Wolfe, the devil himself. I froze. Miguel didn't seem surprised by the major's appearance. He said nothing at all. He only mounted the carriage in one smooth move, then transferred the reins to both hands. "Later," said Miguel.

"Now." Wolfe grabbed the horse's bridle. He turned his cold eyes on me, and for one terrible moment, I thought he knew everything. Every last detail as if he could read it on my face. But no. He was looking a trifle impatient, nothing more. He'd be gloating if he knew the truth. "Well? Have you cured Don Cabrillo?"

"He says so," I replied.

"I'm fine," said Miguel at the same time. He raised the reins. "Excuse us." And somehow, the way he said it sounded more like a command than some vague politesse. The horses stamped their feet, but Wolfe held his ground, keeping the horses' heads down. Miguel only said, "The rest does not concern her."

"Oh, I don't mind. Just pretend I'm not here."

"Nikita doesn't mind. You heard her," said the major.

Miguel looked from me to the major, then at some far spot beyond the open doors into the night. There was a faint vertical crease between his eyebrows. "No."

"So protective," mocked Wolfe. "Haven't you learned anything by now?"

Miguel said, "Your point?"

The major's lips pressed together. "The point is that tonight the USS Chesapeake made it safely past the local raiders. Washington will finally get its gold. Our first success in months. Congratulations."

"Not finished," said Miguel.

"You are. Case closed. We know who's been leaking the shipping information. Your office, it turns out."

Miguel shook his head once. "Impossible."

"No, you're wrong. It was possible. You were just too close to the situation to see it. It was George all along."

"George!" I exclaimed, thinking of the kindly bookkeeper. He always had peppermints to give the children and was unfailingly polite to me. "You're kidding. Why, it couldn't be. He wouldn't harm a fly."

Wolfe turned to me. "I don't need you to give me a character reference. What do you know? You're hopelessly naive about people. Like your father. You don't know a thing about the real world. So keep out of it. My men say that George has skipped town. Tonight. Looks suspicious. Damn suspicious to me. And he's stolen money. Lots of money. From you, Don Miguel."

Miguel's spine tightened up as if he were holding something back. His flat voice betrayed none of that tension. "You checked my accounts."

"Of course. I leave no stone unturned. None. I never know what secrets I might discover. I never know how useful they might be."

"Even on your own agents. That's ... that's despicable. Aren't you busy enough as it is?" I said, rounding in on him. The major was misnamed. He wasn't a wolf at all. He was a hyena, living off carrion and waste. How could anyone live like that? He rooted for weaknesses just to exploit them, then used them to destroy people. It was everything I was against. "Maybe you should spend more time doing ..."

"Niña," interrupted Miguel before I could mention anything about garden activities or ladies in lilac. He shook his head warningly. Clicking his tongue, he gave the reins a short hard jerk. The carriage moved forward, barely missing the major's boots. It was a near call. Far too near for comfort.

###

Afterwards Miguel and I were completely silent during the short carriage ride home. We sat next to each other, not even touching. Strangers almost, once again. I couldn't even bare to look at him. When we reached the casa, I picked up my skirts, and hopped down without waiting for his arm first.

"Niña."

Ignoring him, I stormed into the house, down the hallway and into the bedroom, then the dressing room. Slammed the door behind me. Bother. I'd forgotten. It was late - or early - depending on your point of view, and Lin-Fong was probably fast asleep by now. I reached around, wishing that my shoulders were double-jointed, but even my contortion wasn't successful. I managed only the first few hooks in back. The rest were beyond my reach. Reluctantly I opened the door again, and walked back into the bedroom.

Miguel was laying across the bed in his open shirt and trousers. His feet were bare. He held a pillow over his stomach, and from its rapid rise and fall, I could tell that he was breathing too fast. There was a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. He was staring stonily at the ceiling.

"Don't tell me you're fine. You're not. A blind woman could see that. Now do you need to vomit?" I asked, suddenly calm, checking his pulse. Regular. Not thready. Good.

He gave a short uncomfortable laugh. "Cristo! I have thrown up all my life without your capable help. I do not need it now." He paused, licking his bottom lip. "Thank you anyway," he added as if just remembering his manners.

"Hmmm." I walked over to my apothecary chest and opened it. Turned my back on Don Miguel so he couldn't watch me uncap the different vials and pour the tinctures into a glass. I stirred the medicine vigorously with a glass rod, then walked back to the bed. I thrust the glass at him. "Here you go. What's that thing you always say? Salud!"

He looked suspiciously at the drink. "What is it?"

"Truth serum. If you drink it, you will suddenly be compelled to tell me the whole truth all the time. No more Mister Big Silent Man."

"Me?" Something glimmered in his eyes.

"You bet."

He gave a short laugh, but he still didn't take the glass from me.

"Come on, come on. Do I have to pinch your nose and make you chug it down? I do that with kids sometimes. Adults are like kids. Only worse, because they're bigger. Drink it, Miguel. Now. Or else ..."

"Or else what?" He folded his arms.

"I won't give it to you orally. I'll give it to you another way."

"No shots."

"What? Afraid of needles? A big tough hombre like you? Well, you're off the hook. Just so happens that I wasn't thinking of shots."

His eyes widened. "No. Not ... there. You wouldn't."

"Would." I nodded slowly. "It's not pleasant, but it's effective. Gets the stuff in where it's needed, you know. It's the end results that count, right? Remember what you said the other day? 'Whatever it takes'. Well, I have my own version. Whatever's medical necessary. And you, mister, look like you medically need something. Need it now. Bad. So you can make it easy or hard. Which is it going to be? Tell you what. If you're a good boy and just drink it, then I won't tell you 'I told you so'."

He finally took the glass from me. Tilted it this way, then that, staring at the bottom. He swirled the medicine around.

I was losing patience. "All right, already. Drink it, will you? It won't kill you." More gently, I added, "It will make you feel better."

"How much?"

"A lot. A whole lot. Just some milk thistle for your liver. Licorice for flavor." I watched him raise the glass to his lips, take a quick cautious sip. He paused, assessing, then drank a bit more. "Oh, and opium to settle your stomach."

He immediately stopped drinking. Glaring at me, he pushed the glass away. "Opium! No."

I pushed it back. "Very weak derivative. It won't make you lose control or forget things. It's not strong enough for that. But it will make you feel better. I promise. Trust me. Come on. I'll do anything."

"I suppose you will stand there until I finish it."

"Absolutely. No mouthing it and spitting it out later. I've seen that trick too. Please, Miguel." I hesitated, then touched the hand that still held his glass. With one finger, I tapped it. "For me. I care about you."

He studied me carefully. "I rather think ... you do. I do not know why."

Either did I, but I wasn't going to answer his question. He finally finished the last of his medicine, grimacing slightly at the bitter dregs. Then he set the glass on the table.

"Good. I'm glad I didn't have to wrestle you down. I mean ..." I faltered when he lifted one sardonic brow. "Oh, never mind. I hope you feel better. The medicine will help you sleep."

"I do not need help with that." He sat up and swung his feet over the bed.

"Where are you going?"

Miguel pointed down, turning his finger around.

Complying, I spun around. I lifted my hair, and showed him my back. "Oh? So you don't need help."

"No. I know another remedy." He nimbly unhooked my dress so that it fell away from my shoulders, my false bravery falling with it. I caught my dress, pressed it to me, then immediately felt foolish. What was the point of concealing anything now? It was just the human body, just bones and flesh. And he had already touched or tasted me, right? But it felt different to be standing there, no longer hidden by the night. I'm sure the soft gaslight was kind but it was nowhere as concealing. Suddenly I felt exposed and not a little nervous.

Wait. This was ridiculous. No time to be faint-hearted. Not me. Not now. Part of me wanted him to see me. All of me. I wanted this as much as I longed to see all of him. Now or never. Just do it. Trembling a little, I finally let the dress peel off me. Then my fingers tangled with Miguel's over the tapes on the hoop petticoat.

"Sorry. Oh. I'm not used to this."

"Let me," he said gently. One quick jerk and he freed me, proceeding to untie the other under petticoats that fell with a fine shoosh to my feet. Next he lay his palms on either side of my spine. The way he ran a hand along the edge of my corselette made the black silk taffeta rustle and my skin prickle. I felt so sensitive that even the lace trim tortured me. He quickly found the knot at the bottom, untied it, and eased the lacings. Air rushed into my chest, and I feel a little lightheaded. "Better?" he murmured.

