"Cristo!" He slipped one hand inside his frock coat. My God. That gun. He was going to shoot me. Right now. I sprang up to my feet, hands out, ready to dive to either side. Everything was lashed down or stowed away. There was nothing loose I could throw at him. I was done for. Despair filled me as I watched his fingers close around something and start to pull it out. My lover's hand. Ready. Any second. That beautiful hand about to deliver something, only it wasn't pleasure. Or pain. But death. Now.

His fingers cleared his coat. And I braced, ready to move when I saw what he held. It wasn't metal. It was soft. Gray. He tossed it to me. I caught it. A lady's glove, completely salt-stained and ripped beyond repair. Buttons were lost, a few hanging by the threads. I stared at it as if I had never seen it before. But I had. It was mine. I'd lost it during the first voyage after the storm. He had tended my hand. And kept my glove. Secretly. It was still warm from his body as if he had kept it next to him for a long, long time.

My hands closed around it. I looked up at him. "Why?"

"Why do you think?" he said softly.

We stared at each other for a long moment, and this time he let me see him. Really see him. All his defenses dropped at last, his eyes open and unguarded. He was silently pleading with me. And I thought, this man isn't lying. He couldn't lie. Not to me. Not any more than I can lie to myself.

Foolish. Reckless, he had said. Yes, and illogical. Ill-advised. I must be crazy to trust him, but somehow I did. I listened to that secret voice of mine. Not the doctor voice, the one I'd always trusted. But the female voice, the one I was just beginning to hear. It urged me to take that gamble. Bad odds, but the prize ... unimaginable, a paradise for the taking.

"Now do you believe me?" he asked again. And this time, it wasn't the Don speaking. Or the mysterious green-eyed Capitán. It was my Miguel asking. The man I loved. And still did.

"Yes," I said without even thinking twice. I held the glove to my heart just like he had worn it next to his.

###

What was magic, if not that? His words cast a spell over me. I tingled all over. Every last doubt melted away, and my heart felt light and airy. My hands reached out, hungry to touch. His love lofted me up, up until the deck disappeared. I seemed to be walking on clouds.

"No! Don't," Miguel said urgently.

Startled, I stopped where I was. How did I get here? Had I left the bench and been walking towards him? I wasn't even aware that I'd been moving close, closer. Now he was only one step away, just within reach. I could see his black chest rise, fall in short fast breaths as if he'd been running hard or suffering. Tachypneic. At a rate of twenty.

His nostrils flared. "Stop."

"Stop what?"

"Stop right there. Do not come any closer." He held his hand, palm out. A fine tremor ran through him.

Cripes. What was wrong with him? Another liver attack? "It's okay, Miguel. Tell me. Where does it hurt?"

His mouth tugged at one corner. "Not where you can help. Not right now. Only you must not ..."

I was getting alarmed, watching his erratic breath. He swallowed convulsively. Jeez. All along, I thought he'd been improving. His color was fine, his appetite normal. Maybe I had been fooled by his behavior once again. It was easy - too easy - to forget how sick he'd been. He seemed like such a strong man all the time. But now, something was wrong. Was he going to lose it? Quick. An emesis basin. I glanced around. The fire bucket might do the trick. I was about to empty the pail of sand when he finally spoke.

"Do not ... look at me that way."

Dear God, was he delirious again? Cautiously I said, "What way?"

"Like you are now. Like before you kiss me. Before you ask me for more. Diablo! Stop it. You cannot know. When you ..." His fingers tightened on the wheel.

Me? This was my fault? I dropped the bucket with a thump. Fine. He could puke all over his spanky clean decks if he wanted to. Indignant, I straightened up again. So Miguel was all right after all. More than all right if that's all he was thinking about. Men! It was just like Lily said. That was the only thing on their minds. And I'd been getting all worried and worked up over nothing. Hands on hips, I huffed. "Well, really. At a time like this! And here I thought you were sick. Or worse. Dying even."

"Yes, I am dying. Dying for one thing. And each time you look at me that way, I die a little more. So stop it. Before I forget."

"Forget? Forget what? Oh. You mean ... not here?" I glanced around the wheelhouse. It was small but well appointed, protected from the wind. The glass cupola let the sun stream on to the family bench. Nice plump velvet cushions. My mouth suddenly dried. I licked my lips. Miguel groaned softly as he followed my gaze to the bench. I murmured, "Not ... there?"

"Yes. There. I've imagined it before. A hundred times. In a hundred other places on my ship," he said.

"You haven't," I said hotly, blushing, wanting. I hadn't been thinking about it at all, but now, it was all I could think about. The wanting pushed everything else aside. What was this? He was a sorcerer. I swear that he was. "You couldn't. When?"

His lips twitched. "Ever since Cape Horn. When you ignored my orders. The first time. And not the last." His sigh was a little exaggerated.

His confession made my eyes narrow. Conflicting feelings rioted through me: aggravation, delight, desire. They all jumped up and down inside me like a case of hiccups. A bad case. "Listen, mister, I don't know if I want to hear this. Do you always get a yen for your female passengers?"

"No. Never. There are rules, niña. But I wanted you then. Just like I want you now. Only now, it is different. Not just an attraction any more."

"There's more?" Love, I thought. He's talking about love.

Miguel nodded stiffly. "Yes, different. Like water from wine. But we must be careful. You must not look at me that way because they will know. And knowing gives them power over us. You are in danger. We both are. Until this is done."

I folded my hands behind my back. My lashes half-lowered. I looked through them like a demure schoolgirl. But my thoughts were anything but demure. They seldom were when he was in the vicinity. He seemed to know. His breath caught. Smiling inwardly, I said, "So I should be circumspect? I don't do very well with orders."

"Not an order. A request," he amended swiftly.

"Well, I can try," I said doubtfully. "I'm no good as a liar. I can't pretend I don't love you. Because I do. Love you, I mean. I'm sorry."

"I am not." Miguel smiled suddenly, quietly. His head tilted back so that the dawn caught the tips of his hair and turned them rosy gold. He seemed taller all of a sudden, self-assured, invincible. His eyes glittered with triumph. "I will never be sorry. Not for the rest of my life. Your life. Our life together."

His words reached me, then the sense of them, following more slowly. What was he saying? He couldn't be ... Maybe I was the delirious one. Hallucinating things. I shook my head as if I could clear my ears. I couldn't be hearing him right. "Our life? Miguel, are you proposing?"

"Ah. A quick learner. My favorite thing about you." His smile turned roguish. "Now say 'yes', querida. I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"You never do," I muttered.

His brows lifted as if he was saying "So?"

He was right. I hated to admit it, but he was right. For once, his arrogance charmed me instead of bugging me. I almost laughed out loud, joy expanding like a hot bubble inside me. Joy made all barriers seem tiny. Everything else seemed trivial. Even our dire circumstances were nothing. Nothing compared to this.

I opened my mouth to answer. But I didn't have a chance because the first mate Domingo called out.

"Capitán! Off port bow."

###

The moment a sailor took the wheel, my Miguel turned back into the capitán once again. Now he stood on the poopdeck, his spyglass scanning the sea. We had passed the Golden Gate and its protected bay. The Pacific rolled towards us, one dark wet mountain, after another. The prow leapt and fell, and sometimes my feet left the deck completely. I held on to the rigging with one hand. My stance shifted automatically. I loved it: the wild ride, the white caps spilling over and raining on us. Ahead was the Farallon Islands, and off the stern was a red sail of a felucca, a little farther out than usual but maybe pulling in a good run of mackerel.

Then Miguel's telescope trained to the east where something had been sighted and called. Portside, the fog shrouded the coast so that the land was completely invisible. Gray mist blended right into the open sea, flattening everything into one light wall. And through it, then in front of it, a dark low-lying shape skimmed through the water at a good clip: four knots at least.

I squinted, following its flume of spray when it appeared, then disappeared behind the waves. "What's that? A whale?"

"No whale," said Miguel grimly. "Ship."

Ship? What kind of seafaring vessel was this? It didn't have any mast, sails, or even a body. It looked like a joke: just some breadbox on a shingle. Only this box held guns instead of loaves. It positively bristled with big black cannons. And at the speed that ship was traveling, it was clearly not a pleasure cruise. No, its intentions seemed far from friendly. In fact, probably downright dangerous to our health. Must have come from one of those coastal inlets: Pacifica or Half Moon Bay. "What the hell is that thing?"

"Ironclad. New ship." Miguel blew on his whistle: one short, two long blasts. The gunners ran towards the Dalgren cannons. They cast them loose while their mates sprinkled sand around the base of the guns and brought buckets of water to prevent fire. Hiss, thump, hiss. Together they poured powder and shot, wads and tampion. Then they packed the guns tight with the same precise care I used in surgery. And for the same purpose - lives depended on it.

