness. The man must have the eyes of a cat because he steered me around bushes - roses by the scent of them, trees, and strange frozen shapes. I reached out to touch them. Cool and hard. Felt like marble. Marble statues then. The grass shoosh-shooshed as the blades stuck and slipped away again from the soles of our shoes.

"Miguel ..."

He squeezed my arm in a silent warning, and then just ahead, I saw one shadowy shape suddenly sit up and separate into two shapes.

"Oh my." The woman sitting on the garden bench just patted her hair. Her companion jerked down his pants.

Cripes. Hastily I looked away from them towards the house. My cheeks flushed when we walked by the disheveled couple. Miguel remained calm and silent as if he saw this kind of thing every day. Maybe he had. Maybe he went to orgies and those Parisian peep shows everyone was always talking about. The thought sickened me. I shook my head. We'd walked twenty more feet before I said, "Can you believe that?"

Miguel turned to look at me.

"Impossible. Unbelievable. No sane woman should do it."

"It ... happens."

"Sure, yeah. But that garden bench. It's so narrow. Wrought iron, for Pete's sake. Pretty uncomfortable if you ask me."

"What?" He paused mid-step as if frozen by surprise. Then he resumed walking, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"I didn't crack a joke. What's so funny?" I had the sneaking suspicion he was laughing at me. I reached around and thumped my fist against his chest. Or tried to. He caught it easily, squeezed it, then brought it up to his lips. I could feel his short affectionate kiss through my glove. This time I jerked my burning hand away, but only because he let me go.

"So practical, niña," was all he said as we rounded another corner and approached the domed silhouette of the summerhouse, which was Madeline's pride and joy. A miniature version of the Crystal Palace, it boasted brass fittings and pane after pane of frosted glass. An army of servants must spend hours tending to this place. And inside, apparently, was Miss Madeline's prized orchid collection: all temperamental plants, requiring delicate care and just the right surroundings, she'd said. Right now, I wasn't sure if this was the ambience she'd meant, because the sounds drifting through an open window were pretty darn vigorous, each more rambunctious than the next.

It was high-pitched like a pig squealing. Then finally, after an agonizing second, the sounds shaped into real words. "Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh, Cornelius!"

I stopped dead in my tracks. Judas. "Not here too."

"Occupied."

"Well, obviously," I whispered, blushing as we turned around and walked away. "What is it with this place? I've never seen anything like this. Everyone is ... well, you know. Must be the Pisco punch. Maybe there's cantharides or something. Turning everyone into a frenzy of ... of ..."

"No. Not drugs," Miguel said quietly. He pointed to the moon.

"What? Not that! That old changing barometric pressure theory. Lunacy. Absolute lunacy."

"No. Some people just feel. Romance."

"Romance? Come on. That's something only in horrid novels. Didn't think you read those." I looked over my shoulder. "Besides, there's no one else here. Nobody you have to convince."

"No one?" Miguel gave me another of those cannonball looks - heavy and deadly. KaPOW. He seemed to be saying something with that look, only I had no idea what. Not for the last time, I wished that he came with an automatic translator, or that I was a mentalist. It would be so much easier, I thought, as we walked under an arbor, then by a fountain. Finally we stopped by the mouth of the boxwood maze.

"Here?"

"Yes." He pulled us into the entrance, then one foot into the dark shrubbery. The shadows engulfed us.

I couldn't see him at all any more, but I was aware of him - terribly aware - as if I could see all of him under the noon sun right now. His presence burned into me as clearly as his image on my retinas. Maybe it was the punch, hyping up all my senses; making me feel uncomfortable inside my own skin. But maybe it wasn't that drink at all. Maybe it was Miguel. The man himself. Unsure, I hung back on his arm. "I don't know if this is such a good idea."

"The house then."

"No. All right. We'll stay here," I said, reluctance slowing down my words. And somehow I felt like I was sealing my own fate. A convenient choice but a chancy one. High-rolling. And hoping.