"Yes," I gasped. I took my first full breath since the early evening. It felt divine. The dizziness subsided, replaced by another feeling altogether. No, that was selfish. How could I? And then there was that last disastrous encounter in the garden. The memory still made me queasy. Ducking my head, I stepped a safe distance away from the bed. I slipped the corset off my waist, massaging the sore spots where the metal ribs had dug into me.

" 's okay?" He took off his shirt, trousers.

"Yes." I still looked away.

"What is it, niña?"

"Nothing." I started to walk towards the dressing room. "I'll just go get a nightgown," I mumbled, head down. Another fit of modesty - or common sense - had seized me once again. "Do you want a dressing gown or anything?"

"No. Nada."

I couldn't bear the amused assurance in his voice. With all his experience, I felt at a distinct disadvantage. It bothered the hell out of me. "Fine. Whatever. Okay." As I passed him by, his hand snaked out and grabbed my arm.

He drew me to him. He leaned over and kissed my collarbone through the sheer fabric of my chemise. Then he took the front bow between his teeth and pulled the ribbon undone. He nudged the chemise aside with his nose until it hung precariously by my shoulders. Then that too at last fell to the floor. "Nada for you too."

"What? No way. I'll freeze to death."

"I'll keep you warm." He started to demonstrate, but I jerked away.

"Miguel! No, I mean it." I pushed my hand across his chest. A mistake. The feel of him made my weak-kneed. "We can't. You're sick."

"Not that sick. Maybe you should ... check me. Thoroughly." His smile was faint but roguish as he moved close, then closer still. A lock of hair fell across his forehead. I brushed it back. Considered. He did look in shockingly good health all of a sudden.

I eyed him suspiciously. "Well, maybe I should. You're not trying to get out of something else, are you? My medicine is good, but it doesn't work that quick. Nothing does."

He kissed me behind my ear. "I disagree. I am restored. Must be your ... medicine. Besides, you promised."

"I did not!"

"You said you'd do anything."

Caught. I had. So help me, I had. I bit my lip.

He sat down again on the bed, pulling me on to his lap. His arm held me loosely. "Tell me, querida. Something's changed. What is it?"

"I ..." Chickening out, I hid my face in his shoulder. "In the garden ... were we like that? Youknow."

Miguel seemed to think for a moment. "Do you mean ... the major? Is that what is worrying you?"

I nodded, shuddering. "I don't want us to be like the major and that lady."

"We aren't. We can't be. There is no comparison. What you heard - that was ... sex. Just sex. A function. It satisfies one need. That is all. It never lasts. I would know." For a moment, he stroked my hair, carefully smoothing it down across my back as if he needed to do something while he searched for the right words. "But we are different. This is different ..." He took a deep breath. Held it for a moment like he was still deciding whether or not to speak. Yes or no. Shaking the dice, waiting to roll ... Finally he did. He added, "What we make together is different. We have this." He kissed my palm and placed it on his heart. Then he reached over and touched mine. "And that makes all the difference in the world."

"Oh." I gave him a teary smile, feeling touched by his tenderness. "Are you ...? Are you sure?"

"Still skeptical? No matter. Come to bed. Let me convince you."

###

The only thing less predictable than playing craps is predicting the weather. Even with all the new inventions, it's really no better than licking your finger and sticking it in the wind. Sometimes you can see weather from a long way off. But mostly it hits you before you even know it. Then bam, there you are in the middle of a storm.

Take tonight, for instance. One moment I was all cozy, Miguel wrapped around me. Then the next moment, cold air stabbed my side like the knife of a good no'wester. Its icy breath blew down my hip, leg, to the tip of each frozen toe. Shivering, I rocked side to side. Each toss was deeper, steeper, worse than the last. This was a howler. A real howler. We were in it for the long haul.

"Strike mainsheet." Someone was shouting terse orders. Loud. Pitched to carry across the chaotic deck, over the wind's shrieks. "Now. Batten down hatches."

Judas Iscariot. Better get a good grip. Flailing in the dark, I reached out. Grabbed something. It felt hard, then it curved into the smooth knob of the malleolus, the tendons flexing around it. An ankle moving, kicking off the sheets; even higher - a muscled calf with a wide scar, which rippled as the leg almost danced over the mattress.

Mattress? My fuzzy mind argued with my fingers, the contradictory information clashing like the storm overhead. Didn't make sense. Why was I sailing on a mattress? But where else could I possibly be? I was being pitched left, right. Almost over the side that time. Whoa. And then gradually, it came to me. I wasn't sailing in Miguel's ship. I was laying in his bed. Not a ship. And the storm was him. Had to be. What the hell was he doing?

My eyes flickered open, adjusting to the dim gray of the room. Miguel was standing in the middle of the bed. The sheets were twisted into a rope, and he was pulling on one end. Was he dreaming? Sometimes people walked, rode horses, did all kinds of crazy things in their sleep. But I checked his face.

He seemed awake. His eyes were wide like saucers, his mouth twisted in a silent scream. My breath caught. I had never seen such terror and certainly never on his face. It snapped me to my knees. I reached up. Caught his arm. "Miguel."

His head whipped around, his horror magnified. "Nikita! Get below. Now. Do it."

"But, Miguel ..."

"Now. I said now! Damn you!" he shouted in a voice I'd never heard before. He shoved backwards with his elbow. My head snapped back. I fell to my side.

Ow. Right in the jaw. That one was going to turn into a real beauty. I could tell already. But compresses later. It wasn't time for comfrey and witch hazel. It wasn't my time right now. It was time for Miguel. He needed me.

"No," I said stoutly, getting up again. I grabbed hold of the sheet trailing behind him. Maybe if I humored him. He looked frenzied enough as it was. Didn't need to stir the pot more. "I'll help. You need my help."

"Your help," he muttered. "Should not. Not right. High seas. Could sweep her overboard. Protect her. Protect the ship."

"We can do this. We can do this together. Come on, Capitán. Save the ship." I tugged experimentally on the sheet.

"Si. The ship." Quickly he turned, wrapped the sheet around me, him, then knotted it firmly into a bowline. He turned around again: letting the sheet go slack, then heaving, releasing, heaving, over and over again.

"I can't see. It's pitch black. Tell me. What do you see?" I whispered, trying to match the rhythm of my pulling to his. I slipped on the mattress. Bumped into his back.

Miguel grunted. "Weather. Since five bells. Mast weak. Hear it, niña?"

"Yes." The bed frame creaked. Again and again, the old wood groaned. "It's a bad one, all right. Happen often along this route?"

"Yes. Every night. All night. No sleep. The men ... are tired. So tired." He leaned hard to one side, and the bed groaned even louder. "Madre de dios. The mast! It's giving way." He turned sideways, grabbing my waist, and jumped off the bed.

We fell. Hard. My head smacked against the floor. Stunned, all I could do was roll over and over with him, the bed sheets cocooning around us. Tight. Then tighter.

"Kelp," he mumbled, trying to kick us free of the linens. "Tangled up. Waves. We'll drown."

I was on the bottom. Wouldn't you know it? Miguel pinned me down. Why hadn't I noticed how heavy he was before? He was squishing me. His knee pressed into my belly. Cripes. Maybe I wasn't drowning, but I sure couldn't breathe right now. I groped around us for a loose corner of the sheet. "Got it," I wheezed, unwrapping the end. I reached up and between his knees. Jerked the sheet from underneath one leg. It pulled tighter, squeezing his calf, then snapped away.

"Shark!" He froze for a moment, then kicked hard. Once, twice. Then settled into a strong steady flutter kick, which freed the last of the sheet. He pushed me in front of him. "Show no fear. Act strong. They only attack the weak. Keep kicking. Keep swimming." Sweat was running off his face, his back, as he thought he was swimming, somehow staving off an attack, somehow protecting me. It was horrible to watch him: the naked fright on his face, his muscles straining with the effort. As far as he was concerned, this was all too real, swept up in some kind of waking nightmare of the mad. This had to stop. Humoring him wasn't working at all. It was just making him worse. I had to reach him somehow.

"Miguel."

"Swim, niña. Faster. Almost there."

"Miguel, there's no shark."

"No?" He stopped, mid-kick. Confusion flashed across his face.

"No, my dear. None." I touched his jaw, his shoulders. "Listen to me. You're safe. We both are."

