When George walked into the office, he brought the smell of cold sea air and peppermints. How could he be the culprit? Impossible. No one villainous ever smelled like candy. All the serious bad guys stank of whiskey, tobacco, or sweat, but peppermints? No. It just didn't seem likely, not when he looked like someone's grandfather. He appeared more inclined to bounce a baby on his knee than to stab someone in the back. I couldn't believe it. And judging from his casual pose, Miguel didn't seem to either. He only leaned against the edge of his office desk. "Hello, George."

The short bookkeeper looked as if he'd seen better days. His porkpie hat was dented on one side and dusty, and his usually meticulous suit looked rumpled as if he'd slept in it. George hastily doffed his hat, then shuffled his scuffed boots from side to side as if he was uncertain how to proceed. Worry deepened the wrinkles in his round face and aged him even more. He ducked his head, and his fringe of graying hair flapped forward. "Thank you for seeing me, sir. I had to wait for the right moment to sneak in. The police are everywhere. I was afraid I couldn't reach you in time."

"Why?"

The old man opened his mouth but no sound came out at first. His larynx bobbed over his collar as he pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and vigorously mopped his forehead, then the back of his neck. "Because of the money."

"My money. It is missing, George. A lot of it. What do you know?"

"Only that it's gone. It's been gone for awhile. I don't know where. I've looked for it. Can't find it. I swear, sir. It's true." He held his hat in front of him, his fingers turning the rim around and around again.

Miguel only folded his arms across his chest. He looked stern. "Then why did you run?"

"I have been framed. Framed, I tell you. The police would not believe me. I did not think you would either. Especially if you knew all about me."

"Ah. Your record. Embezzlement at Lloyd's Bank. Transported to Australia. We met there. Queensland, remember?"

George's shoulders slumped forward. He seemed defeated, his voice broken and reedy. "Then ... then you already knew."

"Of course. I know everything about my employees. Your past. Your present. Your son Gerald ... part of the Sydney Ducks gang. His gambling debts. Is that where you channeled my money?"

"No, sir. I did not. I could not. I have worked for you since you first took helm of this company. Before you even became the Don. I have seen you grow into the man you are. And I have given you twelve years of good honest hard work. That should count for something. Surely it must. And only one debit. An old one. One mistake. A long time ago. And everything else lands on the credit side. It must balance out somehow in the black. Doesn't it, sir?" George licked his lips.

Miguel looked implacable. "Twenty-four hours, George. No more. Return the money by then or I will come after you. It is not the police you should worry about. It is me."

"But I don't ..."

"Do you understand?"

"I ..."

"Do you?" The Don had spoken.

George flinched. "Yes, sir. I understand." With the look of a doomed man, he shuffled out of the office.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I popped up, rubbing my knees. "That was nice of you."

Miguel looked blank. "Nice?"

"Sure, yeah. Nice. You could have reported him to the police. Or sicced Major Wolfe after him, but you didn't. You let him go. You believe him. You're a good man, Miguel."

He sighed. "Sometimes I forget ... how young you are. You don't understand. No, I do not trust him. He may have done it. I let him go because I want to see what he does next. Xi will follow him."

"But George is telling the truth."

"Is he?"

"Yes. I know he is," I said with absolute certainly. I walked up to Miguel, thumped my finger against his chest. "You can bet your bottom dollar on it. Heck. You could even bet the shirt off your back. It's a sure thing."

"How? What facts do you have? Or are you relying on your woman's intuition?"

I ignored his sardonic look, and barely - just barely - kept from thumping him again. "No, it's not that. It's my doctor's intuition, and it never fails me. All day long I size people up. I know when someone's faking it; exaggerating or underplaying it. I'm telling you. George isn't lying. He really didn't do it. Anyway, if he did do it, he'd be long gone by now. Probably on some boat to Brazil. Cuba. The Continent. Wherever. Why should he risk everything to come back and talk with you? Wouldn't that be incredibly stupid?"

"Or incredibly clever." Miguel walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a Colt pistol, checked the chambers, then rolled it shut again. It clicked and whirred with the same deadly efficiency as its owner.

My heart stilled. "What's that for?"

One brow arched as if to say "What do you think?" But the rest of his face remained a careful mask. "Come. It's time."

"Me? Are you actually inviting me along this time?"

He made a little puff of sound. "No, niña. An invitation is for a dance, a dinner. Maybe a party. This is none of those things."

I followed him to the door. He opened it, gestured for me to go first. I stepped over the threshold into the darkened hallway. "What do you mean?"

"Would you stay in here if I told you to stay?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Exactemente. You would not listen," said Miguel grimly. "This is for your own protection."

So he was taking me into custody? Fine. He could think that. He was free to think whatever he wanted. But maybe - just maybe - I would be the one protecting him instead.

###

Along the wharf, all the shadows had lengthened so that the sky and boats and buildings had flattened into layers of black on black, blending into the inky bay. The whole place was dark and deserted. It seemed as if God had swept down, scooped up, and disposed of all signs of life, no matter how lowly they were. By now the drunks were sleeping it off. The cutpurses were counting up their evening's take, and the wharfside whores were all finally abed.

The tide was low so the old fish guts and trash smelled riper than usual. But the smell didn't bother me as much as the unnatural quiet did. It was too quiet. Dead quiet except for the rats skittering over the docks and the water splashing against the pilings. Grunting low, the sailors lifted the heavy wooden boxes and loaded them one by one across the plank and on to the ship. We watched them from behind a pile of crates by the warehouse. Next to me, Miguel murmured, "You should not be here. I must be mad."

I laid a finger over his lips. "So? Send me back."

His mouth pressed tightly together. "Would you go?"

"No. Are you kidding? And miss everything? I already told you I wouldn't."

"Taurina," he muttered.

I couldn't restrain myself any longer. I poked him again. Harder this time. Right fourth intercostal space. He grunted. I said, "What does that mean?"

"Stubborn. Foolish. Like a bull."

Me? Bullish? The nerve. The absolute nerve. I could hardly believe that he'd just said it. "Stubborn, hmmm? Well, you should know. I'm just a beginner compared to you. You're the expert. Mister Stubborn. You wrote the book on it, Don Taurino. Huh! Talk about the kettle calling the pot black."

"What?"

"It's a saying. It means ... Oh, never mind. Someone's coming."

It was the slow irregular thuuump-thump of an injured man and a brisk step of his companion. I heard the click of a watch being closed, and then I saw the silhouettes of a tall skeletal man and a shorter portly one. Gradually the black shadows took shape, deepened, then turned into Hamilton and Buckner as they emerged from the fog. Hamilton's ankle was wrapped up and he was leaning heavily on his cane. But the pain from his gout didn't affect his overly jolly expression. His partner Buckner pocketed his watch. Maybe he'd timed their walk here. And thirty feet behind them stood four massive bodyguards, whose necks were thicker than their heads. Their arms looked like tree trunks, their fingers like boughs.

Miguel pushed me gently to one side so that I remained half-hidden behind the crates. I moved deeper into the shadows. He quietly stepped into the middle of the dock. His hands hung by his side; fingers loose, relaxed, ready for anything. "Gentlemen."

"Don Cabrillo." Smiling genially, Hamilton held out his hand. It hung like a plump starfish momentarily tossed into the air.

Miguel did not take it. He only inclined his head, his eyes still on the guards. "My payment?"

Buckner snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward with a satchel. He handed it to Miguel, who lifted it up and down as if testing its weight.

"Where's the rest?" he said quietly.

"Well, well, well, it's the price we agreed upon. All of it. But it's not exactly gold, Don Cabrillo. Not at'all," Hamilton said.

"Then what is it ... exactly?"

Hamilton replied, "Greenbacks. We didn't think ..."

"I would mind? Or I would notice? Which is it? I am no fool." Miguel tossed the bag on the ground so that it landed precisely between them. Thump. Ssssss. It slid a little across the damp pier. "I don't want this. Paper dollars? Near worthless. The price is doubled."

"Outrageous," Buckner fumed, his bony fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. He stamped his foot once, twice. "Completely outrageous. And ungentlemanly. We had your word, sir. Your word!"

"As I had yours. Apparently you have changed your minds. So I change mine. No deal," said Miguel coolly as if they were discussing something inconsequential like the weather. He turned. Then he started to walk away from the men. When he passed me, his hand moved an infinitesimal fraction as if he was urging me to follow him. Got it. I slipped behind the crates, my back pressed against the warehouse wall.

"Wait!" called out Buckner.

Miguel walked another foot before he paused. He looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Hamilton said, "Now just hang on a minute. Don't be so all-fired hasty. You're rushing away like a damn Yankee. All business this, that, and the other thing."

"It does not take long to reach the right decision," Miguel replied.

"No, you're right," admitted Buckner. "You are absolutely right. That's true if you're the one making the decision. Only we're not. This isn't our decision to make. We need to talk it over with ..."

"Horace! Mind your manners," interrupted Hamilton as if he were racing to beat Buckner to the punch-line of a joke. One fat hand tugged on the lapel of his coat. His face still beamed with universal, inappropriate bonhomie, but when he chuckled, it sounded about as pleasant as fingernails across a slate board. Listening to it made me shudder.