Miguel let me go. He took a step backwards, folding his arms across his chest. Impervious again, the Don returning. "So you were spying on me. My meeting. How much did you hear?" He spoke matter-of-factly as if he'd already known all along I'd been there.

This was bad. Very bad. "Did you see me?"

Miguel nodded, the shadows shifting over his face. "Towards the end. The mirror. If you can see me, then I can see you."

"Yeah, yeah. Angle of reflection. Someone's darn law of physics. Wouldn't you know it? Physics always messes everything up." I said glumly. And I'd thought I'd been doing well up to this point. I was an amateur. A rank amateur. "Did the others see me?"

He sighed. "Don't think so ... Hope not."

"Great. Just great. Last thing I need are Confederates after me too," I muttered to myself.

"Too?"

"Never mind me. What about you? You were talking to those rebels. Are you pretending to be a blockade runner for Major ..." but I didn't finished. Couldn't. Because before I could say another word, Miguel suddenly grabbed my shoulders. He crushed me against him; his hand curving, cupping my head to meet his. Noses bumped in the dark. Our mouths touched, lips sliding hungrily against lips. Then one unsteady heartbeat later, he consumed me, absolutely swallowing the end of my sentence and any conscious thought I might have. Judas. I couldn't breathe. His kisses stole every last molecule of my air. His hands swept over me once, twice, each time more drugging than the next.

"Querida," he said thickly, loudly, breaking off. Then he whispered into my ear. "Two men. Approaching."

I automatically stiffened his arms. Men? Where? I hadn't heard them. No, wait. The clink of a watch fob. Footsteps. Yes, pausing now that the men had overheard us. But instead of leaving like we had left the other couple inside the summerhouse, they lingered somewhere near us as if waiting for a good show. Cripes. I froze. Completely.

Miguel was saying something heated in Spanish, in French as his hands molded me to him. He bent me over backwards, my pins falling plink-plop against the ground, my hair tumbling down. The hard jut of his hip pressed against me as he kissed me with enough fervor for two. Then his lips swept along my cheek, around my ear. He bit my lobe, kissed that too. He growled softly, "Make it real."

Oh. Pain, then a thick haze of pleasure covered me completely so that his words barely penetrated at all. All I knew was this strange feeling surging through me once more; such heat, such intoxication that the Pisco punch seemed like water, seemed like nothing at all. I kissed him back, shyly at first, then with more and more enthusiasm. Pretending wasn't as hard as I thought. My tongue danced along his; following just like the waltz earlier, sometimes even leading. I leaned closer into him, my body swelling with new needs. Somehow my hand slipped between us, inside his coat, then lower where his chest blended to slim hip, then lower still.

Then Miguel said passionately, "Mi corazón. Mi amor. Love me ... tonight ... forever."

"Mmmm," I said with no prompting at all.

He pulled me deeper into his arms, deeper into his dark passions, deeper into the maze; not caring how rough and careless we looked. In our haste, my skirts snagged on the bushes. Something ripped, the rent sound loud like a shot in the night. Startled, the crickets paused. It was very quiet all of a sudden. My breath caught when I heard the voices. They were close. Too close.

"Well, well, well," said Hamilton genially. "Maybe Don Cabrillo is more hot-blooded than he lets on. A lot more hot-blooded. Spanish, you know."

"And French," said Buckner. His watch clicked shut again as if he'd been timing our exit. "Mixed blood, you know."

"They'll be mixing something else. Soon, real soon. If you catch my drift. No wonder he didn't want to go tonight. Other plans. A rendezvous. Can't blame the man, Horace. Can't blame him at'all. Quite a looker. A real fine filly. Long legs by the look of her. Good fetlocks. Bet she runs a good race. The full four lengths." The men chuckled as they walked on.