Miguel turned towards the first mate. "Full steam. Let's outrun her." Bells clanged loudly as he smiled briefly at me. "Precaution. Do not worry."

I had full confidence in him, but I couldn't share his optimism. We carried heavy cargo on the high seas. There were enemies on board. All the circumstances seemed against us. The bell alarm was still ringing in my ears as the crew silently manned their stations. The ironclad was closer now. I could see its colors: red with a blue "X," proudly flapping from its turret. A Confederate raider.

Madeline cleared the top of the ladder and walked on to the poopdeck like it was her ballroom back home. "It's ours," she said triumphantly. She spoke as if she were giving directions to her butler. "Turn the boat around and stop."

"Get below," ordered Miguel. "Too dangerous." He snapped a finger at the little sailor. "Esteban. La señora."

"Con permiso, señora." Bowing sketchily, Esteban took Madeline's arm.

A mistake. Manners had no place here, least of all right before an engagement at sea. Of course, she resisted. Two kicks to the leg, a chop to the elbow, and the little man finally let go. He hunched over, rubbing his arm and cursing a blue streak.

"I stay," she said calmly, smoothing out her hair. "And they're not hostile, I tell you. They've come to escort us."

KaPOW. Whiiiiiiish. A shot whistled over our prow, then exploded in the water. Its arc of bitter black smoke was quickly shredded by the wind.

"Well," I said, "that's not my idea of a hello. That wasn't exactly a dud, you know. That was the real cookie."

"Talk to them," demanded Madeline, her voice rising higher with each word.

Miguel's look was scathing. "I have work. You talk." He pointed to the little sailor. "Esteban, signal."

"Si, Capitán."

We maintained full speed ahead as the sailor lit a lamp because it was still too dim for us to run up the signal flags. Esteban translated Madeline's greetings into Morse code. Lanterns flickered back and forth between the two ships like peripatetic fireflies. ...Dit...dit pause dit dit.

"...D-E-R. Surrender," I murmured, spelling out the last and final word from the ironclad's message.

"No, that cannot be right. You must be wrong. Do it again. Tell them. Tell them we have the gold," said Madeline.

Hello, there. I wanted to shake her. She seemed to be in her own little world that was made to her ordered perfection. Only problem was - that world no longer existed. Not here on the ship. Circumstances had changed drastically. She wasn't in charge here. "Wake up, will you? They know. Esteban told them. And you know what? They don't seem to care. They're not exactly offering an escort. And they don't seem particularly friendly. Cripes. That turret is turning. Their foreguns. Straight at us."

"They can't be," she gasped as if someone had committed an egregious breach of etiquette. Put their thumb in their soup. Or mentioned something indelicate in mixed company. Her face turned the shade of puce. She looked faint. Good. I hope she did faint. I'd let her fall klunk right to the deck. My cheek still hurt after that damn vicious slap.

"Well, okay. Whatever you say. Of course, they're not. But those guns look mighty convincing to me. Come on, Miguel."

He was on the deck, shouting orders. "Hard a'lee."

Warned, I grabbed the rail and braced myself. The main boom swung wide. Ropes creaked with the strain, and the sails luffed, then whooped full as it caught the wind again. We turned hard, almost keelhauling, just as the ironclad fired right where we had been. The shell splashed harmlessly into the water. Miguel's whistle blew.

"Four a'port," yelled the boatswain, and we fired. The ship shuddered a'stern, recoiling and sailing away as the shot screamed through the air. A square hit, but it bounced off the iron armor of the Dixie raider as if it were a pea instead of shot and powder.

"Madre de Dios," muttered Esteban, crossing himself. "I 'ave never seen anytheeng like that before. 'ave you, Dona Cabrillo?"

"That's not my name ..." I said absently, watching our second shot hit the ironclad and fall away too. The spray drenched me. And even though it hadn't hit me, realization suddenly did. Somehow the possibility that Cabrillo would become my last name seemed more remote than ever.

"No? I thought ... the two of you. The way you look at each other. The way 'e looks at you. Not like the other señoritas." He coughed behind his hand. "But of course, it ees none of my business. It will be your name. Once we get out of 'ere. Don' worry. The capitán ... 'e get us out of thees. 'e always does. We've been in worse scrapes than thees. I tell you. Thees is nothin'. Look."

"Yes, we're gaining speed. We may out-run them yet." Our wake veed out from behind us, the sea hissing faster and faster underneath us. Already the ironclad looked smaller as our steam engine chuffed loudly away. But now there was a new sound - a strange clinking one that hadn't been there before. Someone yelled. I said, "Where's Madeline?"

Esteban swore. "That she-devil. She loose the anchor. Ah, the men got 'er. Better them than me." Grinning, he rubbed his abused ankle where she had kicked him. There was more shouting, and his grin flattened, then turned down.

"What is it?" I watched the sailors struggle with the crank-wheel. The ship's momentum should have helped heave the anchor, but it didn't. Something was wrong. The anchor must have caught on a rock, and the drag was slowing us down. Anxiously I looked over the stern. The ironclad was steaming up behind us. Close. Closer. Dear God, I could see the faces of the Dixie men, could even hear their orders. Their ship sped even faster towards us. Their rammer jutted clean and mean through the water, pointing straight at us.

"Cut a'way," shouted Miguel. But it was too late. We couldn't maneuver away in time. They were going to hit us. There was nothing we could do except hold on and pray.

The nine-inch bores of their guns stared at us, close enough to kiss. But they held their fire, because their rammer hit us first. The Marlin shuddered from stem to stern, then wood split. It was loud, final, a creaking shriek like the death-cry of our ship. Then water whooshed in, filling the hold below. It was terrible. I crossed the tilting deck to the ladder, then climbed up to where Miguel stood. He said nothing, but his grim face expressed everything for him. I felt Miguel's anguish as if it were my own while we watched the first mate run up the white flag. There was nothing else to do. The ship was lost. She couldn't even limp back to harbor. Not in this shape. Now water roared into the ship's belly. The prow was angling skyward, and each successive wave slapped her side to side. A few minutes more, we'd go under. We were being hailed.

"Ahoy there, Marlin."

"Ahoy, Charlemagne. You will take my men," shouted Miguel through his cupped hands.

"Agreed. The gold?"

Miguel smiled suddenly, and it wasn't pleasant. It was bleak, fierce, even colder than the ocean lapping over the rails. "Come and get it. Gentlemen."

We were already lowering the lifeboats. The men's silent progress was a testimony to their strict discipline. None of the crew panicked, only the Confederates on our ship did. Buckner's flailing almost tipped over his boat until the purser knocked him out cold. It was the only thing to do as the lifeboat dropped on to the waves and bounced once, twice. The oars scooped through air before the men could row it to the ironclad. We watched the next-to-last lifeboat being lowered. Hamilton looked genial as ever. Madeline, in irons, did not.

"Go, niña. Into the last one."

"No. I won't. Not without you."

His eyes softened as he examined at me for a long time, his hair whipping around his face. He seemed to be memorizing the details as if he were never going to see me again. It frightened me thoroughly. I clutched his lapels, a sob choking me.

"Stubborn to the very end," he said, smiling faintly. "You're a sailor's daughter. You know. The capitán is always last."

"And his wife stands by him. Maritime law."

"Wife? But you never answered me."

When I could finally speak, my voice sounded thick and rusty. "Listen, mister. I didn't have to. You already knew."

"Let's say, I hoped." Our foreheads touched as his fingers traced my lips, then cupped my chin. He lifted me to him, and his kiss was sweet and tender like spring itself. He murmured into my ear, "I have my own kayak. I will follow."

"Promise?" I asked, knowing that whatever he said wouldn't be true. It couldn't. No one-man vessel could survive these waters. Not for long. The waves were too steep, the ocean too cold. He'd be swamped, then hypothermia would set in. And then ... a cold, lonely death. A fact of life - for a sailor. Every voyage could always be your last. Grief clogged my throat. I buried my face into his chest.

"Go now, querida. Please. For me. And ..." His hand drifted lower, coming to rest on my belly. My eyes widened. It was possible, I suppose. Judas. This was unfair. Absolutely unfair.

I railed at the unfairness as I made myself move. I walked away. One step, two. How could I leave him? He was my present and future. He was everything. And who cared about the future if he wasn't there to share it with me? My feet slowed. I made only the third step before I turned back and leaped at him, grabbing hold of him until he rocked back on his heels. We staggered on the listing deck as we kissed, pouring everything we felt into this last touch, our souls fusing one last time. And then, finally, the sounds around us intruded: the sails slopping, the scrape of the lifeboat against the Marlin. Domingo called out, then again. "Capitán ."