"I see. You have a boss. Then there has been a mistake. I don't speak with middlemen. I never do," said Miguel softly. "Take me to him."

Buckner made vague pop-popping sounds deep in his throat like an agitated frog. The bodyguards advanced slowly menacingly until Hamilton held up his hand. Then the men froze, outflanking Miguel, who seemed strangely unaffected by the whole maneuver. He acted as if this were a Sunday stroll, and the bodyguards - mere passerby's enjoying the same park. He looked almost ... bored.

"You must be joking. It's unthinkable. Impossible," said Hamilton at length. "A grave impossibility. Why, sir, you might as well ask for the moon itself. No one sees our superior. No one."

The dock fell silent again except for the sounds of the sailors moving the crates and the creaking boats. Somewhere in the distance, a buoy clanged its lonely song in regular clear intervals like a reminder that time and tide waited for no one. No one at all.

The wind sighed, pushing threads of fog around the men, around Miguel's legs. His disinterested eyes flicked over Hamilton, then Buckner who could barely contain his agitation. At last Miguel shrugged. "Fine. The ship is only partially loaded. It will not take long to empty the hold again. Find another ship at your leisure. Send back the wagons again. You may not want your gold laying around the docks. Someone else might ... appropriate it."

Turning to the ship, Miguel lifted a hand. In an instant, the sailors paused. The ones on the gangplank didn't even exchange a look before they started to walk back to the dock. Without another word, they dropped the box. And a hundred pounds of solid avarice fell heavily to the ground. Clink. Clank. A second box dropped on top of that one. Then another.

"No. No! Stop!" Squawking like a chicken, Buckner ran to the crates. He grabbed one, heaved, grunted, but he couldn't budge it. He called for the bodyguards.

Hamilton watched his partner's antics. His smile never wavered for a second as he leaned on his cane. "Well," he said as several more boxes were unloaded. "Well, well, well. Your reputation is well-deserved, Don Cabrillo. You drive a hard bargain. A very hard bargain indeed. We are in a devil of a predicament, being here, as you can see, with the job only half-started. Like being caught with your pants down, shall we say. Yes, just like that. I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid we shall have to do as you ask."

"Good." Miguel raised his hand. The sailors stopped.

"With one small modification. One that you - as a sensible man - will surely agree to. As you so wisely pointed out, we cannot leave such a valuable cargo unattended. Anything could happen. So I propose that you guard it. Buckner will stay here with you while I get the authorization from our superior. And if anything untoward happens, why then - you may discuss it with my partner here. Isn't that right, Horace?"

Buckner's mouth pinched, but he managed to nod.

"And I have all your gold," reminded Miguel.

"Just so, Don Cabrillo. Just so. I am sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. My superior is a reasonable person. Quite reasonable indeed." Hamilton gestured to the bodyguards. "You don't mind if some of the boys stay with Buckner? Horace gets a trifle lonely from time to time."

Miguel's lips thinned. For a long moment, he stood there, silent and still as the night around us. "Be my guest," he said finally, gesturing towards the ship. "Gentlemen, this way."

###

Cripes. This wasn't what Miguel wanted. I could tell by the formal set of his shoulders as he escorted the men up the gangplank and on to the ship. He didn't spare me a second glance. He couldn't. Otherwise the men would know that someone else - me - was still there: hiding, watching, knowing. Where was Xi? My heart pounded as I searched through the fog for the silent giant. I didn't see any sign of him. Maybe he already tailing George, who seemed less important all of a sudden. What a waste. A complete waste of time. Now we had a real chance to find out the kingpin of the operation. And even with my inexperience, I knew that a chance like this didn't happen twice. We needed to follow Hamilton, but Xi wasn't available. It was all up to me.

Me? I was a doctor, not a Pinkerton. What did I know about this kind of thing? Inside I quivered like the first time I pierced a needle through someone's living flesh and pulled through a suture. My first stitch; then the second, third. Tie, knot, snip. I had done it, one step at a time. That was all I needed to do here. It was the same. Exactly the same. Don't think. Just do it. Determination gripped my guts. I sped on.

Hamilton's carriage was easy to find on the empty waterfront. It stood out like that wart on Mrs. MacDougal's nose: obvious and startlingly alone. Slipping between the boxes and buildings, I ran ahead, thankful for my split skirt and sensible boots that didn't slip in the mud or puddles of rancid oil. I inched around a pile of rope, some spars, a fresh trash heap until I was close to the carriage. The horses were hitched. The driver sat half-asleep, huddled in his cloak. One hand barely held a tin flask, lid flipped off. No one else was around.

One more look, and then I quickly climbed into the boot just before the men arrived. The old leather sides easily gave around me, swallowing me whole. Judas. The dust made my eyes water, and I could feel that vague itch inside my nose as if a sneeze was coming. But I was determined to bear it, even if it meant rubbing my nose off my face. Jeeze, it felt cramped in here. I shoved aside an old harness that poked me in my kidneys, then worked my legs around so that I wasn't stuck in a fetal position any longer. Carefully I peeked out of the top.

Miguel stood on the prow of his ship. He turned slowly as if he were checking the tide, then scanning the ships in the harbor. When his gaze finally reached the carriage, his hands gripped the rails. His body straightened suddenly as if he'd seen me. But before he had a chance to do anything else, the first mate approached. "Capitán?"

"Si." Miguel turned away, absorbed in his business again. He pointed aft.

I wanted to call out, wave, somehow send some signal that I'd be all right and he needn't worry. But I couldn't. And perhaps it didn't matter whether I could or not. Miguel would worry anyhow. That's who he was: protective - sometimes overbearingly so - of anyone under his care: from little Li-Chu to his cousin Pedro, and yes, even of me. Miguel took his responsibilities so seriously. He was the Don, after all.

And besides, I didn't know if any of my reassurance would be true or not. I hadn't been found yet, but I wasn't exactly scott-free either. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I mean, I was making this up as I went along. And so here I was, uncomfortable as hell. The metal rivets pressed into my skin, and I wished that I was at least two feet shorter. Whose idea was this? Oh yeah, that's right. Mine. Some idea. Act first, think later. The motto for my entire miserable life. Lucky I had even made it this far. My twenty-third year seemed like a real remote possibility right now. I was debating about climbing out again when I heard the Confederates returning.

"A bad turn, sir," said one of the bodyguards.

"Not at all. Not at all. I do not share your pessimism," said Hamilton as they approached. Hastily I ducked back down again. The carriage dipped and bounced when the men heaved Hamilton into it, then boarded themselves. Someone clicked their teeth, and the horses snorted. We rolled backwards for a second, then pitched forward - slowly at first, while the horses leaned into their harness. Then gradually we picked up speed, driving clackety-clack down the Broadway pier towards the mud and planks of Market Street. The wheels churned up big clods that pelted me through the leather like fists.

For a man with an important meeting, Hamilton didn't seem to be in any great rush. We zigzagged across the Barbary Coast, making several stops along the way. Cripes! How many saloons did we need to see? Were we ever going to get there? My feet had already turned numb, and now the paraesthesias were creeping up towards my knees. I was beginning to worry when we finally settled into the steady swaying rhythm of a journey. Clip-clop. Clip-clop. The horses plodded on.

Gradually the air smelled a little cleaner and sweeter: less like open sewage and more like where the streets were swept and garden flowers grew. Probably a different neighborhood now. We must be headed south where all the nobs lived. But it didn't matter where we were going: China Camp, Washerwoman's Lagoon, South Park. No, it didn't matter at all. It could be anywhere, any street in the city, because no matter what that street was called, it was my road to perdition; every brick of it paved with my good intentions.

###

The bigger the house, the more ways to sneak in. Pop had always said that, and to my extreme satisfaction, it appeared to be true. Under its Gothic spires and witch-hat towers, the Calhoun mansion had hundreds of gabled full-sized windows, large enough to accommodate any adult. I just needed to find a Nikita-size one. Pick a window, any window. There, behind the rose bushes near the side of the house. That one looked secluded enough. I ran forward on the soft giving lawn to the house, peered through the pane, then carefully eased up the top sash. Climbed in easily. A cinch. A real cinch, thanks to my long legs.

Well, how about that? My father had been right about cracking a house, but he had never said anything about how creepy it was to sneak through a sleeping one. The walls seemed to sigh, and the floorboards creaked underneath me. Every now and then, branches would scrip-scrape against the glass panes. I froze. Instinctively pressed myself against the wall as if somehow a six-foot woman dressed in black could blend into bronze damask walls. It wasn't likely but there was no dratted place to hide. Was someone coming around the corner? Sweat collected on the back of my neck and trickled down my spine while I waited. Waited and listened. No one. Absolutely no one at all. Just my over-stimulated imagination again. Everyone else seemed abed. Thank goodness.

Man, oh man, this place was giving me the willies. The tall ceilings looked cavernous, and the ornate chandeliers hovered over me like large winged monsters. Everywhere I went, the eyes on the wall portraits followed me as I crept through the carpeted hallways towards the sounds of voices coming from a room.

