Speaks the Nightbird

"Thank you, " Matthew said. "Oh... one more thing. Who arrived first in Fount Royal? Mr. Paine or the doctor?"

"Mr. Paine did, " she replied. "It was... oh, more'n a month or two a'fore Dr. Shields came." She knew there must be a valid reason for these questions. "Does this concern Rachel Howarth?"

"No, I don't believe so. It's only an observation I needed verified."

"Oh, I swan it's more'n that!" She offered him a sly smile. "You canna' leave a thread undone, can ya?"

"I might find employment as a weaver of rugs, if that's what you mean."

"Ha!" She gave a rough bark of a laugh. "Yes, I 'spect you might!" However, her smile vanished and her countenance darkened until she had reached her customary grim composure. "It's all up for Madam Howarth then, is that the basket?"

"The lid has not yet been closed, " Matthew said.

"Meanin' what?"

"Meaning that the execution flame has not yet been lighted... and that I have some reading to do. Excuse me and good night." Matthew took his tray of tea and biscuits upstairs to his room, where he poured himself a cup and sat down next to the open window, his lantern burning on its sill. For the third time he took the documents from their protective box and began reading through them, starting at the beginning.

By now he might have recited the testimony by heart. Still he felt—or, rather, ardently hoped—that something in the thicket of words might leap out at him like a directional signpost, signaling the next step in his exploration. He drank from his cup of tea and chewed on a biscuit. Bidwell had taken his own repast at Van Gundy's tavern, as Matthew had discovered from Dr. Shields, who had earlier seen Bidwell hoisting a tankard with Winston and several other men in a general air of merry celebration.

He finished—for the third time—Jeremiah Buckner's account and paused to rub his eyes. He felt in need of a tankard himself, yet strong drink would weaken his resolve and blur his sight. Oh, for a night of pure sleep untouched by the thought of Rachel afire on the stake!

Or even a night untouched by the thought of Rachel. Period.

He recalled what the magistrate had said: Helping her. Finding the truth. Being of service. Whatever and however you choose to phrase it... Rachel Howarth is your nightbird, Matthew. Perhaps the magistrate was right, but not in the sinister way he had meant it.

Matthew closed his eyes for a moment to rest them. Then he opened them, drank some more tea to fortify himself, and continued his reading. Now he was venturing into the testimony of Elias Garrick, and the man's recollection of the night he had awakened and— Wait, he thought. That was odd.

He read again over the section he had just digested. That night I was feelin' poorly, and I waked up to go outside and spew what was makin' me ill. It was silent. Every thin' was silent, like the whole world was afeared to breathe.

Matthew sat up from his slouched position in the chair. He reached out and pulled the lantern nearer. Then he turned back through the pages until he found the beginning of Jeremiah Buckner's testimony.

And there it was.

Me and Patience went to bed just like usual that night. She put out the lamp. Then... I don't know how long it was later... 1 heard my name spoke. I opened my eyes. Every thin' was dark, and silent. I waited, a'listenin'. Just silent, like there was nothin' else in the whole world makin' a sound but my breathin'. Then... I heard my name spoke again, and I looked at the foot of the bed and seen her.

With an eager hand, Matthew turned to the beginning of Violet Adams's testimony, as she recounted entering the Hamilton house. He put a finger on the line of importance, his heart starting to slam hard in his chest.

There wasn't nary a noise. It was silent, like... it was just me breathin' and that was the only sound.

Three witnesses.

Three testimonies.

But the same word: silent.

And that about breathing being the only sound... what possible coincidence could that be? Also the repeated phrase whole world by both Buckner and Garrick... it defied reason to think both men would speak the exact same words.

Unless... without knowing it... all three of the witnesses had been told what to say.

Matthew felt a chill skitter up his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck moved. He realized he had just had a glimpse of the shadow he sought.

It was a terrifying realization. Because the shadow was larger and darker and more strangely powerful than he had dared believe. The shadow had been standing behind Jeremiah Buckner,

Elias Garrick, and Violet Adams there in the gaol, all the time they'd been giving their accounts.

"My God, " Matthew whispered, his eyes wide. Because he had realized the shadow was in their minds, directing their words, emotions, and counterfeit memories. The three witnesses were no more than flesh-and-blood poppets, constructed by the hand of an evil beyond Matthew's imagining.

One hand. The same hand. A hand that sewed six gold buttons on a Satanic cloak. That created a white-haired imp, a leathery lizard-like manbeast, and a bizarre creature that had a male penis and female breasts. The same hand had created these scenes of sickening depravity, had painted them on the very air to display to Buckner, Garrick, Violet, and probably other citizens, who had fled for their sanity. For that's what the scenes were: air-paintings. Or, rather, paintings that came to life inside the minds that were spelled to accept them as truth.

That was why Buckner could not recall where he'd put his cane, which he was unable to get around without, or whether he had worn a coat outside in the cold February air, or whether he had taken his shoes off when he'd climbed back into bed.