"Díablo! Safe. She says it is safe." Suddenly he rolled on to his back, one arm flung over his face. For one long minute, his chest continued to heave, the sound of his harsh gasps filling the room. Gradually his breathing quieted. Then his mouth twisted. "Nikita?"

"I'm here. Listen. Stay with me."

"What? What ... is happening?" His arm dropped to the ground, and I could see everything now that once his cool competent mask had been ripped away. Fear, confusion, a growing awareness. Then he looked terribly angry - maybe at his mind's own betrayal. All those emotions - usually hidden - were Miguel too. Another side I had never seen before. My heart ached for him. I sat next to him, my hands holding him. He seemed to see me now. "Niña?" His shoulders dropped forward. "Where are we?"

"Your bedroom. We're home. Not on a ship. Home."

Mumbling, he repeated my words. "Home." The sound ruffled through my hair. He sighed, almost - but not quite - relaxing. He was settling down. I sat back, my own muscles aching from our fall, from fighting him.

Then he tensed again. He seemed to see something past me. He stared at it, disbelieving, struggling. Another spasm of terror crossed his face. "Behind you! The wall ... no, it's a wave. Crashing topside. We're going down. Quick. Big breath." He jerked upright, then leaned forward as if diving into something. His head butted into my chest.

I pushed him down to the floor again. Threw my body over his. I tried to press myself, press what was real into him. He fought me at first, but I held on to him. "Look at me." Shook him once, twice. "Look into my eyes. Miguel, I'm here."

He seemed to grab on to my voice as if I were a lifeline. I kept talking to him and his struggling gradually slowed down. The fits became shorter, the periods between them longer. I held him for a long time, kneading the muscles around his neck, shoulders. He was so tight that I could almost feel each fasciculation. His gaze still seemed foggy as though clarity only peeked past the breaking patches of madness. But with each second, the clear periods lengthened until finally I looked into his eyes and saw him - all of him - again. His lids were already half-mast. All the struggling must have worn him out. He opened his mouth to speak but he froze. Then his half-word ended on a snore. His head rolled to one side.

Miguel was sprawled on the floor. Asleep. Dead asleep. But peaceful at least. I didn't want to disturb him. I couldn't even if I'd wanted to. He was far too heavy for me to move by myself. So I wearily got up and pulled the blankets off the bed. Then I lay down next to Miguel on the floor. I covered us up. I snuggled closer to him. He was like a long tall hot water bottle. Should have felt cozy but it didn't. I was too worried. His demons had been powerful indeed, had taken me totally by surprise. Turning, I watched him sleep, his eyelashes like a thick brown fringe against his cheekbones. I should have felt sleepy but I didn't. I couldn't. Sleep was a stranger to me that night. Almost as the strange as the green-eyed capitán sleeping within my arms.

###

Wrapped in my shawl, I sat on the floor and watched the dawn fill the bedroom with its soft lavender-gray light. I cradled Miguel's head in my lap. He still slept, but he was shifting more and more as if he was already traveling through those lighter stages, consciousness just around the corner. Still, it was relatively peaceful compared to earlier. Now his face looked younger, relaxed; instead of the fear from before or his usual sternness. So Lin-Fong had been right after all. I hadn't believed her, never would have guessed what demons had been lurking behind that cool handsome face. Never in a million years.

I'd met insane people before. They lived in their own complete worlds: some horrible, some far kinder than the world we all in lived in - like Emperor Norton, for instance. But something seemed a little different here. Unlike the emperor, Miguel didn't live permanently in his crazy world of storms and waves-that-were-walls. Most of the time, he acted normally. He even seemed to know when he was slipping back into that other world. He'd been horrified by it. Did crazy people know when they're turning crazy? Not that I remembered. The patients I'd tended in the asylums were unaware of anything else. They didn't seem to know any better, and maybe that was a blessing in itself. Maybe it was a blessing that Miguel only briefly visited that crazy place in his head. But Judas! What if Miguel sailed there one too many times, and couldn't return back? Marooned in his madness like his cousin Pedro.

My poor Miguel. I hoped not. I willed it not to be so as I watched over him. He was stirring now. His lids finally opened. And his eyes were clear and direct - much to my relief. No mental fog at all. He looked oriented.

"Buenas dias," he said quietly.

"Good morning. Do you know who I am?"

His mouth tugged at one corner. "Of course, querida."

"And where are you?"

He scanned my face, his own softening with wonder as if he couldn't believe he was here within my embrace. He pressed his face against my arm like he was reassuring himself. "Heaven," he said at last. "Must be."

"Good answer." I leaned over and kissed his forehead. He tilted his chin up, angling for a different kiss all together. I obliged. A short diagnostic one. Hmm. Tasted just like him, nothing else. Not sweet. No ammonia smell. Both good signs. He seemed to recognize me all right, was even acting appropriately (enthusiastically appropriate, I had to admit!) but why were his pupils so large? When we stopped kissing, I looked lower. Now Miguel was frowning at me. Cautiously I tried to smile back. "What's wrong?"

"You."

"Don't be silly. What about me?" Cripes. Had he caught me examining him? Or maybe he was on the verge of another bout. I braced myself. Try to act normal. Calm. Reassure him. I adjusted my smile so that it looked more sincere, less forced.

Miguel reached up and touched the bruise on my jaw. Yeow. I flinched, drawing back.

His scowl deepened. "Who did this?"

Not for the last time, I wished that I could lie worth a damn. But I couldn't. I couldn't think of anything. Nothing but the truth. Aghast, I could only stare back at him.

"Tell me," he said.

"Well, you did. Last night."

"Me?" Surprise filtered through his eyes. He seemed completely puzzled.

"You hit me. It was an accident. On the bed. You thought ..."

"The ship," he interrupted tersely, understanding clearing his face at last. His lips pursed. "Cristo. You were there. You heard me. Everything."

"Well, of course I did. I'm not deaf. Or dead. Of course I heard you. And where else would I be but in your bed? I couldn't move. Not after all your convincing. No one human could move after that. Total body paralysis. Not that I'm complaining. I'm not. So how much do you remember after that?"

"I remember," he said in a harsh soft voice. "Wish I did not ... I do." Each word seemed to be yanked out of him like a deep painful thorn; hurting like hell to unearth it. Only afterwards, it didn't seemed to make him feel better. He looked worse. Ashamed almost. And who could blame him? Everyone got sympathy for a broken bone. But it was much harder to admit that your mind was broken. No one spoke of it. And no one could fix it.

I wished that I could leave it alone or at least, soften it for him. But I couldn't. I needed to get to the bottom of this. Otherwise it might fester, suppurate, even spread. Hopefully my persistence would be a kindness in the end, no matter how much pain it might cause now. Means, ends, justifications. Where had I heard about that before? Wherever it was, it was also true for medicine. Maybe Miguel would forgive me. Eventually. I took a deep breath. Here goes. "So you've been seeing things. Hearing them. How often does this happen?"

He shrugged.

"When did this start? Come on, Miguel. You must tell me."

"Since ... the boat docked," he finally admitted after a long minute.

I looked thoughtfully at him. "Same time as your liver. Interesting. Is this what Wolfe is really worried about?"

Miguel glanced away. A sigh escaped. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps nothing. I suppose you know a lot. Too much. So the major's worried that you might accidentally give something away when you're in this state. That would be like him. Only worried about his secrets. Not about you."

"You worry about me," he said matter-of-factly.

"Naturally. It's nothing really. I'm a natural-born worrier. That's what I do. That's all. No big deal."

"Is it?" He turned to me again. His hand pushed the back of my head so that we were almost nose-to-nose. Miguel searched my eyes, then lingered on my bruise. His face softened with regret. He kissed his fingertips and touched the spot.

I caught his hand. Pressed his palm flatly, gently against my cheek. Wait. That felt strange. His hand felt cool. Surprisingly cool when the rest of his body was toasty warm. Not febrile, but warm. Any other time, I might have enjoyed it more. But not now. Something was wrong. "It's like a block of ice. Why are only your hands so cold?"

Frowning, I examined his hand. His fingers were bluish-white. I pressed lightly over his blanched fingernails. No change in color. Poor capillary refill. Something was constricting his blood vessels. I checked his pulse. "It's still fast. Not just the adrenaline then. That doesn't cause lousy circulation. Neither does madness. Maybe it's not the family madness after all. Maybe it's ..." I tapped a finger against my chin. I looked thoughtfully at him. "... delirium. Yes. A temporary condition. Temporary, that is, if I find the cause." I sat back, considering, my hands now resting on his chest. "You don't have a fever, so it couldn't be morbid sepsis. And last night you didn't act ... well, debilitated in any way. Quite the opposite."