"I do declare. Calling in the middle of the night. How very, very inconsiderate. It is not to be believed," said a woman's contralto, steamy as a Southern summer night. It was the voice of a siren: all sultry, softly pulling. It was the voice of Madeline LaRue Calhoun. The door was slightly ajar so that golden candlelight spilled from the room into the hallway. I could smell a sumptuous dinner, sweet beeswax, and even sweeter honeysuckle. Sweet enough to choke. She laughed throatily as if pleased or pleasured.

A man murmured, quiet and low. My ears perked, focusing harder. He sounded familiar. Terribly familiar. It wasn't who I expected to be here. No. It couldn't be him. Worrying, I crept closer to the door.

"Oh, forgive me, darling. I didn't mean you, of course. I didn't mean you at'all. You are always welcome. Day and night. Especially night. Only we must be careful. Thaddeus mustn't know. No one must. It wouldn't be wise, would it?" Madeline was standing by a fireplace. The flickering light made her look younger and slimmer, glinting here and there along the folds of her la Russe gown, which was parted down the back. Her hair was down. She turned her back to the man. "It's a nuisance, I know, but would you mind ...?"

A tall lean figure in black walked towards her. I couldn't see his face, but I could see how the candlelight brought out the russet in his brown hair. I knew every strand. I had seen the same colors night after night in our bed when I'd held him, then watched him, sleeping in my arms. And now I watched him button up Madeline's gown with the same deftness that he had unbuttoned mine. Judas. Those quick clever Cabrillo hands. Clever, all right. He had deceived me. Totally deceived me. I felt sick inside. Maybe I was as young as he'd always said. Young, naive, and totally gullible. An easy mark. How I must have amused him.

He stood near the table, his hands picking a little food from one platter, then another.

Madeline's lips pursed into a perfect scarlet moue. "Really, sometimes I truly believe you are more interested in my cook than in me. Must you do that? Eating off my plate. It is aggravating. And unsanitary. Well, I won't pay it no never mind. There are other things to attend to." Her finger ran down the buttons of his jacket to below. She smiled. "More important things. Hand me my robe, darling."

"Of course, querida."

###

What's the worst pain you can imagine? Poking your eye with a sharp stick? Giving birth? Cutting yourself bad? Whatever it is, multiply it by a million, and that's how I felt. Maybe even worse than that as realization finally hit. Crrrrrra-aaaaack. Lightning zapped through me and split my heart into two, leaving a burnt empty place inside my chest. My shoulders slumped forward, and I felt as if I were going to cave in on myself, pushed in on all sides by my disbelief and growing anger. I couldn't believe it. I didn't want to believe it.

I wanted to go in there and hurt him, hurt them both, as badly as I hurt right now. But I also wanted to run away and never see him again. Both impulses tugged at me so that I stood there, uncertain what to do next. I could only watch: a caress, another murmur, his back still towards me as he reached for another delicacy to feed himself, then Madeline. She kissed his fingertips, then declined a second offering.

Horrified, I saw Madeline walk towards to the door. She would find me. They both would. I had to leave. Now. Before my humiliation would be complete. Totally complete. Even though I hadn't eavesdropped on that meeting between Hamilton and Calhoun yet, I had already heard enough, seen too much. I couldn't take it any longer. So I ran out of that mansion, fury making my feet fast. I ran even faster. I just felt too sick at heart to care. The night was cool but it didn't refresh me. And no amount of foxglove would ever cure what ailed me. I didn't think anything would.

###

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," I said without any real conviction because for once I felt safe. Still shaky but absolutely safe, cruising through the Barbary Coast. No question about it. I was no longer by myself. Lily was chaperoning me like a mother taking her kid to the first day of school. My aunt gave a gimlet eye to a grimy lowlife in the alleyway. "Don't even think about it," she growled. "I eat weasels like you for breakfast. Spit out the bones afterwards."

Impressive. I had to remember that line. Maybe I could use it on Don "Juan" Miguel later on. I just had to work on that low angry voice. I was afraid I'd sound too wobbly right now. Weak-willed and wobbly. No good. I wanted to be strong and forceful like her, but I always felt like somehow I never measured up. "You didn't have to come with me, Lily."

"Nonsense, baby doll. Complete and absolute nonsense. My beautifying treatment can wait until later. I'd do anything for you. Anything at all. Family first, I always say. It's too bad that Don Cabrillo is such a severe disappointment. He always seemed so regular to me. So steady. Such a nice dependable gentleman. And always so polite. I never guessed that he'd turn out to be a two-timing rat. I'd like to give him a good piece of my mind. Or a good piece of a two-by-four. Whack. Right between the eyes. Ha. He has no business treating you that way like a ... a used-up ... hankie."

I had a feeling she had been about to say something more vulgar, but had admirably restrained herself in time. Still, her little speech didn't make me feel any better. "Cripes. I'm not dead yet. I have my health, my work. I have you and Walter and Monte. I can count my blessings. I'm okay. Really. I'm fine."

"Fine?! My ass. You can fool yourself, but you can't fool me. You're broken-hearted. Just plain down and broken-hearted. I can see that. You're awfully quiet about it. Just like your mother. She'd rather die than let anyone know how much the pain was eating her up alive. Stoic to the end. Me? I'll go down kicking and screaming, and you can bet your bottom dollar that I'll take a few down with me too while I'm at it. You bet I would. Why aren't you wailing about this? What's wrong with you? I didn't raise you to be a turn-the-cheek lah-de-dah. Maybe he's not as important to you as I thought he was."

I swallowed hard, and before me, the gas lamps seemed to swim. Their soft yellow lights turned into blurry haloes. Oh no. Not again. I swiped a hand across my eyes. "He is ... was. It's just that it all happened so fast. Everything. Meeting, taking care of him, or trying to ... being, well, together. It took my breath away. Kind of like an asthma attack. Real bad. And sudden. I couldn't help myself. But, you know, Lily, Miguel never made any promises to me. Not one. So maybe it's my fault if I expected more. What do I know? I've never ..."

"Fallen in love before?"

I could feel my face crumpling around my eyes, mouth. There was that pain again: sharp, right between the ribs. How could I feel that when there was nothing left inside me? It didn't make any sense. None of this did. I vigorously shook my head.

"And you never want to again?"

This time I nodded.

Lily slung a consoling arm around my shoulders as we turned down Post Street. We passed by the cribs and the cow-yards, where the signs read "Men taken in and done for." My aunt only shook her head at the pockmarked girls who sat half-naked in their windows. "You could help those girls if you opened up that Infirmary again. Things got worse after Walter closed it down. There's work - good work - for you to do."

Surprised, I looked at my aunt. "I thought you didn't want me to be a doctor. I always thought you just wanted me to find a man. Someone to take care of me."

"I never said that, baby doll." Lily sighed. "I just want you to be happy. I always wanted your road to be smooth and straight. But instead, you chose something rocky, something that causes you pain. I'll never understand it, but don't you dare ever think I'm not proud of you. I'm real proud. As proud as can be."

She hugged me tighter as if she could press some of her amazing strength right through my skin and into my aching soul. Then I realized - finally realized - the depth of her unconditional love. I was strange to Lily - perhaps as incomprehensible as a book of ancient Arabic medicine - but it didn't seem to matter to her. She loved me all the same and wanted only the best for me. It amazed me. And right then and there, I found it possible to love her even more. I don't think this seedy neighborhood ever seemed more beautiful to me.

Silently we kept walking. A little further down the way, we passed the higher class joints like the House of Blazes and Nymphia. Nicer places all right, but none as fine as the Golden Lily. My aunt sniffed. At last she said, "Don't worry, about the Don. Time mends all things, and what it doesn't mend, it allows you to plan for. Some revenge maybe. Something sweet. Something real juicy. Don't let Don Cabrillo off the hook so easily. I say horsewhipping would be too good for him. Maybe buried up to the neck and covered with fire ants. The nasty stinging kind. Yes. That might be satisfactory. For the first go 'round. Hmm, let's see. And sleeping with Madeline LaRue Calhoun! Can't be any punishment worse than that. A man would need to go to bed with a full suit of armor to feel protected against the likes of her. Truly he would." She proceeded to outline more dire consequences for Don Miguel, each more gruesome than the last. No one said that Lily lacked imagination. And she was bloodthirsty. Bloodthirsty as hell. I had to admit that listening to her rant made me feel a little better.

There is no bodyguard more zealous than an outraged aunt, and I had one, marching ahead of me towards the Zeus Hotel. Even though it was almost dawn, the lights were still on, and rinky-tink piano music leaked out whenever the front doors swung open.

"Why is Monte here?" I said for the umpity-umpteenth time. And for the umpity-umpteenth, Lily didn't reply. Men. So aggravating. They never did what you told them to, and they never stayed where they were supposed to. "Dear God, he just puked his guts out all along Portsmouth Square. He should be in bed."

"Maybe he is," laughed my aunt, hitching up her Worth gown a little higher to take step over a pile of horse dung.

"Lily!" My cheeks flushed. I didn't want to think about Monte doing ... well, you know.