Miguel said, "That is for you. He has instructions."

"No. I can't."

"You must."

And when he tore me away from him, it was as if he was tearing my self into two. I staggered away, the first mate pulling me. I could feel my heart dying, hissing as if it were fatally ripped and all my spirit were leaking out. Hsssssssst. A long slow deflating sound, insidious and final. Then I realized. It wasn't me. No. The sound was real. I turned. The fuse of an abandoned cannon was still lit and sputtering. Sparks showered here, there, over damp sand and a pile of magazines and powder. Miguel must have seen it too, because he was already running towards it, reaching for a bucket of water, grabbing and tossing it in a vain attempt to douse it from far away. If it blew, we would all go with it: the Marlin, the escaping crew, the nearby Confederates too. We would all go to a watery hell.

There was a fizzle. A flame. Then the stench of burning sulfur. And the whole world turned red. Completely red.

The explosion thundered so loudly that I couldn't hear anymore. I could only feel its searing hot fist punch me backwards. I fell. The fireball mushroomed skyward, turning dawn into high noon. Planks and white hot iron shot everywhere. Something snapped, splashed. I saw his body fly upward, then disappear.

"No!" Miguel. I had to find him. I climbed on the rail and dove overboard into the cold embrace of the sea.

###

It was cold. Damn cold. Cold enough to squeeze every last bit of air out of me. Chest cramping, I kicked hard. My skirt and thick woolen sweater felt like lead armor, dragging me down again. Every stroke was a struggle. "Miguel!" I treaded water, waiting as burning debris rained down on me. No answer. Dear God. What if he were concussed? Unconscious? He wouldn't hear me. I looked around: planks, spars, crates. This is where I'd seen him fall. Was he below? I searched on, achingly aware of the precious seconds of time, of air that were being wasted.

The sea rushed and sucked around me, pulling me back, back and out towards the open. Then it rose, curling, shadowing over me. It crashed as I dove through. The force of the wave pummeled me down, down, down. I was tossed here and there underwater, entombed in that cold darkness again. And this time it took me longer to fight my weary way out. But I managed somehow. I broke through to the surface. Shook my head clear. Coughed. I called out again. And again. Finally, I heard him.

"Niña ..."

I swam west towards his voice. He sounded weak ... and angry. There he was. Miguel was hanging on to something long and curved that was overturned. Relief gave me the strength to swim faster.

I ploughed through the water. Already I couldn't feel my hands and feet. At this rate, we wouldn't last long. We had to get out of the ocean. Quick. I swam over to him. He looked pale. A burn marred one cheek. His eyes flared when he saw me. "Cristo! It is you. Are you crazy?" He coughed.

"Yes. Certifiable. You can scold me later. What's this? Your kayak? Let's get in." Now my arms felt like frozen stumps, but fortunately it was easy to roll the kayak over. Seawater poured out from the seat as we tipped it up and around. "You first."

"No. You." Miguel coughed again, his head resting against the side of the boat.

"Don't be stubborn. This isn't the time. You're injured. I'm not. We'll both get in."

"Room ... for one. Only." Suddenly he wrapped an arm around my waist and hefted me in.

I knew better than to fight. We could tip over the boat again. My skirt settled like a sodden nest around me. As soon as I was sitting, I grabbed a hold of his coat and dragged him over the front. He was right. There was no room for two people to sit inside, but there was an alternative. "You ride. On your belly. Like those kanaka boys from the Sandwich Islands. I'll paddle." I unlashed the paddle from the side, and dug in. "Where to, Capitán?"

Miguel pointed to the other side of the burning hulk where it was gray blank fog. It looked like nothing was there. "Due east."

"Not the ironclad?"

He shook his head, coughing. I started paddling. With both our weights, we rode low in the water. Take any more on, and I'd be bailing too. It was slow-going all around, but we managed to clear the Marlin. Her masts were going up like giant pillars of flame. The magazines pop-popped, sending geysers of fireworks into the sky.

"Jeez, what a mess. Do you have good insurance?"

He managed to make an odd sound: half laugh, half cough. He pointed. "Turn with the waves."

"Oh right. Then maybe we can ride one in. It's a gamble, but ..." Praying, I stroked into one. The tip of the kayak popped up, then over the crest of the wave. We were being lifted. And over the roar of the wave, I heard a weak sound.

"Help!"

I looked back. That feeble call again. Near the ruins of the ship, flailed a fat black shape in the water. It was Hamilton.

"No," said Miguel. "We can't."

"I know." We'd be lucky if we made it to shore. The odds were bad enough for us alone. But it felt bad - all the same - to leave someone in distress. And then I saw something that made me hope for the first time all day: a spot of crimson that grew larger, turning into a triangle cutting right through the mist. The curved sail of the felucca! It was coming towards us. The Genoese fishermen. "Ahoy there!" I yelled, paddling harder. "Help! Buon giorno!"

"Nikita," said Miguel, looking over his shoulder. His voice sounded strained. "Go faster."

"I'm trying. Jeez. Why?"

"Just do it." Now he was paddling too, hand over hand as if he were pulling himself up a ladder, rung by rung. There was a strangled cry back near the ship. Then nothing. Miguel groaned. "Diablo! No, don't look."

But of course, I did. And where Hamilton had once been, there was a froth of dark red bubbles like a devil's cauldron, stirred up and boiling over. Only one thing in the ocean looked like that. One thing that every seafarer feared. The thing that tormented Miguel in his dreams. The fiercest single-minded predator in the water. The shark. The great white shark.

"Tiburón!" Miguel shouted. "Faster."

I needed no encouragement. If I'd been frightened before, it was nothing - absolutely nothing - compared to now. All my experience only scared me more. I knew what to expect. I'd helped Walter tend to survivors of shark attacks. And I'd buried more than my share of victims too. Maybe I'd been only a wharf kid then, but I hadn't forgotten. You never forgot the results of something like that. And I didn't intend for us to end up that way. Not after all that had happened to us. Not after everything.

I glanced over my shoulder. A furious trail of white bubbles pursued us. It looked like a wake, but without a boat preceding it. Whatever was making this anonymous trail must be underwater. And hungry. Cripes. You'd think Hamilton had been big enough to feed a pack of sharks. But he had been just a snack. Now they wanted us too.

I stroked deeper, faster. Just ahead, the felucca was nearing, tipping low as it trimmed neat for more speed. I could see their hold filled with mackerel, the sun glinting off the silver bellies. The fishermen grinned as they leaned over the side with their hooked poles. "Vite, vite." They caught the kayak, and drew it near.

"Hurry, sis," said a familiar mocking baritone.

"Monte?"

He didn't reply. He grabbed under my armpits and pulled while Miguel pushed me up from below. A second later, they got me into the felucca.

"No," I protested. "Get Miguel first. He's injured. He's ..." I broke off. Something rammed the kayak from below. I looked down. Miguel shouted, his eyes wide. He straddled the kayak, his legs dangling into the water. One moment he was sitting there. And in the next moment, he was being yanked down. The sea turned red. Someone grabbed Miguel's arms. They tried to hoist him up, but something else pulled from the deep. And Miguel was caught in a terrible tug-of-war: life above the surface, certain death below.

I grabbed a pole and jabbed at the creature. Once, twice. Three solid hits. The fishermen heaved and Miguel screamed as something ripped, something else gave way. Then they all fell back into the boat. And just below the water, there was an ominous flash of white, then a great gaping mouth with rows of bloody dagger-like teeth. I punched the shark with my pole while Monte tipped over fish on the other side of the felucca.

There was a huge splash. And then the dark gray fin turned and disappeared back into the deep. I knelt on the deck, my breath coming in great big greedy gulps. Monte threw a blanket over my shoulders. He solemnly kissed my forehead. He was silent for a long time. No joking. Not a single crack. That only showed how worried he'd been.

Monte guided me to a crate. My legs finally gave way, and I sat down heavily. For awhile, I huddled there, shaking from cold and leftover adrenaline. Damn near ached all over. And everything that didn't hurt was still pins and needles. When I could finally speak again, I said the first thing on my mind. "Where's Miguel?"

"He's fine," said Monte.

"Layman! What does that mean? Don't sugarcoat it for me," I snapped. "Take me to him."

"Okay, okay. Have it your way, darlin'. Have it your way. But maybe you should take care of yourself first. You don't want to scare him to death."

"Nothing wrong with me," I said crossly, following my brother to the aft of the boat. Ouch. I could feel my hands again. I glanced down at my palms. They were blistered and scraped from the paddle. Some calendula salve, good binding, willowbark for pain, and I'd be as good as new. It could wait.