One brow lifted. "Thank you, niña," he said gravely.

Oops. Well, it was the truth, but I didn't mean to be so blunt. What was it about him? I was always losing hold of my tongue, my mind gone south. Completely south. Way south. It was terrible, wonderful, and inconvenient. Inconvenient as hell. Blushing, I cleared my throat. "Oh, never mind about that. Don't distract me. I'm thinking. Where was I? Not blood poisoning. So it's not an infection, unless ... Cripes! I forgot about your reputation. How could I forget? You don't have the French pox, do you?" I almost drew back in distaste. Almost, but not quite. It was an act of extreme willpower; staying there, still holding him even as a chill ran through me. How could I be so stupid? So irresponsible? Maybe he'd been too convincing. Maybe I'd been too weak. Stupid. I knew better than this. I did. "Oh God. Not Lues."

His mouth opened, closed. Even completely naked, he managed to look insulted. Magnificent and insulted. "No. There are ways to prevent disease."

Trust you to know, I thought sourly. I was a hypocrite. I admit it. How could I enjoy the benefits of his experience and resent it all at the same time? "Sure, sure. I know about prevention. I'm a doctor, remember? There's French lettres. Condoms. We should have used them, you know. No matter. I'll take care of it later."

If Miguel looked insulted before, he looked thunderous now. Absolutely thunderous. His eyebrows were drawn together into one thick brown line of disapproval, his mouth grim. "Do not do anything. Anything. Without talking to me first. No self-remedies."

I rolled my eyes. "All right, all ready. I didn't mean that. So sensitive. Are you that way with all your lovers? I thought you'd like the independent worldly I-know-seventy-different-positions-type. The type like Therese who can take care of themselves without bothering you. No complications. You can walk away whistling. Scot-free."

He seemed taken aback as if he were caught doing something new. Maybe he was surprising even himself. He shook his head. "Maybe. Well, yes. That is true. In the past."

"Huh! I think you should be happy I'm not one of those weepy clingy kind of lah-de-dah's. I'm responsible for myself." I matched him stare for stare. He wanted to be stubborn? Well, fine. I had plenty in that department too. I'd show him.

"Too independent," he muttered.

"Don't try to change the subject. That's enough about me. We were talking about you. All right. So you say you've never taken the mercury. No syphilis. Okay, I'm sorry. You're right. I should trust you. If you say so, and all that. What was I thinking?"

He looked a little mollified. "Good."

"You must be telling the truth. I mean, there's other evidence, right? You can't have syphilis because insanity's a late sign. Very late. And you don't have any of the other stigmata. No gumma, ulcers. And your nose." I reached down and twisted the tip. "Yup. Still attached. Okay, now I really believe you. No, you don't have parts of your body falling off. Lucky you. Your only other sign is that inflamed liver. Hepatoencephalopathy . There's a known connection but due to what? You hardly drank. You don't like opium. Forget needles. No seven-percent solution for you. You wouldn't do that. Not for fun. Drugs make you lose control. You'd hate that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," he said emphatically.

"Then it must be something you don't know about. Someone's been slipping you a drug or ... poison? Yes!" Now that fit. It fit like a glove, as Walter always said. The right diagnosis always did. The answer hummed through me, making me feel alert all of a sudden. I knew this was right, but it was only a partial solution. My frown deepened. "So who would poison you, Miguel?"

"Poison? Impossiblé."

"I'd say the impossible is possible. You know it is. Think of the alternatives. Are you telling me that you are going crazy? Really crazy?"

"No." But he didn't sound convinced. Not completely, but the possibility brought a light to his eyes. The light of hope. "Not going mad. Not like Pedro. Cristo. If that were true ..." He closed his eyes. Sighed. "But if it is poison, then who, niña? Who would do this?"

"Well, that's the question. That's the one-million dollar question."

"There's only one answer."

"What's that?" Had he figured it out already? The man was sharp. I was impressed. Very impressed.

"You must cook for me."

"Oh, no," I said, horrified. I remembered my few attempts. Disasters. All carbonized disasters. To this day, Monte never let me hear the end of it. "You can't mean that. Me? Cook?" My last word came out as a squeak.

"I do. Who else can I trust?"

"Not me. I mean it. Just ask my brother. Believe me, you don't want me to cook." I bit my lip. "Listen, mister. Not if you value your life."

"That bad?"

"Worse. If the poison doesn't kill you first, then my cooking might polish off the job."

He reached over and pulled me down to him. The shawl slipped off my shoulders, slithering into a heap on to the floor. Miguel kissed me lightly. "Then my life is in your hands, doctora."

I gave a frustrated groan as I settled into him. I plopped my head on to his chest. It felt right. Looking up at Miguel, I muttered, "Well, okay. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"All right."

We cuddled together. He stroked the small of my back, our legs tangling. I felt better. Much better. Maybe it was his touch. Or maybe it was the possibility of a cure. I lay there, luxuriating in the feeling. After a moment, I said, "Miguel."

"Hmmm?"

"I hope you like boiled eggs."

He blinked once, twice. "Yes."

"You better like them. A lot. A whole lot. It's just about the only thing I can cook. That and heat water. I'm real good at making hot water." I looked up, startled. He was shaking all over. Then I recognized his fine resting tremors for what it was. He was laughing silently at me again. That burned my butt. Really burned it. I couldn't help it if I was lacking in most of the feminine arts. "Hey, it's not funny. It's not! Just because I can cut out a gallbladder doesn't mean I can whip up a cake, you know."

He suddenly stopped shaking, but his mouth was still twitching, damn him. "Whatever you say, querida. Whatever you say."

###

I had sworn that I'd never do this again. I'd rather be waltzing in a hoop skirt and high heels. Anything but this. Cooking. Can you believe that? Me? Wearing an apron didn't make me a cook. I was a complete fraud. I felt awful. Simply awful. And even worse, I had failed. My hot cereal had ended up scorched. The results of that lumpy disaster were at the bottom of the slop pail.

And now this. I stared down at the bowl I carried. The eggs looked dark brown like dirt balls. And they smelled sulfurous like spent matches. I didn't think it was possible to burn hardboiled eggs, but somehow I had managed to. Vainly I tried to fan away the smell. Didn't work. The stench lingered. No help for it. If worse came to worse, Miguel could always eat the toast if he scraped the charred parts first. Come to think of it, maybe he shouldn't. Charcoal was supposed to be a good antidote. Maybe I should char more toast. My specialty: everything well done. Very well done. Certainly incinerated all the germs that way. Poisons too, for that matter.

No time to try anything else. I couldn't hide in the kitchen all day. Lin-Fong had said nothing about my sudden cooking for the capitán, but I could read the amusement in her curious gaze. Her helpful hints hadn't been helpful. Nothing could help me. I was hopeless.

Oh well. This was it. Squaring my shoulders, I walked to the dining room. Through the open door came the sounds of silverware clanking, the sloshing of something liquid being poured. People were talking around the breakfast table. A young voice, an old familiar one. Too familiar.

"Ooh, willya look at that? A ten and a Jack. Your Jack's worth ten. Ten plus ten, okay? Put them together. How much is that, darlin'?"

Monte? What the hell was he doing here? Besides sitting at the table and freeloading another meal. My brother, the mooch. He generously helped himself to a platter of huevos rancheros. Next to him, Adana looked at him with wide brown adoring eyes.

She was counting on her fingers. "Dies y ocho, dies y nueve, biente. Twenty. It's twenty."

"All right! You got it. Hit or stay?"

"Mmmm. Stay?" she guessed, looking down at the cards by her plate.

"Good. Very good. That's the way. Twenty for you. Dealer has to hold at sixteen. You win the hand. Will you take an I.O.U.? I'll pay up this afternoon." Monte picked up a silver pot. "Any coffee for you, Don Miguel? Señor Pedro? It's great. Real great. Nectar of the gods. Why, I could drink this stuff all day, just hum, hum, hum along and never need a wink of sleep. Think of how much I'd get done. Amazing. Sure you don't want any? Come on."

Impassive, Miguel only shook his head.

Pedro pushed his cup forward. "Yes, yes. I want some. I like it with milk. Lots of milk and sugar."

I stepped into the room. All eyes swiveled towards me. Swallowing hard, I walked to the table, and put down the bowl. The eggs rolled and clacked together like croquet balls. Dear God. Had they petrified? I sat down. "Good morning," I said with false cheer. "Hello, everyone. Monte, what brings you here?"