"Don't get missish on me. It's a fact of life, and some facts are just more interesting than others." My aunt laid a hand on the door and decisively pushed it open. Strode right on in like a steam engine, smelling of her favorite muguet and the cucumbers from the eye-bath I had interrupted just moments ago. "Maybe that Persephone is giving him a little of her own medicine, although this is the last place I think he should be. Enough visits here and you'll end up in a real sanitarium. Permanento. Now, where the hell's that boy?"

The moment we stepped into the front parlor, the music stopped on a jangling note. The discordant sound lingered in the air like cheap perfume while the rest of the room fell completely silent. Everyone froze. Nymphs, Ganymede's and their clients were caught in a tableau, draped with red damask and brassy-green trim. It looked like some garish badly-tinted picture-card of a hoochy house. Welcome to San Francisco, the garden of earthly delights. See the sights! Enjoy the pleasures! I could just imagine it, but I didn't have to. I was here after all.

Hands on hips, Lily scanned the room with a sharp professional eye, sizing up the cheaper make of the gowns and the troweled-on make-up. Well, the murals weren't so bad, but the subject matter wasn't exactly ... classic. I didn't think any of it was anatomically possible. Not even if everyone was double-jointed contortionists. Artistic license, I supposed.

Someone in the corner tittered. And that single sickly sound broke the logjam. Everything started moving again, and everyone returned to their previous business, legal or not. One of the working girls walked by with a tray of strong spirits. The music started up again. A few tinkly notes led to a flourish of more. And someone started singing in a passable gravelly bass. Champagne Charlie, I think.

"Land sakes, they ought'a get that piano tuned. The alley cats are yowling outside," my aunt declared. Behind her hand, she whispered, "Look at that color. Ribbon's turning. Supposed to be gold. Fake gold. Act low-class and that's all you'll catch. Low-class and cheapola. Tcha! Betcha the liquor's watered here too. It would just be like Elvira to chintz. You know, she adds to her measurements but she subtracts from her age. Pitiful, really."

I elbowed my aunt. "Lower your voice, will you? Jeez, sometimes you're like Monte. Just as bad."

"You mean 'just as good.' That boy is after my own heart. Just goes out and grabs the world with his two fists. Baby doll, let me fill you in on a little secret. Subtlety is wasted on this crowd. Just plumb wasted. Manners? Huh! What's that? Just a little refined sugar to fancy up an oat cake. Same thing underneath. Same darn thing. Look at this clientele. They wouldn't know the first thing about etiquette. See that girl over there, picking her nose behind her fan? As if anyone would find that attractive. I don't think so. Not even the bear pit crowd. And the girl in lilac ..."

"What? Where?" The major's lady? Was she here again? I looked but I couldn't see past that cluster of hookers. Come on, come on. A woman took her time adjusting the laurel wreath on a boy's head, then where the toga hung on his shoulder. Finally, he moved away. And then I saw her. The young lady in lilac perched on an overstuffed horsehair chair. She sipped a glass of ratafia and limpidly fluttered her fan. Those sly eyes bothered me. It was as if she was hoarding some secret. A wonderful delicious secret that only she knew.

Cripes, she looked familiar. Sort of like someone I already knew: those thin eyes, that pert nose. And that smirk. I knew that irritating smirk from somewhere. Some place dark. And damp. A jail? Maybe she was the sister of some soldier I'd once taken care of, and she'd gone from a camp follower to a hooker when the family fortunes had fallen. It was a common enough story in the war. Drats. I couldn't place her face and it was really starting to bother me. "Who is she? Lily, do you know her?"

"No. She's not a regular working girl ..."

I only half-listened to my aunt while I thought frantically. Was that girl from Paris? On the ship? No. More recent than that. My mind groped; searching for patterns, discarding features and mismatched memories. One right after the other. I kept circling back to that mouth, the one thankfully hidden behind her matching fan now. I had seen that spiteful expression before but not at the Calhoun mansion. No, before that. Way before in ...

Jail? My jail. That night I was abducted from Lily's. Yes, that was it. That young girl reminded me of Sergeant Hillinger. Did he have a female relative? Maybe a sister? I immediately felt so sorry for her. Imagine having that creep for your brother! I mean, at least I had Monte. Monte bugged me, but he also loved the hell out of me. Rock solid. I counted on it. I knew I could. Not like the sergeant. Hillinger was a sneak. You could smell it a mile away. He was the kind of brother that would piss on your bed on purpose, and then say that you did it just to get you in Dutch.

"... No one I've ever seen around much before," Lily was saying. "Of course, girls just come and go. If you can even call her a girl in the first place."

"What?" I straightened up, Lily's last words finally registering. "What do you mean?"

"Details, Nikita. Details are everything. The little touches. But like I said, they're simply lost on a crowd like this. Why, just look at how she's sitting."

"No ankle showing. Nice slippers." Not a trace of mud. Not like my own caked boots.

"No. Not her footwear, for heaven's sake. Look closer. Feet apart. A dead giveaway. Every little girl always learns to sit with her ankles crossed. Even a hooker remembers that lesson. Until she learns the right time to do otherwise."

And this time, I'd heard every word that my aunt had said, but the meaning was still unclear. I felt very slow, putting it all together. It was like the first time I added two plus two. I needed to count on my fingers to make sure I'd gotten the sum right. And once I did, I still wasn't sure if I'd arrived at the right answer. It seemed too preposterous. Like finding out that two plus two was really thirty-eight. It wasn't, was it? "Are you saying ... that she's a he?"

"You got it. That's what I'm saying. That's exactly what I'm saying. Just like Elvira here, only she was born differently. Kinda mix and match. Too much of some things, but not enough of the others. Or so they say. Do you get my drift? You should. You didn't go to that fancy medical school in Paris for nothing, did you?"

My mouth gaped. "So that girl over there isn't Hillinger's sister after all. That's Sergeant Hillinger. Him ... himself?"

"I wouldn't know a Hillinger from Adam. But a sergeant, you say?" Lily thumped me on the shoulder, the chuckles starting to rumble through her statuesque chest. "A sergeant? Get out of here. You mean the military? Well, who woulda thought that? Don't that beat all! I guess a dress is just a different kind of uniform. Regulation corsets." My aunt threw her head back and laughed louder.

Surprised and more than a little curious, I couldn't help myself. I darted another glance at Gregory Hillinger. Yes, now that Lily had mentioned it - I could see what she meant. The heavy make-up concealed a beard, not acne scars. And those broader male shoulders. I had been fooled. Totally fooled by him. Gads. I gave a little start. Over the top of his fan, he looked directly at me. Then he winked.

"But that means the major ..." I drifted off, feeling even more confused. That brusque cutting attitude. Cold, hard and male. Very male. "He can't be! Major Wolfe? A ... a sexual invert? But he's not like Uncle Alfie. Remember? Alfie was always trying to put up my hair in rag curls? Dressed me in little outfits. Or like ... Frankie. Your cook. The major's not a thing like Frankie."

"And how should he be, Nikita? Tell me that. We're not stamped out with cookie cutters. Some people might like it better if we were, but we're not. We're all different. Everyone of us - unique. It takes all kinds, baby doll. All kinds in this world. Even your sergeant over there. And even Major Wolfe." My aunt clutched my arm. "Ah, there's Persephone. And Monte. At last. That's who you wanted, right? Well, come on. Don't stand there like an oak tree. Get a move on."

Lily swept me along like she always does. From the other side of the room came my brother, whose face still looked green around the gills. He was walking with a medium-sized hooker, who wore a white high-waisted Grecian gown. A silver diadem held back her long black hair, and her dark almond-shaped eyes looked too wise and sad for the goddess of youth. Perhaps she had spent too long as it was in the land of the underworld. Her skin seemed like old parchment - very thin and slightly yellow. Jaundice. Over-tweaked adrenals. A tad cachectic. She didn't seem well. Not well at all.

Monte gave a big grand wave as if he were greeting me from the topside of the boat. "Ahoy there. Well, hey, Lily. Sis."

"You shouldn't be here," I said fiercely.

"Glad to see you too. A family reunion. How's about that? What brings you here?" Monte kissed both my cheeks. Into my ear, he murmured, "Major's here."

I stiffened under his hands, my eyes widening with excitement.

"Patience," Monte said softly. Then he tapped the tip of his finger against my nose. Grinned. He took Persephone's hand and lifted it in acknowledgement. "You all know this lady. Formerly of the Golden Lily, and lately of this fine, fine establishment."

Fidgeting, I muttered hello. What was Monte about now? Wasting my time, that's what. I had to find the major. At any moment, that ship would sail and I'd lose my chance. I didn't have time for these social niceties. Maybe I could just nip this in the bud right now. I mean, if you couldn't be rude in a brothel, where could you be rude? Well, maybe I was being a tad hypocritical. Okay. A lot. I hoped that my aunt couldn't read my mind. I glanced nervously at her.

Lily looked thoughtfully at Monte's companion. "Well, hello, Pursie Mae. How have you been keeping?"