That was why Garrick could not recall what clothes he had worn outside to go spew, or whether he had put on shoes or boots, or what pattern the six gold buttons were arranged in though he clearly noted their number.

That was why Violet Adams had not noticed the reek of a decaying dog's carcass, or the fact that the Hamilton house was overrun by canines.

Not one of the three witnesses had actually witnessed anything but these mental paintings, constructed by a shadowy hand that had emphasized some details for the purpose of shock and disgust—the kind of details that would make for damning court testimony—but had omitted other details of a more commonplace nature.

Except for the pattern of gold buttons on the cloak, Matthew thought. That was where the shadowy hand had been... the only word Matthew could think of was precious.

The hand had made the oversight of not detailing the arrangement of buttons for Buckner or Garrick, but had attempted to make up for it by providing that detail to Violet, who collected buttons and therefore might be more observant as to their pattern.

It occurred to Matthew that the shadowy hand might have placed the poppets under the floor of Rachel's house, and then painted the dream by which Cara Grunewald had seen an item of importance hidden there. He would have liked to have spoken to Madam Grunewald, to learn if, when she'd gone to sleep that night, everything was silent, as if the whole world was feared to breathe.

Matthew turned through the pages to another point he recalled of Garrick's account. It was when he had challenged Garrick concerning the arrangement of the six gold buttons, and had pressed his question to the man's obviously confused agitation.

Garrick's response had been a whispered It was a silent town. Silent. The whole world, afeared to breathe.

Matthew realized that what he had heard was Garrick repeating a phrase supplied to him by the owner of the shadowy hand. Garrick had been unable to answer the question, and had unwittingly fixed on that somnambulistic phrase in a moment of great stress because it was one of the clearest things he did remember.

And now there was the question of Linch's voice, singing in the dark at the Hamilton house. If Violet had not actually set foot in the house, how could she have heard the ratcatcher singing his grotesque ditty from the back room?

Matthew put aside the documents and finished his cup of tea, staring out the window toward the slaves' quarters and the darkness beyond. He might have decided that Violet had been dreaming the involvement of Linch as well as the rest of it, but his own exploration of Linch's dwelling told Matthew the ratcatcher had concealed the secrets of his identity behind a cleverly constructed front.

Linch was literate and obviously cunning. Was it possible his was the shadowy hand that had guided the three witnesses?

But why? And how? By what form of sorcery had Linch—or whomever—caused three individuals to see similar apparitions and believe without a doubt they had been viewing reality? It had to be black magic, of a sort. Not the kind popularly associated with Satan, but the kind that evolves from a corrupt and twisted human mentality. But also a mentality that was well ordered and precise, as Linch's must be.

Matthew couldn't understand how Linch, or anyone else, might have done it.

Such a thing—the guiding of three minds toward a common fiction—seemed to be absolutely impossible. Nevertheless, Matthew was certain that was exactly what had occurred.

And what of the question of motive? Why go to such lengths—and such incredible risk—to paint Rachel as being a servant of the Devil? It had to be much more than simply covering the tracks that led away from the murders of Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. In fact, those killings seemed to Matthew to have been committed to add weight of suspicion upon Rachel.

So the point was to create a witch, Matthew thought. Rachel was already disliked by many of the citizens before Grove was murdered. Her dark beauty could not have aided her popularity among the other women, and her Portuguese heritage reminded the men of how close the Spanish territory lay to their farmland. She had a tongue, a willful spirit, and courage that ruffled the feathers of the church-guarding hens. Therefore Rachel was from the beginning a perfect candidate.

Matthew chewed on another biscuit. He looked at the stars that glittered above the ocean, and at the candle that burned within the lantern's glass. The light of understanding was what he sought, yet it was a difficult illumination to unveil.

Why create a witch? What possible reason was there for it? To hurt Bidwell? Was all this engineered by the jealous ravens of Charles Town to destroy Fount Royal before it could grow to rivalry?

If that were so, wouldn't Winston have known Rachel was innocent? Or had the Charles Town elders planted another traitor or two within Fount Royal's midst and for the sake of security not informed Winston?

And then there was the question of the mysterious surveyor, and what might lie in the mud at the fount's bottom. It struck him that tomorrow night—very late, after the last lantern had gone out and the final celebrants swept from Van Gundy's tavern—he might try his strength at some underwater swimming.

Though the tea was certainly sturdy enough, Matthew still felt weariness pulling at him. It was his mind that needed rest just as much—if not more so—than his body. He needed to climb into bed, sleep until dawn, and awaken ready for a fresh appraisal of what he suspected, what he knew, and what he had yet to learn.

Matthew relieved himself at the chamberpot, then undressed and lay down upon the bed. He left the lantern burning, as his realization of the shadowy hand's strange and compelling power had made him somewhat less than easy with the dark.