"What do you think? A horse. As usual." His nose wrinkled. "Phe-e-e-e-eew! What's that? Skunk meatballs?" He glanced at my apron, then up at me again. Striking his forehead, he sprawled backwards in his chair. "Don't tell me. You're not ..? You couldn't be ...? Cooking?! Praise the Lord, and pass the bicarbonate."

"Manners," I hissed.

Monte grinned cheerfully. "Don't have any. Not bothered by them. They always get in the way. So much easier to do without them, you know. Uncouth. That's me. It's my natural state. Unvarnished." He pointed to the huevos. "You didn't make these, did you?"

"No."

"Good. Then I can eat them safely. Never mind. Carry on." He smirked when Miguel took one of my eggs, cracked it, and started to peel off the shell. The dratted thing looked glued on. Miguel had to dig in and tug the shell off. A good hunk of the underlying egg came off with it, the rest bouncing like rubber in Miguel's hand. Inside, the egg was a queer sandy brown color.

Watching, Monte chuckled. "I heard you're a brave man, Don Miguel. But now I know those stories were nothing, just nothing compared to what you're capable of. Now I've seen it with my own two eyes. You're even braver than those silly stories. Much braver. Look at you, taking on an egg that Nikita cooked. Why, did you know that our Nikita once knocked off a crew of sailors with her cooking? Hardy iron-gut sailors. Bing-bang-boom. Every one of them. Totally disabled. Poisoned, you could say. Mulligan stew, wasn't it? We used it later to tar the whole hull of a ship."

"Did not. You're exaggerating. As usual." I sipped my coffee, trying to hide my face behind the mug.

"Oh, you're right. Sorry. My mistake. Just half the hull. It worked good. Real good. Water tight, shipshape. Anyway, I wouldn't want you to be deceived by my sister. She may look like an angel, but she's really very diabolical. Devious even as a child. Got tired of doctoring her dollies, so she went out and made some of her own real live patients to practice on. Enterprising, that's what it is. And you got to hand it to her. No fatalities. Not a single one. Everyone did recover from their dyspepsia ... eventually."

"I never played with dolls."

"No, you did horrible things to them so you could wrap them up like mummies afterwards. Remember that one Pop got you in Paris? You chopped off all her hair because you said she had marsh fever or something. Then you painted her yellow. Totally yellow. Poor little dollie. She looked pitiful. Real pitiful. Adana, honey, if you love your dolls, don't let Nikita anywhere near them. She'll do things to them."

The child's eyes bugged out, her lip beginning to tremble as she looked from Monte to me. Great. Just great. Now she probably thought I was an axe murderer or something. I was about to reassure Adana when she suddenly laughed out loud. Peals of laughter. "You're teasing. Stop teasing." Giggling, she ate some more breakfast.

I glared at my brother, who just smiled back at me. "What's the matter, darlin'? Coffee bitter? Maybe you need some sugar. Do have some more."

"Monte, don't you have some place to be? Some business meeting you need to rush to? Like now?" I said.

"Nope. I'm a man of leisure today. I have all the time in the world. Aren't you lucky? Whoa there, Don Miguel. Careful now. Back off that egg. Back off real slow. You might not want to do that. Just a word to the wise. Try a small bite first. That way it won't be too disabling when it hits your stomach. Even a man in love has to take precautions, you know."

Raising his eyebrows, Miguel bit half the egg. He chewed. And chewed. Then he chewed some more. After a long time, he finally drank an entire glass of water. Monte watched, shaking his head sorrowfully. "Don't say I didn't warn you. I tried my best."

"You certainly are trying. Why don't you try finishing your breakfast, and moving on now? 'Git' like the cowpokes say." I helped myself to some more coffee.

"Aw. Nothing like sisterly love. Just keep pouring it on. I'm so happy to see you too."

Adana blotted her mouth with a napkin. "I'm finished. May I be excused, Papa?"

"Si."

"Thank you." She pushed her chair backwards. "Goodbye, Papa. Nikita. See you later, Tio Pedro. Tio Monte." She got down and carefully replaced her chair so it was aligned just so with the table. Then she walked out of the room, calmly like an adult instead of scampering like a child. But under her breath, she was singing in a pure voice that rang as clear and true as a crystal bell. It sounded suspiciously like the words for "Champagne Charlie."

I turned to my brother. "Tio Monte? What's this? You're her uncle now?"

Drinking his coffee, Monte shrugged. "Sure, yeah. Kinda true, isn't it? If you're her ... well, whatever you are, and I'm your brother, then it just about makes me her uncle. That's us. Just one big happy family. Anyway, she likes me. At least she acts like a real kid around me. No harm done."

"No harm? You were teaching her gambling. Blackjack. I heard you."

"Blackjack, schmackjack. Big deal. It's math," corrected Monte. "Just like Pop taught us. Remember? That's how we learned adding, subtracting, how to count ahead. Good for the memory. Nothing wrong with that. I didn't hear anyone object. Why should you?"

"Miguel doesn't mind. He didn't say anything. He never says anything," said Pedro with his mouth half-full. He chewed some more, then swallowed noisily. Licked the jam off his fingers. "Counting is good. I'm learning about counting. At the office. Miguel's going to take me again today. Counting."

"Accounting," corrected Miguel softly. "You've been a big help. Shall we?" He stood up. Pedro did the same, only more stiffly as if something hurt. Wincing, he reached behind him and rubbed his upper back.

"Pedro, what happened?" I asked.

"Oh, I fall down. Go boom. Ow, ow, ow all over. Big ow's."

No kidding. He was limping to the door. It was painful to watch his slow progress across the room. "Do you want something? Some liniment? Or willowbark?"

"I'm fine," he said in a strange parody of Miguel. Then Pedro walked out of the room.

Miguel came up to me. He took my hand. Bowed over it and kissed it. "Later, querida."

"Trust no one," I murmured into his ear.

"Only you," Miguel replied.

###

As soon as Miguel left the room, Monte pretended to fan himself. "Swo-o-o-oon. Only you. So continental. So intense. A little understated for me, but intense. I love it. Just love it. Got to remember that line. It's a damned good one."

"Oh, cut it out. It's not a line. Nothing's a line with him. At least, I don't think so."

"No offense, but maybe you're not the best judge of that. Your eyes are so glued to your books that you haven't seen a lot of life. You don't know a thing about men. You may know what makes them sick, but you don't know what makes them work. You would if you listened to Lily, but you never do. You're like this." Monte clapped his hands over his ears and made a horrendous face like those gargoyles on Notre Dame: bulging eyes, twisted mouth, his tongue hanging out of one corner. He looked gruesome.

Despite my annoyance, I started laughing a little. "Maybe I am. I don't know."

"Well, I do. And from what I've heard, I wouldn't believe everything Don Miguel says. He's a mover. A real smooth mover, even if you only believe a quarter of those stories. Just be sure he doesn't pull any moves on you. Like that one right there. How the hell did you get that bruise? And don't tell me you walked into a door."

"All right. I won't."

"Did he do it?"

"It doesn't hurt. Well, hardly."

It was the wrong thing to say. Monte's eyes flared, his mouth turning downward. "What?!?!"

"It was an accident."

"By God, that's it! That tears it! How can he treat you like that and then kiss you at the breakfast table like nothing ever happened? Now there's a cool customer. Very cool. Too cool for me. Looks like I'll have to cool him off a little more. Ice him, in fact. Yeah, that's right. Murder him right now. I don't care what they say about him. Nobody treats you that way and gets away with it. Nobody!"

"Hey, stop that. Where are you going? Sit." I leaned over the table and grabbed Monte's arm. Jerked hard until he sat down again with a big oof. "I mean it. You're not killing anyone. Not anyone, you hear me? You could get yourself hurt. Or worse."

"Don't humiliate me. What's the matter? You don't think I can do the job? I can. You bet I can. I'm not the only one in this family who can deal it out if I have to. I can ..." He broke off suddenly when he saw my face. Monte jumped up from his chair and walked to me. Knelt down and put an arm around me. "Aw, darlin'. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say that. Me and my big mouth." He tilted his head back and opened his mouth. Wide. He looked like a giant baby bird waiting for its meal. "Go ahead. Pour something in. One of your nostrums. Dose me with something so I don't run off like that any more. How about some horse glue? You could seal it shut. That should do the trick."