"Same as always. Just as you can see," said the hooker. She tried to pull her hand out of Monte's, but he held on. Firm. She frowned up at him.

I nodded towards Greg Hillinger. "What can you tell me about him, Pursie Mae?"

"Him?" Her eyebrows lifted. "Not on Elvira's payroll. He's here from time to time. A busy worker. Must be some kind of research. He's always writing things down."

Researching? More likely collecting information. This place must be a treasure trove for them. It wasn't just anatomy that was exposed here. Everyone's weaknesses were exposed too. Last night's vice could be neatly turned into today's blackmail. That was how they'd blackmailed me into doing their work. An ugly business, all around. "Doesn't Elvira mind?"

"Mind? Why should she? She gets a cut," said Pursie Mae wearily. "We all do if we find out something useful. It's dirty money, you know. Leaves a stain on your hand."

"You don't have to stay here. You know that you're always welcome back," Lily said.

Looking sad, Pursie Mae only shook her head. "Your house has rules. No poppy. No hop-fiends. That means ... me."

"It doesn't have to be, darlin'. I told you. Isn't that right, Nikita?"

"Yes. It's possible. But it's not for me to say. It's up to Pursie Mae."

She stared back, hostility and hope all mixed up on her face. It gave her some spark so that she didn't look so sallow and beaten down. She almost seemed to come to life again. "I don't think ..."

"Then you won't," I replied. "Only you can decide. If. When. You let me know. I'll help. If you'll let me."

"You. You're just like your brother. Won't take 'no' for an answer," muttered Pursie Mae. And this time, when she yanked her hand away from Monte, she succeeded.

Monte fluttered his fingers over his chest. "Whoa. Stop right there. I don't know about that. Like Nikita? Ye gods and little fishes! I wouldn't go that far."

"Well, how far would you go? You're an invalid, remember? Or did you barf out your brains too?" I said crossly. I didn't really want to be involved in his rescue work. It was hard. Damnably hard to give up opium. Especially if the addict was reluctant. I'd seen these joy-luck girls fall into one long night that never ended, from one heavy pipe to the next. Pursie Mae was one of those. Could she make the journey back? Cripes! What had Monte gotten me into now? That sentimental sap. He talked big, but he was just a big softie like me. He'd been throwing away money on Pursie Mae for years. And now this. He wanted her to come clean again. Well, maybe she'd be one of my first Infirmary patients, but Monte better do his share of the work. I'd make sure he would, all right. You bet I would.

"Now wait a minute. Wait a gosh-darned minute. I might ask the same of you. What are you doing here?" he said, pulling me to one side. " I thought you were chasing the Don. Or wait! Don't tell me!" Monte shaded his eyes with one hand, and pretended to survey the room. "You followed him here? Here, to this den of utter iniquity? Jesus. I didn't think he had any more oomph left. Not after you went on all those blackberry picking expeditions. Convenient. You guys were gone a long long time. Real long. So long that ..."

"That's not funny." I didn't want to be reminded of that. There were a lot of things I'd be better off forgetting if I knew what was best for me. I quickly punched my brother in the gut. One, two. Hard. Then harder.

"Ow. Awwww. You always did hit like a girl. No, no." Lifting one hand, he cowered underneath it. "No need to prove your point some more. Message read. Loud and clear." He finally straightened up and looked at me. Really looked at me for the first time. His mobile mouth frowned. "Something's happened. What is it?"

"Never mind," I said. "I need to talk with the major. He needs to know. It's Calhoun. Calhoun's stolen the gold, and they're shipping it out tonight."

Monte tilted his head back, his eyes narrowing as if he were following the progress of a fly on the ceiling. "Thaddeus Calhoun? He makes plenty as it is. A bona fide tycoon. He's probably bathes in money every damn night. Why does he need more?"

"I don't know. Profit's the only reason that makes sense. Didn't strike me as the political die-for-Dixie type. But I followed the Confederates to his mansion. They met with him. So it's Calhoun, all right."

"And you said 'they'. 'They are shipping'. Well, who the hell's 'they'? Anonymity bothers me. I have a real problem with anonymity. Just who are you talking about now?" persisted Monte.

"Well ..." I couldn't finish. It was too hard to admit. My - no, not my - Miguel. Double-crossing the Union. Double-crossing me. A traitor, two times around.

Folding his arms, Monte tapped his foot. "I'm wa-i-i-iting."

"Don Cabrillo," I admitted finally, unable to meet his eyes.

"Ah ha. Interesting. Very interesting." My brother thoughtfully rubbed his long jaw. "Well, well. Maybe your Don ..."

"He's not my Don."

"What do you mean?" said my brother heatedly. "By God, did he touch you? I swear, if he touched you again, I'll ..."

No, I thought, the injury was worse. Far worse than that. I felt bruised in a place that couldn't be bandaged. But I was too ashamed to explain that to Monte. I could only shook my head in denial.

My brother whistled low. "So that's the size of it, is it? A spat. You're having a spat? Right now. Now, in the middle of all this mess. Great. Just great. Isn't that just like a girl? Letting all that lovey-dovey stuff get in the way of a mission. Really, darlin'. I thought better of you. Don't worry. He'll send some roses, write a bad poem, maybe even serenade you some night like a coyote canoodling at the moon. Real romantic-like. Then before you can spit, everything will be hunky-dory again. Take it from me. It always works with females. Guaranteed."

"Wait a moment. You said 'missions'. What do you know about running missions? Come on, mister. 'Fess up. I thought you were just a flimflam man."

"Hmmmm. Just what are the odds? Couldn't rightly say just off the top of my head. Of course, there are a couple of factors," said my brother, totally ignoring my question. He hemmed and he hawed for a moment before he let out a huge sigh. Monte grinned suddenly. "Yeah, that's the ticket. You bet. A long shot. I admit it. A real long shot, but hey, that just means the payola is that must sweeter. I'll split it with you. Fifty-fifty. Real square. Whaddya say? Let's get to work!" He gleefully rubbed his hands together.

"This isn't a game."

"Everything's a game, darlin'. Haven't you learned that by now? And it's better to be on the winning side. Much better." And his grin turned feral.

###

Morning was coming. Through the thick clouds, the eastern sky was just lightening from a midnight blue into the deep color of a robin's old egg, but the sun remained hiding. Lengthy shadows still fell from the buildings and stretched across the docks. And in this darkness, the fishermen readied their ketches for another day's work. The air was full of gulls shrieking, hopeful for some tossed bait, and the polyglot sounds of Chinese, Italian, and curses - the universal language. And by the Marlin, there was Spanish, rapid like a river. They'd already missed the first tide, but the second one was coming. I could see the color of the water change, deepen. It was splashing louder against the pilings now. Soon. High tide in another half-hour or less. Miguel must be getting anxious. But if he was, he didn't betray it with any wasted motion like Buckner, who paced around him. Miguel just stood there on the deck, one hand resting against his flexed leg. There was nothing to do but wait now. The deck was cleared of boxes. Everything else looked lashed down, and all hands were at their stations. The mainsail was unfurled and rigged up. And a thin plume of smoke trailed from the main stack. The engine was already stoked. They looked ready to go. Too ready.

We were running out of time. Hamilton's carriage had just arrived, and the portly man was making his painful way up the gangplank. He was accompanied by someone ... not Calhoun. Too short. Maybe Calhoun's agent, all wrapped up in a heavy concealing cloak. No surprise there. It was probably too early and too cold for someone of Calhoun's consequence to show up for a business meeting on the wharf. No, he'd send someone else to do the dirty work.

Almost everyone was there. Everyone except the Union soldiers. Now where was the major and the men he'd promised? I looked across the way to where my brother was hiding. He curled his fingers into a zero, and shrugged. Then Monte suddenly pointed behind me. I looked.

There was one man. One. That was it. Was this our back-up? I wasn't impressed. Not at all. If I didn't feel so tense, I would have laughed. Instead of the cavalry, they'd sent a human walrus to help us. Between his big belly and a long droopy moustache, he looked like a graying marine mammal. He looked harmless. Completely harmless. Jeez. Some help. He wore a navy blue frock, and his brass buttons looked as if they'd been spit and polished. A dress sword clanked against his boots with every shuffling step. "Miss." His polite address ended on an inquiring note.

"Are you the harbormaster? Thank goodness you're finally here. Now you can stop the Marlin from sailing. It's full of gold. Gold stolen from the Union."

He held his hands behind his back, and rocked a little on to his heels. He harumphed, which made his moustache ruffle. "Really?"

"Yes, really." Was this man stupid? Drunk? Or maybe - just maybe - he didn't care. Frustration welled inside of me. "Go on. Do your job. Didn't Major Wolfe tell you how important this was?"

"Major Wolfe, eh? Tsk, tsk. Come with me." He took my elbow.

I wrenched it away. Took two step backwards. "I don't think so. I'll just stay here."

"The docks are no place for a lady."

"I'm not a lady. I'm a doctor. And I'm perfectly fine."

"Ladies. Lord love them. Just like my missus. Gets a notion into her noggin, and there's no letting go. It just sticks. Stirs her up and makes her crazy. Now please, miss. Take it nice and easy-like. We'll go get a nice cuppa tea. In the parlor. That's where you belong. Not here in the harbor by yourself. Don't get hysterical."