The crunching of gravel gradually faded into the distance as we kissed some more. Deeper, longer. It was never enough. Each taste led to another. Each touch made me ache for more. Miguel was saying something to me, but I wasn't sure what. I couldn't hear right now. Only felt this. And this. I ran my hand along the silk lining of his vest to the fine cambric shirt below. Jerked it up, out, then touched his flat belly to where a thin line of hair thickened then disappeared below his waistband. I followed it until his fingers tangled with mine.

"Niña." His voice sounded smoky, and underneath our twined fingers, his stomach jerked with each gasp as though he'd been running hard and for a long time. "They're gone."

"So?"

"No. Listen to me. They're gone. We can ..." His Adam's apple bobbed convulsively. "We can stop. Now."

I had trouble - real trouble - understanding. Then finally his words sank in. "Why? Why should we stop?"

"Because." He repeated his "No" even as his body moved in a clear "Yes."

"What's wrong? Don't you want me?"

Something flared in his eyes, but by the time he blinked, it was gone again. Then his arms suddenly tensed as if he were getting ready to push me away from him. "I don't share," he gritted out. "The others ..."

"There you go again. What others? There aren't any others. There never has been. I've never ... well, you know."

"You? Innocent? This is no game. Not any longer. Don't lie, niña. The time for pretend is over."

"I'm not pretending. Oh, why am I even talking with you? You never listen to me. Maybe you'll listen to this." My skirts were pinned between his strong legs, so I did the only thing I could. I dropped down and kissed him there. Tasted his fingers, the salty skin of his stomach, then lower. Much lower. Groaning, he lept beneath the fine wool of his trousers, the placket in front. Once, twice, he moved towards me.

I looked up at him. His head was tilted back, his body trembling as if he were holding fast against some invisible storm; trying to keep some vestige of control. "Nikita. Stop. Now ... Please."

I turned my head against his thigh. The wool felt soft next to my cheek, his muscles - hard. Such tension. It was terrifying ... and thrilling. "For your sake? Or mine?"

"Cristo." The curse came out as a sigh. "For both our sakes," he admitted at last. He looked down at me, his hand running through my hair. His thumb lingered along my eyebrow, cheekbone, then traced circles in the hollow underneath. "If you don't stop, I don't know if I can, querida."

"Then don't," I said simply. "I want this. You want this. We both do. There's no better reason, is there? This is right. I know it is. Should I seduce you this time? I don't know how, but I could try. I'm a quick learner."

With a soft sound, he fell to his knees beside me so that we knelt together, facing each other, holding hands in the soft grass of the garden. His lips hovered near mine, close enough to kiss. His breaths brushed against my face. I counted each one, committing them to memory. I wanted to remember them, the smell of him, everything about this first time. And this time when our lips touched, it felt very sweet and soft. All the passion from before unfolded like a flower into tenderness. Petal by petal, it drifted over me, undoing me completely until I lay open: exposed, quivery, eager.

"Show me. Show me everything," I whispered.

And so he did.

###

A long delicious time afterwards, I lay with my head on Miguel's chest (left thoracic, two to seven). I listened to his heart slow down from its erratic wildness to a measured beat. Steady, sure, something to count on. Just like him, I suppose. Around us, the crickets were still singing their nightly serenade. The fountain tinkled softly. Miguel absently twirled a lock of my hair around his finger, then let it go again. I looked up at him. His face seemed more serious than usual; as if he were puzzling over a difficult problem, one he couldn't easily solve. It seemed to disturb him.

"You okay?" I whispered.

His fingers stopped mid-twirl. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Sure," I said cheerfully. "You can."

He kissed the top of my head. Maybe that was his way of asking.

"I'm fine. More than fine. Relieved actually."

"Relieved?" His body quickly shifted to one side so that he could look down at me. He was frowning.

"Sure, yeah. Relieved. Big time. I mean it! I was dreading this. Waltzing is so hard, and I'm so clumsy. But this ... this was easier. Much easier. Better than dancing. At least with this, I didn't step on your toes or anything. I mean, I don't think I did. Did I hurt you?"

"I'm fine." His frown deepened. "And you?"