I walked carefully over the deck, which was slippery with fish. Ducked low under the trim henna-ed sail as I passed on to the stern. Miguel was in back, laying on a pallet, his head cushioned by a burlap sack. He looked even paler, whiter than a sheet, but his eyes were open and clear and collected. He lifted one hand. I took it, cautiously held it to my cheek. We had made it so far, but we weren't through yet. How was he? How much longer did we have together?

His hand shifted, curved around my cheek, one thumb tracing a slow circle. It slid to the outer corner of my eye. Caught a tear. He examined the drop that hung from his fingertip. Puzzled, he looked back at me. "Do not cry, querida. Not now."

I sniffed. "Yeah, all right. I can't help it. It's a stupid girly thing to do."

"I am glad ... you are a girl. I would not have you any other way."

"No?"

"No. Just as you are. Like so." He steered my face towards his. We kissed. He tasted like rum and salt and Miguel. His lips were cold but not waxen. A good sign. There was life in him yet.

"May I look?" I said, already lifting the edge of the blanket which covered him.

"You ask first. You are learning. Go ahead." He even smiled, which eased the lines of fatigue around his eyes and face. And then I knew. He was trying to stoke my confidence. My hands trembled. Was it that bad? I didn't know if I could do this or not.

I swallowed hard, prepared for the worst. I threw the blanket aside. His pants were completely shredded as if a hundred people had taken their daggers to it. Above his old scar, was a fresh gaping gash through skin, soft tissue, a tendon. Old blood, no gushing. Relief seeped through me as I surveyed the damage. His entire leg was there. No amputation. No arteries had been severed. I made him move his foot, his knee. Everything worked. This wasn't bad. Wasn't bad at all.

"Well?" he said softly.

"I'll have to wash the wound. And stitch you. Some."

His brow furrowed. "That means a lot."

Jeez, the discerning patient. He had my number. No doubt about it. "All right, all right. More than three stitches." A lot more than three, I amended silently. More like ninety or so. "But just because you're lucky. I'll need to wash this out real good, and then ..."

"No," he interrupted. "Stop."

"Miguel, I'll need to. You don't want morbid purulence to set in. Infection, they call it."

"First things first."

"What?"

His arm reached up and cupped the back of my head. Slowly he drew me down to him. My eyes closed. I felt his breath brush me, then the softness of his lips, his rough beard. I started to draw back again, but he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and pulled me tighter. His mouth slanted over mine. He possessed me. Totally. Ruthlessly. It was as if he was claiming me all over again, grabbing and celebrating, knowing what we might have lost.

"Miguel!" I broke free. Gasped out loud. I blushed, aware of my brother standing nearby. And then there were the fishermen and their earthy shouts. You didn't have to know Italian to realize that they were egging us on.

"What?" Miguel kissed my ear. "Come back. When you kiss me, I do not feel anything. No pain. It is better than rum. Better than your chloroform. Good medicine, yes?"

"Oh." I blinked. Hadn't thought of it like that. So this was for his own good. I could buy that. "Well, if you put it that way." And I let him pull me back, back into his burning embrace, so that I could give him another dose.

###

I held Miguel's hand during the short voyage home: partly because I was feeling sentimental, partly because he would not let me go. I was feeling better now - almost optimistic. Finally I felt warm and dry on the outside, wearing someone's borrowed clothes; and a shot of grappia and cafe warmed me up on the inside. If Miguel was in pain, he didn't complain. He didn't even say anything when Monte picked up someone's accordion and started yodeling a romantic ditty about a wandering sailor and a simple maid. No, Miguel was stoic all right. He lay there, an odd half-smile on his face: enduring those dratted lyrics, his thumb endlessly running over the tip of mine.

And me? I wasn't half so reserved. That Monte! I threw a fish at my brother, who only ducked, laughed, then sang even louder.

"Stop," I hissed. We sailed through the harbor now. The busy dock drew closer by the minute. A tug chugged near, and its crew whistled at us. There were cat-calls, jeers, some rude gestures that anyone from any part of the world could understand.

"D'ye know 'Barnacle Bill'?" someone shouted.

Monte threw back his head and sang louder.

My cheeks crimsoned. "Stop it. Everyone will hear you."

"So what? It's in English. Nobody else in this boat understands the lyrics. You know, it doesn't translate well. Especially that last verse about toying with a young lass' affections, the family's dread revenge, and the vendetta that pursues the poor sailor to a watery grave. Tragic really. And universal. Could apply to just about anybody any time. But I just don't know it in Italian. It's too bad really. These guys are kinda missing out, wouldn't you say? Hey, maybe I should teach this one to Adana. She's already got the tattooed lady song down pat. Real pat."

"Monte! So help me ..."

"Yes?" My brother had that wide guileless smile on his face. The one he always wore right before he was going to fleece his mark. The big phony. I didn't care if he'd just rescued us. Hero or not, I was ready to murder him. Really. It was none of his business. But as far as I knew, that never stopped Monte. "What do you think about the song, Capitán? Do you think the sailor should have made an honest woman out of her? Could have saved him some grief. A whole lot of grief."

For a brief moment, Miguel pursed his lips as if he were giving the matter serious thought. Then he barely shook his head. "I do not know. I have no real appreciation for music."

Monte's grin sharpened a little, his fingers still playing over the keys. "Is that so?"

"Stop it," I said. "This is eighteen-sixty-two. The modern age. You're not cavemen. You don't have to defend my honor. Don't be so ridiculous and antiquated."

"Oooh. Anty-Q-rated. Listen to that, willya?" My brother chuckled. "Doesn't she slay you with those fancy-pants words?"

"Yes. She does." Miguel's mouth tugged at one corner.

What!?! I could hardly believe my own ears. I looked from one to the other. They were making fun of me. Both of them. The goons. What a lot of nerve. The absolute nerve. I tossed another fish at Monte. Got his damn leg. And this time I thought about throwing one at Miguel too. A big fat one. That man! I'd been defending him after all, and he sure didn't seem to appreciate it. But then I remembered that he was wounded and still technically under my care, I supposed. I restrained myself just in time. A doctor never hit her patients with a fish. Especially a mackerel. They were large. And smelly.

But Monte, well, that was another story all together. I had no restrictions there. I could do what I like and give him what he deserved. Everything and more. I glared at my brother, who immediately resumed singing in his grand operatic voice. People on the docks stopped their work to stare. They pointed, grinned. "Montague Blackburn Spencer! Cut it out right now, mister. You better, or so help me ..."

"Stop, querida. Do not fuss. He is right."

"Huh?" Monte stopped abruptly, mid-lyric. The accordion fell to his lap.

"You are right to be concerned for your sister. It speaks well of you. Especially since she is so unconcerned for herself. She is thoughtless. Impulsive. But well-intentioned. Generous. She gives of her heart. And today ... she does me a very great honor. She has consented to become my wife." Miguel unfolded my hand and planted a firm kiss on my palm. "We want you to be the first to know, Monte.

"Well, yippy-eye-oh-kay-ay! That's wonderful news. Just wonderful. Now me and the boys won't have to keelhaul you after all. I mean, being humanitarians and all, we were going to wait until after Nikita here patched you up and you got better before we were going to persuade you. But looky here. Now we don't need to. Not at all. It's completely one-hundred percent unnecessary. Absolutely unnecessary. That's great. I know Guido over there will be a little disappointed, but I'll make it all right with him. You bet I will." Monte paused for a moment. He scratched his long jaw. Looked speculative. "So there will be no ... problems?"

"None," said Miguel firmly.

"Absolutely none? I see." Monte drew back a little. Hands on hips, he matched Miguel's stare: mocking gray vs. cool green. Unblinking, the men were absolutely still for a long, long time. They seemed to size each other up during the rest of the trip through the harbor as our felucca glided into port. The bow thumped gently against the pilings. Ropes were tossed, then hitched to the dockside spar. Cart wheels clackety-clacked over the pier, announcing the mongers who were already coming for the first catch of the day. It was those sounds of the wharf that broke the spell. The men drew back, both glancing away at the same time.

Finally Monte said, "Well, well, well. The word of Don Miguel Cabrillo. Your word is pure gold. Or that's what everyone says in these parts. So then, that's ... good. It's all taken care of. Capital-A Affirmative. It's all a go. Right, Nikita?"

Men! I felt mightily irritated but I wasn't sure why. Maybe because it seemed like they were part of some secret society, talking in some strange language known only to them. I didn't like feeling excluded. It bugged the hell out of me. I folded my arms across my chest. I muttered, "I don't know about that 'thoughtless impulsive' part. I really don't. You've got it all wrong. That's not me at all."

I took the hand-up and climbed easily on to the dock. Xi was already there, silent and omniscient as always. He was waiting for us with an open carriage. I briefed him while Monte and a fisherman lifted Miguel from his pallet, and handed him over to Xi.