My eyes flared. That old walrus! How dare he? This was real, not some fit of vapors. I wanted to bean him right there. Whap. Right on the occiput. Maybe I wasn't so different from Lily after all. "No," I said firmly. I repeated myself even more firmly, retreating a few steps more.

"Nevertheless. Come with me, miss," he said in those loud insistent tones you use to speak to a deaf patient or a crazy one.

I had to go with him. It didn't seem right, but I didn't have much of a choice. What else could I do? If I raised a ruckus now, I'd draw attention. The wrong kind of attention. And he didn't seem interested in doing his job. Maybe I'd have to do it for him. I didn't know how but I'd try, all right. It was like doing a major resection when you'd planned on only doing a little biopsy. A mess. A real mess, but there was no going back now. I'd promised the major I'd help a little - keep watch until the soldiers arrived. But now I was way beyond just watching. I was already in the middle of it, up to my elbows. In for a penny, in for a pound.

So that's how I ended up walking with the harbormaster after all. My dread increased with each step as we left the shadows behind the warehouses, and stepped on to the middle of the docks. In plain view. Exposed. This couldn't be right. I could feel the eyes of the men on me: the crew, the Confederates, and Don Miguel. He didn't look happy to see me. Quite the opposite, judging from his downturned mouth, as I walked up the swaying gangplank. I put one hand on the polished hardwood rail, and boarded the ship. I was back. The deck gently rocked under my feet, but it didn't feel comforting like it usually did. It didn't at all. This was no homecoming. This was the last place I wanted to be. On his ship. His. I didn't want to have anything to do with him any more. Didn't I?

The harbormaster followed close behind me. He tut-tutted with each step. Stopped, then coughed behind his fist. "Good morning, gentleman. Forgive me for interrupting you, but I found this ... young lady on the docks. She's made some serious allegations. Very serious."

"Not allegations. The truth," I said hotly. "Now don't just stand there. Do something. Arrest them, for God's sakes."

"Something about stolen gold," continued the harbormaster. He cleared his throat, harrumphing again. "Would you know anything about that?"

"Me?" said Buckner, winding his fob watch. He shook his head.

"Not at'all. Not at'll," Hamilton replied. The figure behind him only stared over the rails and remained silent.

Miguel didn't say anything either. He looked grimmer than usual. His hands clenched, then slowly relaxed. And his eyes looked once again like green ice: cold and bleak. There was no greeting there. And no welcome.

Then one by one, all the other men started laughing - even the harbormaster. Even Buckner. His sour face stretched with ghoulish delight. I wasn't sure exactly what was so funny, but whatever the joke was, it seemed to be on me.

"Imagine," sputtered the harbormaster. "Imagine me doing anything to stop this operation! Why, that would be insane. Like tearing a hole in my pocket so I could lose money right and left. Just let it fall to the streets like some greenhorn."

Judas Iscariot. I'd done it again. Jumped to the wrong conclusions and landed in the thick of things. I'd trusted the wrong person. The harbormaster had been in cahoots with the smugglers all along. Cassam Shipping had probably paid him off since the very beginning. Just greased some palms and everything ran that much smoother. The harbormaster wasn't acting as a government agent any longer. He was working only for himself these days. He was nobody's back-up except for his own. And then I suddenly knew for a fact what I'd suspected all along. I was in trouble. Class-A trouble. The kind of trouble that makes you hope it's only a dream, so that at any moment, you're going to wake up and make it all go away. But this wasn't going to go away. Not in the blink of an eye. Not at all. I was already awake. My pulse pounded with real horror. This was real trouble, all right. Real horrible trouble.

I could only pray that Monte used what little sense he had to stay put, or better yet, get creative real quick. Like now.

###

No one had touched me yet. I wasn't in jail, wasn't handcuffed, but I might as well be. I felt good and trapped. Totally trapped. Mocking masculine faces surrounded me like a pack of half-drunk hyenas. The only serious one was Miguel. He seemed sober as an undertaker in his black frock coat and rough woolen breeches, tucked into his old boots. He looked like the first time I'd met him: severe, austere and remote. Only now he seemed even remoter, more of a stranger, and I understood him far less. Maybe I had never really known him at all. Maybe that Miguel had never even existed.

His gaze swept over me like a beam of harsh light; finding and exposing every single flaw: from my down-in-the-heel boots and too-high hem, to the dirt smeared across my face. My hair was a tangled mess. I'd lost that watch cap a long time ago. He examined me with a detachment that was worse - far worse - than the fury he'd shown me in his office hours ago. Then Miguel had seemed to care, care passionately. And now ... he did not. That was painfully clear.

And when he finally spoke it was like the Don to a peon. "Let her go. No one will believe her. A woman. A crazed woman who think she can do a man's job."

"This one says she's a doctor. Impossible! A lady doctor! What will be next? Ladies voting? I tell you these ideas just go to their heads. Makes them dizzy. Just like the missus," said the harbormaster, who regarded me as if I were rabid. Or worse.

"She will only get in my way," finished Miguel. Already he was turning away from me. I had been dismissed from his life. I didn't think it could hurt more, but it did. Somewhere inside of me, that hurt throbbed, grew, resonated. Staring at his back, I felt my hands fist as if they were looking for a weapon. Any weapon. Maybe that spar. I wondered if I could lift it.

Miguel said, "And now, gentlemen. The money. I am waiting."

"I would like to oblige you. Truly I would, sir, but my superior refuses. The deal stands. Just as it is." Hamilton thumped his cane against the deck for emphasis.

"Does it?" said Miguel softly. "I think not. I have your gold. All of it. You cannot force me."

"We can. Quite easily," Hamilton replied. "Seize her."

Me? Run! my brain screamed. But I reacted too late.

Already I felt a wind at my back, and then two ham-sized hands grabbed me, pinioned my arms by my side. I twisted, turned, but it didn't work. I was held fast by some big gorilla of a guard. I kicked. Connected solidly with his femoral nerve. The guard's knee buckled for a moment, but then straightened again. Cripes! Was he made out of iron? I kicked again, harder now - more wildly, but he only held me higher and farther away from him so that I looked like I was bicycling in air. The guard shook me once for good measure.

"Oooh-eee. Look at that. She's a high-spirited filly, all right. A real mustang," said Hamilton.

"Too wild. Too much trouble. That is your bargaining chip?" said Miguel disdainfully. He looked me over once more as if I were defective goods. His disdain deepened. "You miscalculate. Think again. Do what you like with her."

"Well, well, well," said Hamilton, chuckling. "You surprise me, sir. You truly do. I hadn't thought Miss Spencer was so - how shall we say it - disposable? I can hardly countenance it. Why just the other night at the State ball, Buckner and I accidentally overheard you two in the garden. You sounded very ... enamored."

Miguel lifted one shoulder as if to say "that was then, this is now." "One night's fancy. No more. It means nothing. Nothing at all. I could not care ... less."

That cold brutal tone. His words jabbed here, there; finding all the vulnerable places. I sagged at my middle as if he'd kicked me in the solar plexus.

Hamilton chuckled. "Maybe you are a cool customer. Even cooler than they say, Don Cabrillo."

Then the cloaked figure by the rails turned very slowly until he faced us. But his features were still hidden under the hood. I couldn't tell who this stranger was. He walked towards me with deliberate care as if he was more comfortable on land and didn't trust the shifting deck. When he finally reached me, his hand touched my chin. I jerked backwards, surprised at the strange soft feel of his skin. Pampered hands. The kind of hands that pinched snuff and poured brandy. He had probably never done a decent day's work in his whole life.

It repulsed me - that gentle, curious way he touched me. It was almost a caress. My heart jolted against my ribs. Who was he? It was worse, not knowing who this anonymous stranger was. It only made me feel more worried, more helpless. Then his tender touch stopped, and just as suddenly, he slapped me. Hard. Vicious. Completely without warning. The second blow made my head snap back. I accidentally bit down on the inside of my cheek, and the metal taste of blood seeped into my mouth. I spit it out on the deck. A big fat gob sprayed out and stuck to his shoe. He didn't even flinch.

My cheek was already swelling. It stung. I swallowed hard, and then I glanced back up again. The force of the blow had made my tormentor's hood fall backwards, revealing ... What?! Disbelieving, I stared at those features: the limpid brown eyes; those polite painted lips that now twisted into something cruel, a caricature of a smile; and that thick cloying scent. Honeysuckle? I thought dizzily. I must be going mad. How could such soft skin, such delicate hands deal out such pain?

The owner of the hands just smiled for a long time like a cat being rubbed down and purring. Purring loudly. "My goodness. My goodness, gracious," drawled Madeline LaRue Calhoun. "Y'all know it has been a time. Quite a long, long time. Why, I can hardly recollect such a lot of fuss and bother over nothing except for when my sister Sara lost her beau to a gal over in the St. Ambrose district. She was a lot like y'all." Her finger traced the line of my jaw to the angle. "So young. So pretty. And so unbelievably, incredibly stupid. I must say that you disappoint me. Gravely disappoint me. You are such a child."