"As if that would cure anything," I said wearily. I put my elbows on the table, and rested my head on my hands. "Now believe me. I'm fine. I'm telling you it was just a little accident. Nothing more. You have it all wrong. He doesn't beat me. He makes me nuts, but he doesn't hurt me. Miguel treats me ... well, like I'm really someone. Someone special. Not a freak. Like I'm a lady. A real lady. Even when I don't want it. Especially when I don't want it. Anyway, it's not me I'm worried about. It's Miguel. He's in trouble. Big trouble. And now there's Pedro too. I'm worried about Pedro. How could he just fall like that?"

Monte snorted. "Sick kidneys."

I looked up. "Bright's disease? How do you know that?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but that's not what I meant. Whoever the hell Bright is. No, I meant this. Pow. Ka-pow. Someone sucker-punched Pedro. One, two. Right in the old kidneys." Monte winced. "I know how he feels. Exactly. You piss red for a month. Ye-e-e-eow. It's not pretty."

"Well, that's terrible. What's happening on the streets these days? Why would anyone beat up someone like Pedro? He's harmless. Like a kid. A real big kid."

Monte rubbed his long jaw. "A kid, you say? The way I see it, big kids just get into bigger kinds of trouble. Anyway, you know that the innocent bit is one of the oldest con's on the books. Just suckers people right in. I used to play that one with you. You and your big baby blues. You made great shill. You just brought them all in. "

"What!? You never told me that."

"Sure, yeah. That made it even better. All innocent. Very convincing."

"Monte, I could kill you. So help me, I could forget that Hippocratic Oath and just kill you right now."

He only laughed long and loud as if I'd told the funniest gut-busting joke of all time.

I watched him. The idiot. "I mean it, Monte. This time for sure. You're a dead man."

Bending over, he held his sides until the last guffaw ebbed. He sucked in a breath, then exhaled on another soft chuckle. Eventually he straightened up again. Wiped a tear from his eye. "Listen to you. Just listen. First you're protecting me from the big bad Don, and now you want to kill me yourself. Just like a woman. Can't make up your mind. Well, that's all right. I won't take it personally. I know what's behind it. I got you all figured out. You're just mad because I never cut you in on your share. Well, that's fair enough now that you've found out how I used ... uh, how I employed one of your sterling qualities to your best advantage, you might say. So figuring on everything, interest and whatnot, and the greenback going down, the whole thing just may balance out to a big fat ... Hmmm, let's see, I'll have to check with my accountant on that one. Will you take an I.O.U.? Surely goodwill and the sincere affection of your favorite brother ...

"My only brother. My soon-to-be-deceased brother ..."

"... surely that must count for something, doesn't it?" Monte cocked his head and smiled at me. It was that same smile that always made me forgive him for anything. Just about anything.

I could feel my outrage melting away by the second. He batted his eyelashes at me. The clown. I couldn't stay mad at him. I never could. I melted some more. Really, I was nothing more than a big softy inside. It was pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. Disgusted with myself, I sighed. "All right. Okay. I imagine the statue of limitations must have run out on that awhile ago. But you're not off the hook, mister. Not by a long shot. There's something else more current. And you better tell me the truth about this one."

"Sure, sis. Sure. Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye. What's got you so bent out of shape?" Monte pulled up a chair next to me. He leaned back, folding his hands across chest. He managed to look almost pious. The big phony.

"Well, it's about the gold. And prison."

"Huh?" Frowning, he looked at me as if I'd suddenly grown another head. Make that two. "What did you say?"

"That's okay. You can tell me. No need to be ashamed. God knows Pop was in and out of the stir often enough when one of his little jobs didn't work out right and he got caught."

"What are you talking about?"

"Don't pretend, Monte. Not with me. I know the feds caught you. Where did they send you? Rockville? Was it very bad?"

"Caught?" He threw back his head and laughed even more loudly. "No one's ever caught me at anything. I may be a lamentable son of a bitch but I'm not stupid. I always land on my feet. You know that. Or you should."

"Then you didn't steal the gold?"

"Gold? I wish. I'd love to get my hands on a pile of gold. Take a bath in it. Roll around in it. Tell me. Was it a good scam? Maybe we can re-tool it a little and run it somewhere else."

My head flopped forward as if it was too heavy to hold up any longer. Too much thinking, and way, way too many assumptions. Realization was gradually sinking in. I had tripped myself up, thinking I was so smart. Instead, I'd been a fool. A complete and utter fool. "Are you saying that you've been absolutely fine this whole time? One hundred percent fine?"

"Well, I wouldn't say that exactly. Lost a little skin out in Virginia City. Had to scoot out of there fast. Real fast. The climate was getting kinda ... unhealthy, you might say."

Judas. I'd been tricked. Thoroughly tricked. "I don't believe it! Then you were never in jail. Major Wolfe let me think you were in trouble, that he owned you."

"Wolfe?" At the mention of the major's name, Monte's gray eyes darkened to near black, and his wide mobile mouth twisted into a comical frown. "Not Paul Wolfe? Jesus, darlin', what did you get yourself tangled up in this time? Some no-brainer like the French Ministry gig? Just say 'no'. Read my lips. 'No'. 'No' is the magic word. You need to practice it. A lot. You don't give in to your patients all the time, do you?"

"You don't know anything about that," I muttered. "I was only trying to help you out. Ingrate."

"Ohhh. You slay me with those big words. Try another one. Come on, come on. Go ahead."

"Ignoramus. Microcephalic. An all around ..." I broke off, realizing that I was pounding on the table with my fists. I sucked in a breath, then carefully let my hands relax. "Oh, Monte. You don't know what I've done. You don't know a thing."

"Yes, I do."

"No, you don't," I said, sniffing. I ran the back of my hand across my eyes. Stupid. Stop that. Now wasn't the time to act like a girly girl.

"See. There you are. Bullheaded to the end. And deaf in the bargain. Plum deaf. Listen to me, Nikita. I do know. I know you need my help. It's as plain as that wart on Mrs. MacDougal's nose. Remember? That giant thing with a hair growing out of it? Large as a boarding house. You left her a moonstone and a dead toad on her doorstep. Wow. Was that some wart or what? A real beaut'."

"Not a wart," I replied, almost smiling. "It's an atypical mole. Just a mole. That's why the moonstone didn't work."

"Stone. Wart. Mole. Whatever. Doesn't matter. Just tell me. What can I do?"

"Just like that? No questions asked. You don't even know what you're getting yourself into."

"Did you ask before you jumped right in? Now maybe you should have. Maybe you should have been more circumspect. But a whole pile of should-have's isn't going to dig you out of whatever mess you're in now. A mess that you got yourself into because it sounds like you thought you were helping me out. Well, that's okay, sis. I'm here now. Spencers stick together."

"There's nothing anyone can do. Nothing you can do."

"Now, now. I wouldn't be so all-fire certain about that. You never really know. I may be of more assistance than you realize. You know that old saying 'It takes a thief to catch a thief'? Well, maybe the same thing's true about spies."

My mouth dropped. I couldn't be more surprised if Monte suddenly started flapping his arms and flying around the room. "Are you saying you're a ... a spy? Just like Pop?"

Monte snorted. "Didn't say that. I never said that, darlin'. Not me. Uh uh. I'm just your garden variety flimflam man. I just happen to get around. A lot. A whole lot, you might say." He winked.

###

Monte was going to burst. Any moment now, he was going to pop right open at the umbilicus if he took another bite. Polyphagia. I had heard of it, but I had never actually seen it. Fascinating. And alarming.

It was later that same day. Breakfast was long gone, and dinner almost over as we sat under the old black laurel tree on the bluff overlooking the bay. The remains of our picnic lay scattered around us, but my brother was still eating as if he had two hollow legs. He lay on his side while Adana attentively peeled grapes for him. Monte took another, chewed, then heaved a long satisfied sigh. "Man, oh man. This is the life. Food, friends, and the company of a lady. A be-au-tiful lady." He winked at Adana, who giggled. "It doesn't get any better than this. Any more of that chicken?"

"No. You already finished that off." I couldn't get too irritated with my brother right now. He was trying to needle me but I wouldn't let him. I was too full of warm sun, wine, and the presence of Miguel, who sat in his shirtsleeves and breeches next to me. I pretended to look through the hamper. "Hmmm. Looks like there's a couple of hardboiled eggs left over. Want one? Maybe a couple. You're looking peckish. You're a growing boy. You need sustenance."