"No," Miguel said. He made Xi stop. Mouth set, he slithered out of Xi's arms. Winced when his bad leg touched the ground, then gave way. Xi caught him in time.

"Don't be an idiot. You can't walk on that," I said, rushing to him. I took one arm. Xi put his arm under Miguel's other shoulder. Then between the two of us, Miguel half-limped, was half-carried to the carriage. We made slow sweaty progress.

Xi lifted Miguel into the carriage. All the movement had made him bleed again, so I rebound his leg and elevated it with a rolled up blanket. Then I sat near him, smoothing out his covers. He still looked too pale. Fluids. He needed lots of fluids.

Leaning over the side of the carriage, Monte watched my fussing with an amused look on his face. Some of his comments were helpful. Most of them were not. Humming to himself, he drummed his fingers along the quilted leather cushions. "So I'm a details man. I got a real head for specifics, data, numbers ..."

"Yeah, like 'seven come eleven'. That's your kind of numbers," I scoffed, settling back into my seat.

"So when's the date?" continued Monte. "Come on, come on. No secrets. Spill the beans. When exactly are you going to get hitched? I want to have my evening suit pressed by then. And Lily. She'll be completely beside herself coming up with a whole new outfit. And a hat! You bet she'll spend hours trying on those damn fancy things. And she'll get one with those fool feathers. Watch out! They'll poke out your eye if you're not careful. Huh. You better let Lily know when the wedding is."

I shrugged. "I don't know. Can we talk about this later? We've got to go."

Monte had that bulldog expression that I knew and dreaded. He wasn't going to let this one go. Not by a long shot. "Listen, sis ..."

"All right, all right," I muttered, feeling more hemmed in by his persistence. Each second, I was getting real uncomfortable. I glanced at Miguel, my eyes begging him for a little help. He just looked thoughtfully at me, his lips firm and unmoving. Mister Silence. What a time for that! Judas. I was going to have to handle Monte all by myself. "Don't be such a pest. Leave it alone for awhile. We haven't really had a chance to talk about it yet. Some time, okay? Just ... some time. Soon."

"Today," Miguel said from the cushions.

"What?" My head whipped around. He looked lucid, but I wasn't sure any more. He must be crazy to suggest something like that. Crazy or sick. One or the other. Very possibly both. He needed medical attention. Soon. "But, Miguel, I ..."

His brows snapped together into that scary implacable line. After all he'd been through, he still managed to look stern. "Today," he said softly.

The Don had spoken.

###

Eventually we compromised. It was the first time, practically a historic event. And just like any compromise, it was painful. Real painful like passing a kidney stone. Hurts like hell in the middle of it, but feels better afterwards. Well, just barely.

At least Miguel said I could patch him up first. It took some doing, and by the time he finally agreed, I was just about ready to konk him on the head with my reflex hammer. Forget the chloroform. Forget informed consent. I was tired of haggling. I wanted him knocked out so I could just do my job before my nerves gave out. I could only steel myself so far and for so long before I would fall apart. I was so tired that the world seemed gray and fuzzy around the edges. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a week. A week with Miguel. Door closed. World shut out. Make that two weeks. I can't be sure, but maybe I mentioned that treatment plan to him. Maybe that's what made him finally agree. And not a moment too soon. It was past time to close that wound.

###

Inside the surgery suite, the air smelled like chloroform and antiseptic soap and old blood. Overhead, the newfangled carbide lights burned bright and warm so that sweat prickled along my neck and trickled down my back. Even though it all seemed familiar, I felt ridiculously nervous. I had never felt so nervous my entire life. I was breaking in a brand new set-up. And worst of all, Miguel was the patient on my table. He was still, so utterly still that for a moment, I felt totally frightened. I couldn't think. My hands clutched the scalpel. I forced myself to stare at his chest, and watch its reassuring rise and fall. He was alive. Alive. And I needed to do my job while he was still out. Chloroform only gave you a short amount of time.

All right then. I forced my hands to stop quivering, and concentrated on the job ahead. I scolded myself. This wasn't Miguel. This wasn't my lover any more. It was just somebody's leg: a bunch of torn-up layers. Nothing more, nothing less. Don't think about it. Just do it. So I did. I pulled all the layers back together again: muscle, fascia, subcutaneous, skin. Stitch, pull, tie. Over and over. Everything back to its right place. Everything once again lashed down and secured, shipshape. Soon I wasn't thinking at all. My fingers flew faster, sweat dripping into my eyes. Xi mopped my forehead from time to time.

What else could I do? Miguel needed me. He trusted me. More perhaps than I trusted myself. So I continued, my hands working automatically. By the time I had knotted the last stitch, I vowed that I would never operate on him again. God willing, there would be no other opportunity.

Just one more snip. Snick. The scissor blades met for the last time. There. Done. I carefully set down my forceps and needle. I checked his breathing. A little faster. Every now and then, his lids fluttered. He was lightening. Soon he'd wake up. With a little sigh, I walked to the sink and carefully washed my hands. Xi poured more carbolic over them. Then I scrubbed and scrubbed until my skin felt raw and red. I removed every speck of Miguel's blood until there wasn't a single trace left. Thank God I was done. I couldn't bear the sight of it or the feel of it any longer. It felt dirty and wrong. Completely wrong. Shuddering, I put my clean hands on the small of my back and stretched all the kinks out. I glanced at the clock on the wall. A twenty-minute repair. The longest twenty-minutes of my life. It had felt like twenty years instead.

Slowly I walked back to him. I took his hand, checked his pulse. Never again, mister. Never again.

His mouth lifted at once corner as if he heard me. He sighed.

###

While Miguel was still unconscious, Xi and I moved him from the surgery suite into a private recovery room, which was set apart from the other infirmary beds. I watched Miguel slept peacefully in a comfortable four-poster. I stood next to him; caught somewhere between worry and protectiveness. My left hand gripped the bedpost so hard that the carvings cut into my palm. My other hand held up his crisp clean sheet. I felt weary and wobbly, my own legs unreliable and strange. Must be the after-effects of nerves.

I surveyed my handiwork, feeling queer and pleased at the same time. One-hundred-and-two stitches. Some of my finest needlework. The frayed tendon had taken some finesse. I had to admit it. I was rather proud of the results. Keep it clean, and he should mend all right. We only had to worry about infection. But I had plenty of bread mold for that, just in case. I carefully wrapped the bandage over his leg again. My fingers rested on his old scar that was wide and curved like his new wound. It looked like a mark left by a scythe or a scimitar or a ... shark bite. No wonder he'd had those nightmares. And it was a wonder how brave he'd been in the sea today. My God. Facing the same thing twice. Once was enough. Thoughtfully, I covered him with the sheet, then a new star-block quilt. I smoothed down his hair. He was so different than the usual sailor who bragged about those encounters, whether or not they really happened. Everyone was eager to tell their tale, but not Miguel. He had said nothing at all. That was just like him. A secretive man until sleep had lifted the lock and the nightmares had escaped. Wondering, I murmured, "Have you been through this before?"

"Yes," he whispered, his eyelids flickering open at last. He turned his head until he found me. He barely smiled. Two faint grooves bracketed his mouth. "I was fifteen. And foolish ..." Miguel coughed, then cleared his throat. "I ... learned."

I checked his pupils. Equal. His pulse. Slow but normalizing. Then I sat down on a chair next to the bed. "Where?"

"Capetown." His hand sought mine. Our fingers linked.

The feel of his warm palm sliding against mine reassured me. He felt vital, alive, strong. I returned his smile. "I've been there too. A long time ago. We were in the same place. At different times. Too bad we just missed each other." And somehow, when I said this, something itched the back of my mind. An annoying niggling itch. It didn't stop. Didn't seem right. "Just think," I continued, "Isn't that strange? We might have met earlier."

"We did."

"What?" I felt surprised but not by his sudden announcement. It was my lack of surprise that surprised me. Because as soon as he said that, some part of me thought, Why, of course as if I'd been expecting this moment all along. Bemused, I settled back into my chair, remembering the first time I'd seen him. On that voyage from Paris around the Horn. Even then, he had seemed so familiar. Maybe I had recognized him but I hadn't realized it yet.

"So we met ... in Capetown? Yes ..." I said slowly, my mind searching, sorting, finding: Walter's wharf-front clinic, those big lazy fans barely stirring the air, a hot summer. That el niño weather had brought fish. The fish had brought sharks and fleets, and so, there'd been more attacks than usual. Many sailors lost, but some had made it. Some like Miguel. Yes, I did remember. How could I have forgotten? A red-haired angel, achingly beautiful even then. Almost too pretty. Almost dead. "We almost lost you. That shark severed your Achilles tendon. Yes, I remember now. They said that you tried to rescue another sailor only ... only he didn't make it. And you barely did. Walter took care of you."