"A child?!" I lunged forward, but didn't get far. The guard's grip punished me.

"Yes, a child with hardly enough mind for a bird. Even a small bird. Why, I can hardly believe that you could hold Miguel's interest. Not even for a minute." Madeline looked me over, her nose turning up a little. "So rough and unpolished. So ... unrefined. Not pleasing in the feminine arts. Not his usual style. Not you."

I glanced from Madeline to Miguel. At that long ago ball, I had sensed something between them. Only a past connection, I'd hoped, but it wasn't. It was a lot more recent than that. Bitterly I remembered seeing them at the mansion. And everything Madeline said just turned those intimate memories into something sharp and clear and utterly plain. Every one of her words was like a blow, more painful than that slap. Hurt to hear it. Hurt to know that he heard everything and did nothing. Said nothing. He seemed to agree with everything that his mistress said. He certainly wasn't disagreeing, damn him.

That pissed me off big time. Really big time. Even though my mouth felt raw and swollen like I was sucking on a pumpkin, I ignored it. I swallowed my spit and blood. I tried to sneer at Madeline. "Ha! That's what you think. I may be just a green girl, but I think you're a little green yourself. Are you jealous? Yeah, that must be it. Must be hard to see another woman come along. A much younger woman. Must be hard knowing that every night he's away, he's calling someone else querida. You're not the only one, you know."

There. My best shot. I watched it fly and land with a thud. That was it. Barely even registered a reaction. It was as if my salvo was all dirt and wet powder. A dud. A real dud. Maybe I just wasn't meant to be mean. I didn't grow up that way, and I certainly never learned how. I had tried to hit back. Give her measure for measure, but it didn't seem to work.

Madeline only stood there for a moment. Then one plucked, perfectly arched eyebrow slowly lifted. A second later, her eyes glittered with something I didn't understand, and her mouth curved into a pleased smile. "Querida. Fascinating," she murmured to herself. Her head slanted a little as she considered something for a moment. "So you saw us ... together. Tonight, was it?"

My eyes snapped shut, trying to squeeze down and shut away the tears that even now were beginning to form, plump. I blinked rapidly. And hoped that in this dim dawn light, she couldn't see them.

She did. The satisfaction shown all over her face as if she'd just eaten something delicious. "How very, very diverting. Did you spy on us, darling? See more than you wanted to? More than your poor little ole heart can handle? Maybe you could learn something from us. From me. Learn how a real woman handles a man like Don Miguel. He's too much of a man for the likes of you. After all, didn't he come back to me? He always ... comes back."

Madeline walked closer, taking her time, until at last we stood barely a breath apart. Slowly she touched my forehead, my cheek, and then my neck as if she were anointing me. Then she suddenly turned the tip of her finger deeper so that her nail jabbed into my skin, then broke through it. She scratched a thin painful line down my neck. Blood beaded, welled, dripped. When Madeline lifted her finger again, she was breathing a little faster now. She seemed almost excited.

She turned to Miguel. Showed him the finger marked with my blood. "Hmmm. So you don't care what we do with her, darling? Very good. Very satisfactory indeed. It makes it all the more easier. So much easier this way. Show me." She pointed her stained finger at me. "Beat her."

###

Miguel would do it. I knew he would. He wasn't a machine. He was a man; a carefully hidden passionate man; the kind of man who would do anything for a cause he believed in or for the woman he loved. And that woman ... was not me. My guts twisted into a knot as I stared at his handsome merciless face. He looked as if he were carved from stone. Nothing would change him. He would withstand any amount of pleading. Pleading? Ha. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction even though sickness welled inside me like mal de mer at its worst. I stared at his large elegant hands which hung loosely down at his sides. I could see them quickly cut fruit during breakfast. I could still feel them introducing me to parts of my body that I had never really known. And now, those same hands were going to hurt me. At Madeline's command.

"Do it," Madeline said.

"No," he said softly. He folded his arms across his chest.

"No?!" Her voice rose like the beginnings of a good sou'easter storm, pitching ready to howl loudly and for the duration.

"No," repeated Miguel, moving towards me. He gestured for the bodyguard to release me. "Unnecessary. A waste. She is more valuable unharmed. Lily will pay less if she's damaged."

"A possibility," replied Madeline slowly. She tapped a finger against her chin while she seemed to think about it. Bloodlust versus greed. A difficult choice. "All right. I agree." Apparently greed won.

"Well, I don't. Are you nuts? My aunt doesn't hold with kidnapping or blackmail or crooks. She ran the Sydney Ducks right out the neighborhood when they tried their extortion racket there. They couldn't squeeze any money out of her." I rubbed the circulation back into my arms. Opened and closed my fingers over and over again. "You've made a big mistake if you think she's going to pay any ransom. She won't pay a cent. Not a red cent."

Miguel coolly looked at me. "You are wrong. She values you." was all he said. Without another word, he reached inside his frock coat and pulled out a thin silver whistle. He set it to his lips and blew three short shrill blasts.

From the poopdeck, the first mate cupped his hands to his mouth. "Anchor aweigh!"

Then the deck suddenly sprang to life. Someone pulled the gangway while two other sailors pushed a crank-wheel to wind up the anchor chain, which clink-clanked, dripping saltwater everywhere. Ropes hissed across the deck. The ship rocked and lifted higher with each little wave as if she were ready to go, pawing and restless, like a horse at the starting line.

Beneath us, a distant bell rang. The deck shuddered as the steam engine caught and pushed the first gear, then the next. We began to chuff away, a little at a time, from the gradually receding dock. The harbormaster genially waved from shore.

"Wait," cried out Buckner. "Wait for me." He ran to the rail. Next to him, two sailors laughed as they coiled up the ropes into neat piles.

The pear-shaped sailor grinned at the frantic man. "Ees too late. We're away. We stay. We miss tide."

"But ... but ..." sputtered Buckner. He stopped when he saw Miguel's cold impatient look.

"No. You boarded my ship. Your idea. Not mine. And I will not wait any longer with this cargo in my hold. We will ship it for you. And when we arrive, I will take the rest of my payment in gold. After all, I know where it is. Gentlemen." All business, the capitán was already walking to the quarter deck.

I crept to the portside as the Confederates argued among themselves. Apparently no one had been planning to sail or had a particular fondness for it. Buckner was trying to bribe one of the sailors. It may have been a matter of language. Or maybe it was a matter of loyalty. But the sailor seemed to be refusing. And Madeline had gone below deck. Probably to make herself comfortable in the capitán's quarters, I thought bitterly. Well, she was welcome to them. She could have them. She could have Miguel. The two of them made quite a pair, discussing my kidnapping like that.

I was well rid of their company. I couldn't wait to escape. I reached the tackle. Started loosening the rope. We weren't too far, maybe twenty feet from short. I could grab hold, push off, and swing out like we used to do when we were kids, jumping into the water. Okay, maybe it had been awhile and I was out of practice. And maybe the dock was a harder landing than the ocean, but I was desperate. I had to get off this ship. I craned my neck. Thirty feet now, forty. Well, shoot. I could make the dock. If not, I knew how to swim.

"Do not even think about it," said Miguel, standing right behind me.

Judas. I jumped. Dropped the rigging as if it were live snakes. The loose tackle banged and rattled against the rail. Why wasn't Miguel at the helm of his ship like a good little capitán? I slowly turned around. "Think what?" My voice squeaked suspiciously high. Not at all innocent and calm like I wanted. Drats.

"What do you think?" his look seemed to say. That darn man. How could he misunderstand me so many times, but understand my intentions now? Of all times? It was inconvenient. And aggravating.

Frowning, he pulled the rope tight and knotted it again in a second. He jerked it hard as if it were me.

My chin lifted. "I'll do whatever I want."

"And how well has that worked for you? You are trouble. Constant trouble."

"Exactly. That's me. Capital-T Trouble. A real Jonah. So steer away from me. Don't bother. Why should you? You said you didn't care. Well, fine. You can't keep me. I'm going. I swear I'll find a way off this tub. You know I will. I'll jump off. First chance I get. You won't ransom me. Or sell me to some white slaver. I won't let you."

"Slavers?Madre de Dios," he muttered. A muscle in his cheek ticced. He took my arm. "Do not tempt me. Come."

"Forget it."

He stepped closer, towering over me. His face looked more thunderous than the horizon ahead. "You walk or I carry you. Easy or hard. Which?"

I felt my mouth gaping. I shut it. Quick. "You can't be serious!"

"Try me," his eyes said. He reach over and gripped both my arms. Started to lift me ...

"All right, all right," I said hastily. "I'm going under my own steam."

He set me down again, but he didn't release one arm. He started walking, pulled me along with him like I was some damn wagon. We were headed to the wheelhouse. "Let's go."

"Okay, but don't get any ideas. I'm not cooperating with you. So don't get used to it, mister. Don't get used to it at all."