Monte straightened up suddenly. "Uh, I'll pass. But I'll take it under advisement, and try something else. Let's see." He picked up a jar of blackish-brown spread. "What's this? No one's opened this one."

"That's Papa's. Tapenado," said Adana. "It's special. No one eats it but him. It has those flat fish with the eyeballs."

"Anchovies?" I laughed.

She nodded, making a face.

"And what else?" I untied the string, and removed the fabric cover from the jar. Yes, she was right. No exaggeration. Dozens of tiny unblinking eyes stared up at me. It was creepy, and I doubted that this tasted like chicken. I sniffed cautiously. "Capers, oil, and ...? What are those brown things?"

"Mushrooms," said Miguel, doggedly peeling another of my eggs.

I laid my hand over his. Shook my head. "You don't have to," I said in an undertone. Even I couldn't finish mine.

"But I like them," he replied seriously. I thought I caught a glimmer in his eye, but I wasn't sure.

"Jesus! You like them? Actually like them? No offense, Miguel, but there's only two explanations. Either you're certifiably crazy or you must be in love. Hard to tell which. In fact, it's probably all the same thing when you think about it. Well, to each man his own. Sure hope it's not contagious." Monte dipped a finger in the tapenado and licked it. He nodded. "Not bad. Not bad at'all. I actually have a weakness for this. Reminds me of those hot Catalonian nights and ... what was her name? Helena. Ángel, they called her. The angel."

"A real angel?" asked Adana. Her eyes grew big and shiny. "I like angels. My mother is an angel. She's watching over me right now. Every day. Lin-Fong says so."

There was a pause when Monte's eyes met mine. We waited for Miguel to say something, but he only ate his egg. So Monte cleared his throat. He said, "No, well, she wasn't a real angel, darlin'. Though everyone thought Helena was heavenly all right. And talented. Exceedingly talented."

I frowned at my brother. "I think we can do without that particular story. Everyone's listening. Everyone." I nudged him. Tilted my head towards Adana, who looked even more attentive than ever.

But Monte ignored me as usual. "She was something else all right. All the men thought so. Just exceptional. She could actually reach ..."

"Monte!" I hissed.

"Three octaves ..." He paused, his mouth in a perfect "O" of surprise. His eyes were wide and innocent. "Why, sis? What did you think I was talking about? Helena was a singer. A top notch singer. Made grown men cry. Just bust up and boohoo their little hearts out. Every night. Not a dry eye at the cantina."

"Which one?" asked Miguel.

"The Running Bull," my brother replied, his eyes sharpening suddenly. "Why? Do you know it?"

Miguel shrugged, biting into his egg. "Sounds familiar. My men ... They talk. Now and then."

"Hmm. Could be. Could be at that. Well, hey, Adana. We're a team, remember? Ready to go pick those blackberries for Lin-Fong?" He stood up, taking his tin pail. He casually brushed the sand off his legs. "I think we should make this a little more interesting. How about a race? Winner takes all. Double or nothing."

"Yes." Adana grabbed Monte's hand. "Let's go. Let's go. I know the good places. We don't need Tio Pedro. He's still flying his kite. He'll fly it all afternoon. All the time. Sometimes in the morning too before anyone's up."

"Does he? That's dedicated. Mighty dedicated. Every man needs a hobby. Take mine, for instance. Mine is the study of humankind. You can learn an awful lot by watching people. That's the number one rule for gamblers like me. Just study the mark. Every man has his weakness. No one appears as he seems. Observation, darlin'. That's the ticket. It's all observation. Now what about your father?"

"Oh. Papa?" Adana looked quizzical as if she were considering something impossible like flying a ship to the moon. "He never plays. He is a great man. Everyone says so."

"Well, never you mind. That's enough about hobbies. It's blackberries right now. Allright-y. Remember that song I taught you? The one about the tattooed lady. Let's run through that one again." Singing to himself, Monte started walking over the dune with Adana. They held hands, swinging their pails, her voice joining his.

###

The more I thought about it, the more confused I became. I wasn't sure any more who my brother was or what he was talking about. He was like one of those Wernicke's patients, who yakked up a windstorm of words. Monte talked round and round like a tornado, traveling at dizzying speeds. But no matter how hard you ran after it, you never quite caught it. Not really. He always left me in the dust. Completely. So I was stuck with the same basic gamble: trust him or not. And I did, straight from the gut even though my head couldn't make any sense of him. He was my twin, my other half. How could I not trust him? Before dinner, we had divvied up the work between us. So my irresponsible suddenly-responsible brother was taking care of the major while I was taking care of Miguel. Or so I told myself.

Right now, Miguel didn't look like he needed any doctoring at all. He looked fine. More than fine in his open-necked white cambric shirt, which was tucked loosely in a pair of breeches and boots. The heat flattened his curls. In one hand, he carried a tin pail. Plink. Plonk. He was picking blackberries with his usual quick competence. He hardly ever got scratched, or if the thorns caught him from time to time, he never complained.

"Niña," he said softly. He pointed to the bush, then to my pail as if reminding me of our task. He was the team leader in our blackberry picking contest, and he'd led us to a faraway thicket on Black Point, several dunes away from the bluff. Even at this distance, we had a great view of the entire bay. From the top of the hill, I could see everything from the Golden Gate to the Broadway wharf, where Cassam Shipping was headquartered. But view or no view, we must have walked two sweaty miles before we reached these particular bushes by a little creek. Miguel lifted his eyebrows.

"What? Oh, no. Must you be so competitive? Let's let Adana and Monte win. I don't care if they pick more blackberries than we do. Anyway, you've picked enough for both of us. More than enough. How much jam can Lin-Fong make?"

"A lot."

"Well, that's fine. Just fine. I don't know why I'm doing this anyway. So much work for such awful fruit. I can't stand blackberries. The seeds always stick in my teeth." I was nursing a long nasty scratch on my forearm. I felt dusty, hot, and more than a little irritated.

Miguel studied me. "These aren't just any blackberries."

"No?"

"No," he said definitely. He picked a plump one, and plopped it into my mouth. As soon as the berry hit my tongue, it burst apart into little pops of flavor like a firecracker that tasted darkly sweet. A little tart. My mouth puckered. The juice was still warm from the sun, and it ran over my lip and down my chin.

Miguel wiped the stain with his thumb. He frowned. "Still there." His stare made me feel more uncomfortable by the second.

"It's nothing. I'll wash it off later. It doesn't matter. I'm always messy anyway. You know, Miguel, I've been thinking. Adana has a beautiful voice. Have you ever thought about lessons? Some real training. She's talented. Really talented. She must get that musicality from you since you play the cello and all that."

He looked at me as if I'd said nothing at all, his face carefully painfully blank. "From both sides. Her mother too," he said at last.

I waited for him to elaborate, but of course, he didn't. He never did. "Adana's mother," I prompted. "Your wife? I gather she's dead. I'm sorry," I added quickly. The man was more close-lipped than a clam. It was all so annoying. What was the big mystery? Life. Death. It touched everyone. Nothing to be ashamed about. There were no pictures of her in the house. Not even in Adana's bedroom. Poor child.

"I ... don't speak of her."

Well, no kidding. Door closed, locked, and sealed. I can take a hint. Undaunted, I vowed to ask Lin-Fong later on. That was my best bet. And there was always Lily to fall back on for additional information. Somehow or other, I'd find out. Miguel or no Miguel.

He had set down his pail. His arms were loose at his side. He stepped towards me.

I said, "What is it? Have you come to your senses about tonight? You're too sick to make this midnight meeting. You're not going, right?"

Miguel didn't reply. He took another step, then two more.

"Done for now? Yeah, it's a little sparse here. Maybe we should be moving on. There aren't too many berries. Why did you pick this spot anyway? Kinda lousy location. Real out of the way. Not too much fruit."

"I have ... my reasons," he said huskily, staring at my lips. He was looking so closely at me that it almost seemed as if he peered through me like one of Roentgen's newfangled x-ray machines. The scrutiny was unbearable. Suddenly my mouth dried. Completely dried so that my tongue stuck to the inside of my cheek.

I didn't speak. I couldn't have said a single word even if I wanted to. All I could do was watch him approach me with that steady assured step, the slight roll of his shoulders. What was he doing? His hands touched me, then his mouth. And suddenly, I no longer had any doubts about his intentions. He made them quite clear.

"Miguel," I murmured. "Not ..."