"And you did too. A young nurse. You were five then. Adana's age. Round nose, sunburnt and peeling. Your hair ... was whiter then."

"From all that time outside."

"You wore pigtails. Tied with rope because you were always losing your ribbons."

That was me all right, I thought glumly. Still was. I was always losing things.

"I remember being hot ..."

"You had a fever ..."

"Ah. So that was why all my hair was gone. I woke up and ... nada. Walter shaved me. To cure my fever?"

"Well, uh ... Not exactly. It was ... a sideline. Sort of. I really didn't have anything to do with it. But it's true, I didn't exactly stop him. I couldn't. I never really can. He just does these things."

"Your brother," Miguel said quickly.

"Yeah, it was Monte all right. I mean, who else? He sold your hair. Red's good for love potions, you see. He got eight bits for every lock."

"So much," murmured Miguel. His lips quirked. "I hope I am in no such danger now."

"Naw. Monte's got other lines right now. You're safe. At least I think you are."

"Hmmm." Miguel sounded skeptical. He reached out and took my chin. Turned it to one side, then the other. "So different, and so much the same. Do you know that when I first woke up in Capetown, I mistook you for a cherub? A sunburnt cherub. I thought I had died and gone to heaven. You had a good touch. Even then. And now, even better." He smiled suggestively, brushing his knuckles against my pink cheeks. "Will I make it now, niña?"

"Of course you will. What kind of talk is that? Don't be ridiculous."

"Good." He took both my hands, and brought them to his lips. "Very good. Because we have a date to make. A very important date."

I straightened in my chair. "After all this? You must be joking."

"I never joke. And never about this. The padre is due ... at six bells. He is a man of God. He is never late."

"Miguel! You are serious. What's the problem? What's your big fat rush? Can't the ceremony wait?"

"The ceremony can wait. But not the honeymoon, querida. Not the honeymoon," he said huskily, staring at my lips. His fingers traced my neck, then stopped at my collar. He played with the pearl buttons there. "In fact ..."

"No." I slapped away his hand. "Stop that. That's just the medication talking. When the chloroform wears off, you'll sing a different tune. Just wait, mister. You'll see."

His brow arched. "Oh? You promise?"

"I didn't mean that. You can't."

"Can't I?" He took my hand and slipped it under the covers. He showed me what he meant. Just in case I had misunderstood, he pressed me closer. My eyes widened. Rumor had it that women under the influence became lewd during labor. Even Queen Victoria had become ... disinhibited. Maybe it was true for men too. Or maybe it was just Miguel.

"I told you, doctora. You are very, very good medicine."

We tussled, but I managed to jerk my hand away. I shook my head. "And you are still very, very bad. What am I going to do with you?"

"Well ..."

"No. No, I mean it. What if the padre finds us? Or my aunt? Or Monte?" Even as I said this, I could hear my voice trembling. My will weakened. I was pitiful. Absolutely pitiful. It was as though he already knew because his eyes darkened, his lips lifted. I muttered, "For goodness sake. Can't you think of something else for a change?" I was half out of my chair, half over him. I held his hands apart and away from me.

With a little sigh, he settled back into his pillow. A lock of hair had fallen over his forehead. He tossed his head back. "As you wish."

I looked cautiously at him. He seemed to acquiesce, but I had my doubts. He may look quiet but there was nothing mild about him. There was always that faint sense of menace. He was like a stalking predator: watching and waiting, waiting for just the right moment. My body hummed with awareness. Careful, girl. I let go of Miguel, and sat down hastily on the chair. The legs scraped across the floor.

His smile turned smug. He knew. Drats. "Tell me. How do you like this infirmary?"

What? How could he sound so cool? I was dying inside. Well, I could try to brazen it out. My mind kept wandering back to the rumored side effects of chloroform and his state of recovery while I pretended to think about his question. I cleared my throat, then rubbed my sweaty hands against my skirt before I folded them in my lap. "Oh, I like the clinic fine. Better than Walter's old place. More room, better location. Yeah, this is nice all right. Pretty cushy."

I glanced around us. Even the pine plank floor was covered with a thick Turkish rug. And sunlight streamed through the lacy curtains that hung from the tall arched windows. Through the panes, I could see a courtyard garden with a fountain. That would be nice for patients to stroll around, maybe rest a little. "I like the laying-in rooms. Everything seems nice and airy and clean. And you can tell the equipment's new. Everything seems new. It's exciting with all those crates in the foyer still unpacked. Kinda like Christmas. But lucky for us the suite was all set up and ready to go. Good thing Xi knew about it. Sure came in handy for your surgery. So whose joint is this anyway? A friend of yours?"

"Not exactly," said Miguel patiently.

"Oh, a business acquaintance. Are you a silent investor?"

"In a way."

I frowned. I hated it when he acted like this. I felt like I was operating on him all over again. A damned exploratory surgery, trying to dig out an answer. Hands on hips, I said, "Well? Whose is it?"

He looked me over. Smiled faintly. "Yours, niña."

My mouth opened and closed without saying anything. Was he kidding? Half the time, I never even knew when he was joking. He sure had a strange sense of humor. I couldn't believe it. You could have knocked me over with a feather. "Get out of here."

"No. I cannot. My doctora has ordered strict bedrest. I always listen to her. To the very letter." His eyes flashed with surprising wickedness.

"You most certainly do ... not. You never ... I mean ... Oh never mind. What can you possibly mean by this?"

"Just what I said. Ah. You do not like it. Perhaps ... you would prefer diamonds?"

"Judas! What on earth for? I'd only lose them." I stared down at my hands, feeling completely overwhelmed. No one had ever given me something like this before. And no one had ever understood me so completely. Nothing could please me more. This infirmary ... mine? I would need help. And I knew who. Maybe I could talk Walter into returning from his premature retirement. And my friends who were still looking for jobs - why, I could telegraph them with an offer. So many things made possible all at once. What bounty! I was so happy and overwhelmed that I felt like crying. I hated when he made me feel that way. "What ... do I say, Miguel? What can I possibly say?"

"You say, muchas gracias, mi querido. And then you show me how very much you appreciate me. In that very special way you do."

And so I did. The only way I knew how.

###

Miguel sure had a sense of timing. Exquisite timing. I was grateful. And amazed.

I probably would have felt even more amazed if I'd been in the right state of mind, but I wasn't. All that show of "appreciation" turned time into one languorous golden moment. My body felt liquid, my mind completely absent. Now this kind of amnesia I could get used to. Real fast. Maybe surrendering wasn't so bad after all. Not bad at all. There were definite benefits.

I'm not sure what exactly happened afterwards, but somehow we came home with just ten minutes to spare. As soon as we arrived, Xi disappeared with Miguel, and Lin-Fong shepherded me through the casa as if I were a wayward lamb. I was ushered into a small room next to our bedroom. The draperies were faded as if they hadn't been pulled in years, but everything else smelled like fresh lemon soap and polish. The rug had a large darker square and four dents where a bed had once been. In its place was a chaise lounge with new cushions.

"Into your dressing room now. This yours. The Don said. Hurry, hurry." Lin-Fong poured warm water into a basin. "Undress. Wash up now. Chop, chop. Padre here in five minutes. Holy God."

What? What did she say? She might as well be speaking Cantonese, because her words flew right through me. Nothing was sticking to my addled mind. Oh, right. Get ready. I started on the top button of my blouse, but I must have been too slow because Lin-Fong quickly unfastened the rest of my buttons, then the side of my split-skirt. Clucking her tongue, she handed me a sponge.

I took it, staring stupidly at it. Then remembered. I started washing. "I have another suit. Could you get that one out?"

"The black one? No, Missy ..."

"Absolutely not!" declared Lily, who sailed into the room, majestic as the queen mother of all ships. Adana followed closely behind, stuck to my aunt's skirts like her little personal tugboat. The colossal feather in Lily's hat jutted out like a prow. She turned. I jumped back. Saved my eye just in the nick of time. Judas! Monte hadn't been kidding about the risk of bodily injury. She carried something hung and bundled. It looked suspiciously lacy and feminine. God help me. Lily unwrapped her prize carefully, quickly. "Don't be ridiculous, baby doll. You'll look like one of those damned temperance ladies. No one wears black to her own wedding. No time for arguments."

"Uh, that's all right. You don't have to bother."

"No bother. My pleasure," said my aunt with hearty cheerfulness I could just kill her for. She flung off the last piece of tissue. "It's not every day that you get married. It may be fast and hidey-hole, but that's okay by me. A catch is a catch. Can't let that Don Miguel slip off your hook, if you know what I mean. My, you are a sly one, Nikita Spencer. You just grab him and go."