"Oh. Well, just a little. Nothing worth speaking of. In fact, it's a nice kind of achiness. And I feel warm and golden all over. Like I just swallowed the sun and it's still glowing inside me. It's wonderful. Is it always this wonderful?"

"No." He seemed to think hard for a moment longer. Then he admitted, "Not like this. Never."

"Never for you? Really? Then, Miguel, this is like the first time for you too. That's ... I don't know." Feeling a little teary, I watched the confusion play over his face. So maybe - just maybe - that was his dilemma. He didn't know how to handle this. It was all new uncharted waters for him too. He had no maps, no experience to guide him. And suddenly, I felt even more wonderful. I didn't think it was possible, but I did. Absolutely wonderful. "Of course, it could be that Pisco punch. Everyone else seemed motivated tonight. Did you have any? Any at all? Your glass was full all night."

He looked warily at me.

"Don't worry. I won't scold you. As a doctor, I should. As your ... well, what am I? No matter. Whatever I am, I promise I won't scold. Tell me the truth."

His lips twitched. "The truth? Then, no. I did not."

"Ha! Then you don't have any excuse."

"I don't need one. I have ... you."

"You do?" The answering look he gave me made me tremble inside.

"Yes, querida. I do. But I don't know what to do ... with you. You surprise me."

"Good."

"No, it's bad. Very bad. For both of us." He scowled.

"Well, I disagree, but that's okay," I continued, ignoring his uneasiness. I wasn't going to let it bother me. Nothing could bother me right now. No use arguing with a rock-headed man. Geocephalic, that's what he was. Granite. One hundred percent granite. He would learn. "Tell me something."

He silently stroked behind my ear for awhile, then rested his temple against the top of my head. His sigh brushed against me. "If I can."

"Well, I've always wondered. I mean, Lily's girls are always talking shop. Half the time, they're kidding around. But half the time, they're serious. Like the time Mirabelle had to cover a guy with currant jelly and lick it off his toes. All of them. Yuck. I'm always hearing something ... and I wanted to know: can you do this?" I leaned up and whispered my suggestion into his ear. Felt him jerk with surprise. Then eventually he smiled. It was a lovely lazy unguarded smile, lighting his eyes from within until they looked almost golden-green like sun on new leaves.

"Ah. Yes. We can." He stretched so that all his muscles rippled underneath me, stirring an altogether different kind of feeling: shivery but warm. Then he suddenly lifted me until I straddled him, my skirts rucking up between us. Startled, I slid down. He caught me with his hands and his undulating hips. "You mean ... this?"

"I think ... Oh." My head fell backwards, my body gliding forwards. His pants chafed my thighs, but I didn't care because what felt warm turned warmer, then hot. Unbearably hot. Sparking hot. Dear God. "Am I ...?"

"Yes. Perfecto." He was watching me from underneath his hooded eyes, gauging my reactions to his actions, his heated instructions. And from that tug at the corner of his mouth, I could tell that he knew how I was feeling. He knew how to ratchet those feelings a degree higher, then several degrees more. He shifted; searching deeper between my layers, finding, coaxing, then showing me how he felt too. A caress here, another kiss there were more expressive than a thousand words. He was very inspiring. Naturally inspiring, you might say.

He pushed me higher, farther, inch by unbearable inch until I didn't think I could take another second longer, knowing that in another blinding instant, it would all cascade inside me, around me, around us both. I was intoxicated, but it had nothing to do with the punch. It was something else altogether. Worse than cocaine, opium, and demon rum combined. Something far more dangerous and addictive. You see, I was half-drunk on a different potion. A very potent potion named Don Miguel.

###

"Come, querida." His soft words burred in my ear. He sounded so completely different than that convulsive groan just moments ago. Had that been him? Me? I wasn't sure. It hadn't sounded like either of us, and I didn't feel like me at all: all languorous and lazy like I'd melted in the sun. Every single bone dissolved. I was a puddle of a woman. This was bliss. And a revelation. No wonder people risked everything to do this, to feel this way. Maybe it wasn't lunacy after all. It was are marvelous mystery. Far more mysterious than diagnosing a retroceccal appendicitis; far more intriguing. And I was only beginning to unravel it all. I couldn't wait to find out more. I was fascinated, my body humming all over.