###

We had just left the harbor, but already the land seemed like a distant memory. I was back where the wind met the water, back where my true heart belonged. I could taste the salt in the air. It was still early, but the winds were already blowing strong and cross-wise. The ship vibrated as she met the waves and sliced through them. I felt a strange excitement. Was it being out at sea again? The danger I was in? Maybe. Or maybe it was passing the jetties one by one like running your finger rick-tickety-tick over the spines of a fishbone. We moved slow at first, then faster and faster until the wharf almost blurred. The seals lay on the rocks like fat sausages, barking at us as we rushed by.

The cloud cover had lifted high enough so that we could see clear across the bay to Oakland, Point Bonita, and the base of the mountains. And already the Genoese fishermen returned with their midnight catch. The triangular sails of their feluccas dotted the bay like scarlet butterflies here and there across the steel gray water.

Above us, the sails puffed out like giant white bellies, nine months pregnant and past due. And beneath us, the water hissed, parting like liquid glass before our sleek ship. We were picking up speed as we passed by Black Point Cove. I could see Miguel's house. In front of it, a tall dark figure flew an enormous red rectangular kite. The person looked familiar. Terribly familiar. Judas! It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

"That can't be you," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. Was I seeing double? Disbelieving, I glanced behind me. No, Miguel was at the helm, right where I thought he would be. So that couldn't be him on the cliff. It was just someone like him. Oh, of course. It was probably Pedro. Had to be. Who else would be crazy enough to fly a kite at the break of dawn? At least he had a good wind for it. His kite was already flying high like a great crimson bird in the clouds. Probably visible for miles. Yes, I could still see it as we sailed westward. I watched it grow smaller as we passed by Alcatraz Island and moved closer to the Golden Gate.

Near the point, the wind picked up, snapping the sails even tauter, and chopping the waves into rapid splashy hills capped with white. Now spray hissed over the sides, heavy as rain at times. We were rolling, rocking and rolling, as we surged forward on the wave's lift, then slammed down again.

Silently Miguel steered the ship, his hands at the great oak wheel, his feet apart, knees loose. I could see how the wind lifted his hair and made it seem as if each strand were dancing. The ends of his coat flapped around him. Why was I watching him? Why did I care? I didn't know. I was crazy. Had to be. I should be plotting half a dozen ways of escape, but instead I sat there like an obedient idiot on the family bench in front of the wheel. Underneath the skylight, I was protected against the wind and could feel the sun on my head and back, but it didn't warm me. I felt cold to the core. Cold and stupid.

"Well!" I said. "Never pegged you for a greedy man, but I have to say, you take the cake. Here you are, sitting on a pile of gold. What do you need even more money for? Or wait a moment. Don't tell me. You're going to donate the proceeds back to the Union. No? Got that wrong? Judas! I can't believe it. You've got Calhoun's gold, Calhoun's wife. Anything else you want? His mansion maybe. Bored of your little clapboard house?"

He was quiet for a bit, and then he finally said, "Ten minutes."

"What?"

"Ten minutes. Dies minutos." He peered starboard, adjusted his course. The ship tilted slightly, and the sails stretched even fuller. "Ten. That is your record."

"My record for what? What are you talking about now?"

"For silence." Miguel paused. Checked his compass. "And for my record, I do not. Not. Have Calhoun's wife."

Amazing. Simply amazing. Appalled, I stared at him and his blank-faced audacity. It was one thing to sneak around and deceive me, but to stand there - in front of me - and lie to my face. Who the hell did he think he was? One of those prairie lawyers? They were the only people on God's green earth with more easy virtue than a hooker. Great, just great. So now we were prevaricating. So he wanted to split hairs? Fine. I'd catch him, all right. Catch him and get him back.

"Oh, I see. You mean that Miss Madeline LaRue is an independent operator. She comes and goes. You come and go. Free agents, the both of you. How very modern of you both. So no one belongs to anyone and that makes it all right to cheat around? Well, I have to hand it to you. That's pretty fast thinking, pretty fast double-talking there. But I don't think so, mister. I don't buy that con."

"No con." His mouth pursed on the last word as if it was somehow distasteful to him. "Madeline lied."

"Don't be silly. Why should she lie? What would she gain by it? And why the hell should I believe you? You're the king of liars. Uh uh. Forget it. You can't fool the naked eye. I saw you together. Last night."

"Imposible. I was with you. My office." He looked down his nose at me. His voice lowered, "Or have you already forgotten, niña?"

I flushed, staring down at my toes. "No, I haven't. I wish I did, but I haven't. And don't call me that. None of those other Spanish nicknames either. Not any of them. Now I know they don't mean a thing. You say them like some happy Jack gives out cheap jewelry. All flash. Only for show. Not worth a nickel."

We matched stares. It was tough, but I stood him out, minute for minute. He muttered something in Spanish. At least, I think it was Spanish. Then finally, he said, "And after our ... interlude, I was on the ship. With Buckner. You saw me. Before you climbed into the carriage. I've been here. The whole time. Ask my crew."

"Your crew? Ha! There's a laugh. 'I train them well'. I bet you have. I bet they do whatever you tell them. Say whatever you want. Right down to the last word. No, I saw you all right. With Madeline. In the clinch. Pretty bold. Meeting when her husband's there. Right in the same house."

His head perked up. "Last night? Are you sure? You saw Calhoun in his home?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. But that's who the Confederates were meeting. Or at least, I think so. I didn't see that either."

"Ah."

"What does that mean? 'Ah'? That I-know-it-all-and-you-don't look. So superior. I can't stand it. Spill it."

He sighed. Even over the wind, I could hear it. Miguel only shook his head once. "If you didn't see him, he wasn't there. He never is. Not on Thursday nights."

"Then where was he?"

"At the Golden Lily. Thursday's are his regular night with Therese. You ask her. Ask Lily."

"Oh." I sat back, feeling confused. If my aunt could verify that, then it must be true. And Therese - well, she was no liar either. "But if Hamilton wasn't meeting Calhoun, then who was he going to meet? Who's his superior?" I drifted off, thinking. For some reason or another, I could hear the harbormaster talk about the ladies with unladylike ideas. There was his missus and her crazy notions, and me, the lady doctor. And then there was ... "Madeline LaRue? Your Madeline. That's the Calhoun they were meeting?"

"Yes," said Miguel shortly. "I fear so."

"So your mistress tricked you. You didn't know. Or was this all a dog-and-pony show for Hamilton and Buckner? Are you cheating them too?"

"No. I did not know. Not until now."

"So you're claiming it's all a big fat surprise to you because you were on the ship the whole time. You weren't at the mansion. Well, if it wasn't you, it was someone who looked exactly like you. Don't tell me you have an identical twin somewhere. Or an identical ..." Cousin? The image of Pedro flashed in my mind. Similar but not quite the same. From behind or from a distance, you could mistake them. I just had mistaken him for Miguel on the bluff. Had I done the same in the mansion? "Or maybe ... I goofed. Maybe it was Pedro?"

"Ridiculous! He is simple. A child. He does not have those ... urges. The urges of a man."

"Now you're the one being ridiculous. You don't know that. And besides, Monte once said that the best gimmick in the world is the innocent act. Well, maybe Pedro is pretending. Maybe he's more than you realize."

"No. He is not capable."

"Capable? What kind a euphemism is that? What you mean is that you don't think he's man enough to mess with your mistress. Don't let your pride cloud your judgement."

Miguel bit out, "I already told you. She lied. She is not my mistress."

"Oh? Not ever?" I glared, feeling miserable. I already suspected. I wanted to know the truth but at the same time, I wanted him to lie if it would make me feel better. Then I could pretend we had come to each other all new and innocent, both of us novices in love. I wanted him to spin some comforting fairy tale like that even if it wasn't true. Especially if it wasn't.

Miguel was silent for a long moment. He stared out over the gray waves as if he were looking through the fog and into the past, a very murky past. I didn't think he was going to say anything at all, but finally, he admitted, "Yes. Once. A long time ago. A mistake. I was ... young then."

"And is that how you see me too? Just another mistake?"

"No," he said immediately, his eyes sweeping around to me. They were dark, nearly black. "We are an accident. Being with you is foolish. Reckless. The most unthinking thing I have ever done. But a mistake? No, niña. How could the biggest blessing in my life ever be a mistake?"

He sounded so fierce, so certain, and yes, even a little afraid. For once his words tumbled out instead of his usual cautious speech. Listening to him, my heart squeezed, then stopped altogether. It was too wonderful to be believed. It was way too late. Of all the rotten timing! Ten hours ago I would have believed him, believed anything he said, taken anything that he had to offer. But now I didn't know. How could I believe him? He must have sensed my uncertainty, because he pulled back, self-contained once more. He looked almost embarrassed by his lapse.

"But ... you said I meant nothing to you. Even less."

"Yes. I did. But I did not mean it. I needed them to believe me.

"Well, I don't know about them, but you certainly fooled me."

"But I did not fool them. Nor Madeline. They kept you here. I had hoped ... they would let you go. And now you are in the middle of things. In danger. If you had obeyed me, stayed hidden near the warehouse, none of this would have happened. You would have been safe. I said those things because I was trying to protect you. Now do you believe me?"

"No."