"Lily!?!" I nodded towards Adana, who unfortunately was as attentive as always.

My aunt just threw back her head and laughed. "That's all right. That's perfectly fine. Never too young for a girl to learn the real - and I mean real - lessons in life. Right, Adana-pie?"

"Oh, yes. Lessons. Like sums and minuses. One take away one is zero. Zero like my mama. She's gone, but you're here now, Nikita. This was her room, and now it's yours. So we're not zero anymore. Not me and Papa. Two plus one is ..." she counted on her fingers, finished, then beamed up at me. "Three. We'll be three now and this room won't be empty any more."

The look on her hopeful face made my heart constrict. It was more than simple math. It was multiplication, I supposed. "Yes," I answered finally. "We'll be a family." I finished drying myself off. Tossed the towel on the bureau. I turned, glaring at my aunt. "With all the vices and virtues of being a family. We'll be a family no matter what I wear. Stop it, Lily. I'm sure that dress is beautiful. But whatever it is, I'm sure it's not me."

"How do you know that?" huffed my aunt, pulling the dress off the hanger. "You haven't even seen it. Really, Nikita. You surprise me. That kind of scaredy-cat attitude surely didn't get you through medical school."

"Who says I'm scared?"

"Two minutes," intoned Lin-Fong.

Lily smiled. "It's natural to have nerves, dear. But time's a'wasting. You don't want to keep Don Miguel waiting. He doesn't strike me as a patient man. Very impatient by the look of some things." Her smile turned knowing as if she already guessed what Miguel and I had been doing in the infirmary. And elsewhere. "No more arguments now. You can't tell me you've changed your mind. You don't ... want him?"

I blushed thoroughly, feeling feminine and damp. She did know. Cripes. How could she know? Did I have a sign posted on my forehead? This was embarrassing. I felt like a kid again - caught in the middle of sneaking something from Mrs. B's kitchen. Only this time, the something had been better than a cookie. Much better.

"Don't you want Papa? Don't you like him?" asked Adana anxiously. "I want you to like him. I want you to like all of us."

"I do, sweetheart." I leaned over and kissed the top of her head. "You bet I do."

"Good," said Lily. "Arms up."

I obeyed. Yards of ivory silk rustled over me. Flounce after flounce. Gads, I was drowning in it. The lavender-scented lace tickled my nose. I sneezed. "What is this?" I said as soon as my head cleared the neckline. Lily settled it across my shoulders while Lin-Fong fastened up the back.

"My dress," Lily mumbled, pins in her mouth. "The one I've been saving for me and Walter. Only at this rate, it looks like I'll be buried in it first. Never worn it. Brand new. Better you use it, baby doll. It suits you fine except ..."

"For this." Horrified, I clutched the bodice. "Judas! You can see all the way to my ..."

"Here. This lace help." Lin-Fong draped it around my shoulders so that it covered my naked chest. She tucked the edges into the plunging neckline and fixed it with a sapphire and pearl brooch. "You wear. That Dona Ana's. His mother's."

"Awwww, ain't that sweet? He thinks of everything. Now that's pretty. Really pretty." Lily fastened on the matching pearl drop earrings. Lin-Fong dressed my hair while my aunt pinched my cheeks.

"Ow! Not so hard."

"Hmpf! Good and rosy. Now take a look, baby doll. Just take a look." We stepped in front of the mirror, standing next to each other so that our reflections were side by side. Lily under that colossal hat, and me with my hair all piled high, held back by a pearl encrusted silver fillet ... That couldn't be me. My mouth dropped open. "I look ..."

"Beautiful," breathed Adana, wiggling next to me on the other side. "Like a princess fairy bride."

No, like a counterfeit bride. Fake as Monte's two-headed quarter. Maybe I looked the part, but that was about it. If you scratched my surface and looked past the silk and jewelry, you'd see the real Nikita - the mess in the muddy sensible boots. No matter how you dressed me up I'd still be a wharf brat somewhere inside. It didn't fool me. Not for a red minute. But I certainly seemed to be fooling everyone else. Lin-Fong nodded, pleased. And Lily? Good Lord! She was sniffing into her hankie like she had the mother of all colds; muttering to herself about something old, something new. My aunt blew her nose loud and long, then gave it a good wipe.

"You sure do look a picture. If only your mother could see you now." Lily gave one last hearty blow. Then straightening her shoulders, she stuffed the hankie into her bodice. "Well, that's enough of that. We better get a move on. Here, Adana. You take these posies since you're the flower girl and all. Come on, Nikita. Stop dawdling. You know what I always say. It's all right to make a gentleman wait ... as long as you make it worth his while. Let's go, baby doll. Let's go knock his socks off."

###

Later that evening, we stood in the grandee salon. The great candelabras were lit, filling the room with their soft golden glow. Everything smelled like beeswax and the last of the fall roses. Pedro and Adana stood on one side. And on the other side, a natty-looking Walter supported Lily, who just sniffled her fool head off. Monte, for once, was completely quiet, but that just probably meant he was cooking up something in his little head. Every now and then, he would glance around the room as if he were expecting something. Naturally this worried me. I didn't want my wedding busted up by his creditors. Now that would be dandy. Just dandy.

And as for the groom ... Well, I supposed Miguel looked handsome: all strong and straight in his black silk evening dress. I can't say I really noticed because I was so mad at him. I mean, there he was, standing in front of the padre. Standing! After all he had been through. I'd kill him if he popped one of my fine stitches. I sure as hell wasn't going to operate on him again. What was he thinking? That was the problem. He wasn't. He was too busy being Mister Big Tough Don.

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone. You should be sitting down," I whispered fiercely for the umpity-umpteenth time.

"No," he said softly, denying me again like he had throughout the priest's speechifying and instructions. When Pedro dropped the ring, Miguel calmly bent over and picked it up in one easy lithe move. Then repeating the vow louder, he slipped an old gold ring on to my finger, and when it finally rested snugly against my fourth metacarpal joint, he looked inordinately pleased with himself. Then his hand squeezed mine as if he were reassuring me.

Darn it. I didn't want his reassurances. I wanted his obedience. After all, wasn't there something about love, honor and obeying in this ceremony? Wasn't that what all these words were about? Becoming partners, listening, working together? So far, it wasn't working. It wasn't working at all. Why wouldn't he listen to me and take care of himself for a change? "Miguel ..."

"No," he repeated in a firm undertone. "I will not sit down for this. This is too important. Do not worry. I have strength left ... querida."

"That's not what I'm thinking about."

Miguel's brow arched. "No? I am ... disappointed. What else should you be thinking? Perhaps you have forgotten. Perhaps I should remind you."

Behind us, Walter chuckled. And in front of us, the padre faltered, glancing up from his bible at us. He coughed politely behind his hand. "Should I ... hmmm?"

"Wait a moment," I said, placing my hand on Miguel's chest. "You are going to ..."

"Finish this. Continue, Father," said Miguel in his Don voice, the one that brooked no disagreement. I opened my mouth. Miguel gripped my hand even tighter until the ring bit into my fingers. I closed my mouth, frowning at him. The wretch only smiled at me as the priest spoke on, picking up steam as he neared the end. Perhaps he was worried that he wouldn't get a chance to complete the ceremony. He sounded a little breathless, barely pausing between words so that it all sounded like one long run-on sentence. With his black cassock and reddening cheeks, he looked like one of those puffins. A puffin puffing away.

Chuff, chuff, chuff. He was really rolling now, going on and on about the holy this, that, and the other thing. "And those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder ..."

Such serious words. Almost done. And soon, my life would never be the same. From the moment we'd seen each other again on the ship, I had known that it had changed. I felt a chill run across my back, the candles flickering in the background. The priest said, "... you may kiss the ..."

Miguel needed no prompting. He quickly followed the last instruction. His hands seized my shoulders. And just this simple touch stoked a wanting that swept through me, blowing away my frustration, blowing everything else away. He bent me back like a willow in the wind. I swayed towards him. My hands slid up his arms, then around him. And the rest of the room seemed to fade away. All I could see were his bright green eyes, burning with triumph. Mine, his mouth said against me.

As you are mine, I answered silently; folding deeper into his arms, returning his kiss with my own. Dimly I heard someone cheering, clapping, my aunt blowing her nose again.

Over the sounds of celebration came muffled shouts from the doorway. Feet scuffled against the floor as if someone was being dragged across it. My brother was saying something with that cool menacing edge he used when a deal had gone sour and it was time to pull out the big guns. Monte said, "Excuse me. Pardon me. Invited guests only. Somehow I doubt you were invited. You're not friends of the groom. And you're definitely not friends of the bride. Nuh uh. The way I see it, you'd be about as welcome as a hanging judge. I'll just see you out. This way. This way, my friends. So sorry you can't stay."