He moved more insistently in a clear "yes." He pulled me down into the soft dune grass. We rolled, and there was a crush of bay leaves and wildflowers. Nothing had ever smelled sweeter. I thought I heard a creek laughing nearby, but it might have been me. That tickled. He moved differently. That did not. Definitely did not. Judas.

"Now? Here?" My word came out like a gasp. "There's no ... bed."

"Quietly, querida. Can you? You must." He licked my lips, then lower at the blackberry stain. "Zarzamora," he groaned, moving even lower, then relentlessly lower still. Shocked, I twisted reflexively but his large strong hands held me there, open to him. And when he kissed me again, I forgot to feel shocked. I forgot everything else.

###

He lifted one arm, and I scooted closer, snuggling like a boat into dock. Smooth. Easy. A perfect fit. I rested my head against his chest and yawned. The combination of heat, Miguel, and our recent exertions hit me all at once. Drowsiness blanketed me. I could barely keep my eyes open at all. "Mmmm. Is this an official siesta? If it is, I like it. Great custom. So sensible. Sign me up for another."

"So soon? Maybe later."

"What?" I twisted my head. Saw his self-satisfied smile, all superior and masculine. But somehow I didn't mind this time. After all, I had no cause for complaint. No complaints at all. Praises - more likely. Smiling back, I yawned again. "You took me here. Why?"

My question seemed to surprise him. His brow lifted. "Should I ... remind you?" His hand drifted over my back, hip, then lower. Maybe later was sooner than I'd expected. Much sooner. His touch left a trail of goosebumps along my skin.

"No, that's not what I meant. Is that all you can think about right now?" Trying to concentrate, I moved away from his questing hand. Pushed it aside. He got marks for persistence. Stubbornness had its virtues, I supposed. "This is a special place, isn't it?"

"Yes," he admitted. Reaching over, he picked a strand of hair. Wrapped it around his finger.

"Why?"

His hand paused. "Mama took me here ... long ago. This was her patch. Her magic patch. And her madre took her here when she was a little girl."

Inside I melted a little as I imagined a small Miguelito picking berries so many years ago in this same place: his blunt nose - just a little button then, maybe his cheeks still toddler-chubby, and that cleft in his chin would have been a perfect miniature. He had probably been very serious about it just like he was now - serious about everything. "And you brought Adana here?"

"What?" He looked surprised. "No. Never."

"Well, why not? Don't you want to carry on the tradition? She's the next in line, isn't she?"

Miguel paused, looking away. The warmth had left his face so that it looked stoic and removed, less human somehow. Unnatural. It irked me.

"Cripes! She's your daughter but you practically ignore the child. You provide a good home, food, clothing, but she needs something more. She needs you. She's starving for your attention."

"Nikita." He still avoided my gaze. For a long time, he silently played with a lock of my hair. I wanted to hear his denial, an explanation, some reason for his behavior, but instead, I only heard his soft breaths, the burbling of the creek. And in the sky hummed the bamboo strips which flew like fringe from Pedro's centipede kite. It sounded alive. Charmed, I listened and waited patiently for Miguel to say something. Anything. I waited. Then waited some more. And finally, when my patience was wearing thin, he murmured, "You would not understand."

"Try me." I batted my eyelashes at him. "I'm more mature than I look."

"No," he said quietly, firmly like the solid tumor that he was. Stubborn to the core.

Exasperated, I plopped my chin on to his chest. His breath hissed out. "Okay, okay. Whatever. Feel free to make your own mistakes. Be my guest."

His brow crinkled for a moment as he seemed to consider something. He hesitated, then offered, "There is more."

"I knew it."

"After my parents died, I ran away. The first time, I came here. This place. They could not find me. Not for two weeks."

"You were how old then? Only five? Same age as Adana. How did you survive?"

"On water and blackberries."

"Even if the seeds stuck between your teeth."

"Yes. Even then."

I thought about the blackberry and how the taproots go deep; surviving years of drought, even fire. After a disaster, they seemed to do even better. They did more than survive. They thrived. I thought about this miracle and the man laying next to me, that strange mysterious man I was learning to love. My diagnostic dilemma. He wasn't who I would have chosen. No woman in their right mind would pick someone so unmanageable. But he was the one who I was stuck with. In plain view, no going around it or eliminating it. Sort of like Mrs. MacDougal's wart. Resigned, I leaned over so that our heads touched, temple to temple. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For telling me about that. I know that wasn't easy for you to do." And in an odd way, I felt more closer to him after listening to his story than after making love. I held him tighter. There was hope for him yet. Hope for both of us. "Miguel?"

"Yes, querida."

"Tell me something."

He pulled back a little. "If I can," he said cautiously.

"You said a word. Zarza - ... Zarzamora. I've seen that word before. It was carved inside the glove box. Did you make that?"

He nodded.

"Ah ha! Thought so. Well, I've been wondering. What does zarzamora mean? Is that some place you've been? Some place exotic maybe ... you know, like Timbuktu or Zanzibar. Or maybe it's the name of a goddess or a warrior princess."

His mouth quirked. "It's Spanish."

"I knew it! A place in Spain. Where? Near the Bay of Biscay? Or further south? Castile? Cadiz? I've been to Cadiz."

"Neither," he said. "It's word. Not a place."

"Oh." I angled closer to him. Curiosity chased away the last of my sleepiness. I moved even closer until I was looking directly into his eyes. "Well, what is it?"

He glanced down, mumbling something softly. Amazing. I didn't think he could talk any softer but he did. Inaudible. Completely inaudible. I tilted my head. Looked at him carefully. Was he ... blushing? Now I really had to know. It had to be romantic, incredibly romantic. So embarrassingly romantic that he couldn't even say it in front of me when I was paying attention. It must be good. Really good.

"Blackberry," he whispered.

"What?!"

"It means ..."

"I heard you."

"Well?" his look seemed to be saying. "Reminds me ... of you."

Me? A blackberry? My mouth hung open. So much for my poetic ideas. Dashed, completely dashed. Whatever happened to lovely names like "rose" or "honey?" I didn't get it. I looked over at the dusty prickly bushes that grew in ungainly green humps, the vines going every which way. Thorns - nasty thorns - all over. Is that how he saw me? I frowned.

His thumb ran over my lips, playfully tugging at the downturned corners. "What did you say? 'So much work. Such awful fruit'. I disagree. The results are ... very satisfactory."

"Just satisfactory?"

"You tell me."

He had a point. It wasn't too shabby. In fact, it was pretty damn good. More than good. Fantastic might be an understatement. But I still didn't quite understand the nickname. Was it my personality? Or my person? My eyes widened as I considered the possibilities. I gasped, remembering when he'd said it, breathing it into me when I, fevered, could barely hear him. He didn't mean that? ... He couldn't!

As if he heard my thoughts, he chuckled softly, a little wickedly as he touched me there again, intimately, confirming my suspicion.

"There? Not ...?" My breath caught, hanging on the last word.

"There," he murmured. "It requires ... a very delicate touch. Just so. Just like picking berries."

"You're very experienced. And very bad," I whispered back.

"Si. You learn quickly."

"How quick?" I rolled over him, grabbing his arms. Ah! At last. The upperhand for a change. I grinned, pressing down. He smiled back, relenting. He lightly kissed me once, twice; then he twisted. Bucked me off. Our positions reversed. Panting, I said, "I was always ... good at anatomy. Physiology. How things work. Even better."

"A quick study? Lucky for me," he said, his smile deepening.

"Lucky for both of us."

###

It was almost midnight. The day was disappearing quickly, but it wasn't just the day. Miguel had disappeared too, somewhere between his study and the bedroom. Again! Could you believe that? Maybe next time I would tie him down to the bed. I seriously considered it as I stumbled over another stone in the courtyard. Cripes, it was dark. Carrots. I had to start eating those carrots. I could barely see a tall slip of shadow move from building to building. It was like trailing a phantom.

"Come on. Cut it out. We're losing him," I hissed, tugging on my brother's sleeve.

Monte didn't budge. "Oooh, I'm going to die. Just up and die. Why don't you shoot me and put me out of my misery? Right now. I'll leave you my lucky cards, darlin'. The one that has all the high cards marked. Whenever you play that black Jack, you just think of me. Think of me fondly and say, 'I always regret how cruel I was to my dear brother Montague. If only I hadn't dragged him out of the Zeus Hotel where Monte was nice and warm and ..."

"... playing around with ..."

"Persephone," he supplied helpfully between moans.