"Hmmm. Can't move," I whispered, trying to stretch but failing. Where had my hands gone? They seemed to have disappeared. "Maybe later. Much later. 'kay?"

"No, niña. Now." Miguel rearranged his clothes, then kissed me softly, encouraging me to sit but I couldn't. Not yet. My spine seemed to be missing still. I lay there as he refastened my gown with an expertise that should have annoyed me but didn't. I was too drugged to feel much of anything at all. "Your hair. Not enough pins. No matter." He lifted me so that I was half-sitting, half-leaning against him. He scooped up and twisted my hair into a simple chignon. When Miguel was done, he kissed the nape of my neck.

I leaned into the feel of his warm mouth, and he obliged me with another. Then his head suddenly swung up, alert like a wolf scenting danger. He turned sharply behind us, placing two cautioning fingers across my lips. By then, I heard it too: more footsteps. A man's brisk stride, a lady's swaying gait. Petticoats swished, then stopped near the fountain on the other side of the maze. Underneath the hedges I could see a lilac skirt and slippers. And lace, Venetian lace glowing silvery white in the scant moonlight. It was the fashionable young lady from the ballroom.

"This is dangerous," she said in a breathy, excited voice. "Oh la! I know. Stop talking. Talking is dangerous. You want me to put my mouth to better use. You see, I already know. You've taught me so well."

Her skirts rustled. Cloth whispered open. The man grunted as if pleased. After that there were no more words, just the unmistakable sounds of wet suction. Carnivorous. Impersonal. Rude.

It disgusted me. Made me feel dirty, almost obscene by association. It reminded me of us, making me reevaluate everything. And what had seemed beautiful and golden just minutes ago turned ugly and grotesque now. It tarnished my moment with Miguel, sickening me all the more. Had we been like that? After the first seconds, I couldn't bear to listen. But we couldn't leave without being discovered ourselves, so I only covered my ears and turned my head into Miguel's chest. His arms protectively surrounded me. I closed my eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Then finally, a few miserable moments later, Miguel squeezed me. I cautiously opened my eyes. From underneath the hedges I could barely see two slippers standing far away from two boots. An ostrich feather lay neglected on the ground. It was broken in the middle as if it had been violently trampelled. I swiveled, looking up at Miguel.

"Done," he mouthed silently. His face looked grim. Absolutely grim as we listened to the other side of the maze.

Over the splashing of the fountain, was the long sc-c-c-cratch of a match, then a sudden hiss of flame. I could smell Turkish tobacco, bitter and thick.

The young lady purred, "Well, major?"

"Satisfactory," said Paul Wolfe. "Very satisfactory."

###

It was that strange in-between time when the night was fading but the day hadn't begun yet. The pale moon touched the tops of the buildings, and the air was chilly. Gratefully I wrapped my Kashimir shawl tighter around me while Miguel and I entered the carriage house. The lanterns cast a soft golden light.

"No one said anything to us."

Miguel lifted an eyebrow, seeming unconcerned. He barely shrugged.

"I see. They know better."

"No."

"Well, no matter what the reason is, I'm impressed by the way you steer through a crowd. No barrier reefs. Full steam ahead. Smooth sailing. Remind me to follow right behind you if there's ever a fire." I only needed to walk a few feet past the entrance because our landau was already hitched up. Miguel was quickly checking the reins, then the wheels. "Oh. They're ready. How did that happen?"

"Xi knows." Miguel held out his hand. I took it, picking up my skirts with the other hand, and hefted myself into the carriage. My dress poofed around me. I felt like a meringue cake stuffed into a box two sizes too small.

"Well, where is Xi?"

"I sent him away," said a cold clipped voice from the shadows.