Miguel broke away. He was looking past me and towards the disturbance. Straightening, he said, "Stop."

He was standing up now, one steadying arm around my shoulders. My mouth felt bereft without his. Foggily I glanced up, my vision gradually refocusing. Monte had Hillinger by the scruff of his scrawny uniformed neck while Xi detained the major.

Wolfe glanced disdainfully at Xi's imprisoning fingers. "Do you mind? You're wrinkling my suit."

Xi said nothing. He didn't let go until Miguel signaled him. "They can do no harm."

"So certain, are you?" Paul Wolfe straightened his collar, then smoothed down his suit.

Miguel only nodded once. Then, as if Wolfe wasn't worth wasting another moment's consideration, he turned instead to Adana, who flung her arms around his knees. With a quiet smile, Miguel leaned down and returned her hug - to my immense satisfaction. That was perfect. Just perfect. Maybe time could mend the awkwardness between them. It seemed like they were already on the way. I couldn't ask for a better wedding present. Smiling, I accepted Walter's kiss and Lily's weepy congratulations while Lin-Fong walked around the room with a tray of drinks: strong spirits for the adults, juice for the children. She made a point of offering refreshments to the intruders last of all. Wolfe accepted the drink and the accompanying glare. He must be used to that kind of treatment. It didn't seem to ruffle him at all. And his expression didn't change when Miguel walked up to him. Neither man said anything as they went to a quieter corner of the room. I wanted to follow but I couldn't without ditching Pedro and being too obvious.

I perked my ears, trying to listen even harder to the conversation across the room. Cripes. I couldn't hear a thing between Monte's singing and Pedro talking about God knows what. He was showing me something from the family altar, which was newly decorated for Dia de los Muertos, the day of the dead. He plumped the yellow and orange marigolds, rearranged the clay skeleton figurines, pointing out little details here and there. I admit it. I wasn't really paying attention to his chatter because I was concentrating on Wolfe and Miguel. Why hadn't I ever learned how to read lips? Now that would have been useful. What did Miguel just say? Ship? Or stop?

Next thing I knew, Pedro planted a puckered kiss on my cheek. It was soft and damp like a dab from a wet sponge. A child's kiss, affectionate and innocent. Was this the man who'd called Madeline his querida? I began to doubt myself, but there couldn't be two Miguel's. Could there? I know what I saw. And the man I'd just married couldn't have been the man in the arms of Madeline LaRue Calhoun. He couldn't.

"Thank you," I said automatically as if Pedro had just congratulated me. I really wasn't sure what he'd just said, but it seemed like a safe enough reply. "Thank you very much."

"See. See. You're just like all the others."

Something in Pedro's tone made me look - really look - at him for the first time this evening. He seemed a little off, not quite his usual jolly self. I took his soft plump hands. "What's wrong, Pedro?"

His bottom lip stuck out. "You're not listening. You're not!" His eyes challenged me.

Oops. Caught. Just because he was simple didn't mean he was worth less attention. I'd been rude. "You're right. I'm sorry. I ... I guess I'm a little distracted. Could you show me again? This is like Halloween, right? When the ghosts walk."

"All the spooky spooks from our family come visit. So we put out food, things they like to make them happy. See. Candy and cakes and pan dulce. Yummy." He sneaked a piece, smiling with crumbs hanging at the corner of his mouth. "And look, look. Whiskey for my padre. The real Don." He pointed to a painting of a silver mustachioed man, which was surrounded by a brand new bottle, a filled tumbler, and little female skeletons endowed with voluptuous scantily clad figures. The portrait of his mother was all the way on the other side of the altar, next to a single candle and a crucifix.

I picked up a daguerrotype that looked like a junior version of the old Don: black snapping eyes stared over a strong nose, thick black moustache. The young man's lips was cruel and sensual. "Is that Diego? Your brother?"

"Yes, yes." Pedro took the picture from me, and set it down again next to a sheaf of sheet music. A señorita skeleton, dressed entirely in red, was playing guitar and singing. "He loved music. He was always singing. But now he can't sing anymore because he's dead and he's buried. His mouth is full of dirt. You can't sing if your mouth's full. It's rude. Manners, manners. They are always teaching me manners. I don't listen."

Diego's picture sat next to a miniature of a small dark-haired woman with deep soulful eyes and unsmiling lips. Her small heart-shaped face was framed by a black mantilla and a large red rose. She seemed familiar.

"And who's that?"

"That's Elena. Beautiful Elena. She's dead too. They're all dead," said Pedro excitedly.

Elena? I'd never heard that name before. It was never mentioned in this household. I shouldn't ask, but curiosity spurred me on. I couldn't help myself. I took a wild guess. "She must have been very young. Eighteen? Nineteen? Was she Diego's wife?"

Pedro giggled. "No. You're wrong. All wrong. She wasn't Diego's wife. She was Miguelito's."

"Miguel's wife?" So this was her. This solemn woman had been Adana's mother. Yes. As I stared at the picture, I could imagine Adana's face growing older and taking on Elena's form. She looked entirely like her mother, and none at all like Miguel. I touched the frame of the picture. I stared into the woman's large brown eyes. Hello, Elena. I'll take good care of him. I promise I will. "What happened to her?"

"She's dead. Very, very dead," said Pedro plainly like all innocents do. Life hadn't taught him the social lie: how to soften the truth with etiquette or an artful falsehood. He delivered just the simple fact, blunt as a sledgehammer. Grinning toothily, Pedro glanced from side to side. "Elena is lonely. Very, very lonely. But soon she'll have someone to play with it. She won't be lonely any anymore. See, see. Look there." He pointed. Tucked in the far corner of the altar, a portait hid behind a huge bouquet of marigolds as if it was waiting in the wings. The painting was of a young woman with slanted blue eyes, a stubborn chin, and flyaway blonde hair. That was ...

That was the face I saw in the bathroom mirror every morning. Dear God. That was me.

A chill ran down my spine and spread through my limbs. I chafed my arms. I had never felt this cold in all my miserable life.

"Do you like it, Nikita? I like it. I like it a lot. I think it looks an awful, awful like you."

"But ... But you've made a mistake," I said gently with a calmness I didn't feel at all.

Frowning, he bent over the table until his nose practically touched my portrait. "No, I didn't. Aren't your eyes blue? Yes, they are. I know they are. Bluer than blue."

"No. I mean, only dead people are supposed to be on that altar. Not people who are still alive." People like me.

Pedro looked slyly at me. He leaned down and whispered into my ear, "No. No, Nikita. I feel sad. Very, very sad. I like you. I like you a lot. You're a nice señorita. You talk to me. You play with me. But you must be careful. Be very, very careful. It may happen tonight. Yes, it could. You never know with Miguelito. He can't help it. He has dreams. Bad dreams. He does things in his sleep and then he can't remember. It's not his fault. Don't be mad, Nikita."

"What do you mean?"

"You want to know what happened to Elena? I'll tell you. I'll tell you right now. Why, Miguelito killed Elena. Everyone knows that. Just ask."

I pulled back, aghast. I stared up at his round brown eyes, so open and earnest. He meant what he said. He always did. "Pedro, you shouldn't go around saying things like that. People don't go around murdering folks in their sleep. Walking, okay. Maybe even riding a horse. But murder? Forget it. Be quiet now. Someone might hear you. Even worse, they might believe you."

"That's okay. Why not? It's true. They say it was an accident. A terrible boating accident. But it wasn't. It couldn't ever ever be. Miguelito can sail a boat through any typhoon and come out okay. No scratches. No ow-ow's. And Elena. She could swim and swim and swim. No, it wasn't an accident. He wanted her dead. He was mad. Very mad. Mad people do bad things. Bad hurtful things."

The insides of my mouth turned dry. Turning, I stared at Miguel's slim stern face. He was still talking with Wolfe on the other side of the room, and his eyes had that hooded guarded look so different from Pedro's guileless face. Yes, Miguel kept secrets. He was chockfull of those dratted secrets. But he always had a reason, didn't he? And this? I couldn't believe it. I turned back to Pedro. Shook my head firmly. "No. You must be mistaken. How could that be true? You're wrong."

"I'm not. How well do you know him? Really? Just a few weeks. But I know Miguelito. I have known him all his life. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants. No one stands in his way. Yes, yes. Elena was in his way, so he killed her. Just like he killed my brother. Bang. Bang. In the saloon. He got Diego and now, Diego's gone. Elena's gone too. Gone forever. And you ... you might be next. So be careful. Be very, very careful, Nikita." Without another word, Pedro left me at the family altar with the grinning sugar skulls and the cakes, and the thick smells of soot and marigold and burnt wax. He didn't even look back.

###