He tossed and turned in the first bout of what would be a nightlong grappling with the hot gearwheels of his brain. At last, though, he relaxed enough to sleep for a time, and except for the occasional barking of a mongrel the town was ruled by silence.

twenty-nine

UPON AWAKENING AT FIRST LIGHT and the rooster chorale, Matthew hurriedly pulled on his breeches and crossed the hall to look in on the magistrate.

Woodward was still sleeping on his stomach, his breathing harsh but steady. Matthew was curious as to the state of the blisters on Woodward's back, and so carefully lifted the gown to view them.

Instantly he wished he had not. The blisters had flattened into ugly ebony bruises surrounded by circles of mottled flesh. Streaks of red ran underneath the skin, attesting to the pressures that the magistrate's body had endured. It occurred to Matthew that this procedure of heat and blister cups was more suited for the torture chamber than the sickbed. He lowered Woodward's gown again, then dipped a cloth into the bowl of water that sat atop the dresser and spent a moment wiping away the green crust that had accumulated around the magistrate's nostrils. The magistrate's face was damp and swollen, the fever radiating from him like the calidity from a bellows-coaxed blaze.

"What..." Woodward whispered, his eyelids fluttering. "What is the day?"

"Thursday, sir."

"I must... get up... and about. Can you help me?"

"I don't think it's wise to get up quite yet, sir. Possibly later in the day."

"Nonsense. I... shall miss court... if I don't get up." Matthew felt something as keen as an icy dagger pierce his guts. "They... already think me... lax in my duties, " Woodward continued. "They think... I am more fond... of the rumpot... than the gavel. Yes, I saw Mendenhall yesterday. That peacock. Laughing at me... behind his hand. What day is it, did you say?"

"Thursday." Matthew's voice was hushed.

"I... have a larceny trial to hear. This morning. Where are my boots?"

"Sir?" Matthew said. "I fear... that court has been postponed for the day."

Woodward was quiet. Then, "Postponed?"

"Yes, sir. The weather being so bad." Even as he spoke it, he could hear birds singing in the trees around the spring.

"Ahhhhh, the weather, " Woodward whispered. His eyes had never fully opened, but remained hidden behind the fever-inflamed lids. "Then I shall stay indoors today, " he said. "Shall light a fire... drink a hot rum."

"Yes, sir, I think that would be best."

Woodward said something that was more gibberish than language, as if he were losing control over even his speech, but then he spoke clearly enough for Matthew to make out the words, "My back. Pains me."

"It will be well soon. You must lie still and rest."

"A bottle, " Woodward said, drowsing off once more. "Will you... bring me a bottle?"

"I shall, yes, sir." It seemed a small but helpful untruth. The magistrate's eyelids had ceased their war against gravity and he lay quiet again, his breathing returned to its accustomed rasp like that of a rusted hinge being slowly worked back and forth.

Matthew finished his task of carefully cleaning Woodward's nostrils. When he left the room, he was stricken in the middle of the hallway by what might have been a crushing weight suddenly applied to his shoulders. At the same time, the icy dagger that had entered his entrails seemed to twist toward his heart. He stood short of his own door, one hand clasped to his mouth and above it his eyes wide and brimming with tears.

He was trembling, and wished to make it cease but could not. A sensation of utter powerlessness had come upon him, a sensation of being a leaf stripped from a tree in a high wind and blown through a terrifying altitude of lightning and rain.

He had realized that every day—every hour—brought the magistrate closer to death. It was not now a question of whether the magistrate might die, but when. Matthew was sure this bleed-ing-and-blistering treatment was not sufficient; indeed, he doubted the ability of Dr. Shields to heal a man who was only half as ill as the magistrate. If Woodward could be gotten to Charles Town, to the attentions of the urban doctors who commanded fully equipped infirmaries and a benefit of medicines, then there was a chance—be it however diminished—that he might be cured of this savage malady.

Yet Matthew knew that no one here would volunteer to carry Woodward the long distance to Charles Town, especially if it meant denigrating the abilities of their own doctor. If he undertook to convey Woodward there, he would lose at the very least two vital days from his investigation, and by the time he returned here Rachel would likely be a black smudge on a charred stake. Woodward might not be his father, it was true, but the man had served in as near that capacity as was humanly possible, saving him from the drear almshouse and setting him on a path of purpose. Did he not, then, owe the magistrate at least something?

He might persuade Winston to take Woodward to Charles Town, under threat of revealing the incriminating bucket, but should such a disloyal dog be trusted with a man's life? Winston could as well leave his charge on the side of the road for the animals to eat, and never return.

No, not Winston. But... would Nicholas Paine be willing to do the job?

It was a spark, but it might kindle a flame. Matthew pulled himself together, wiped his eyes clear with the back of his hand, and continued into his room. There he shaved, cleaned his teeth, and finished dressing. Downstairs, he found Bidwell clad in a lime-green suit at the bountiful breakfast table, the foxtail of his wig tied with an emerald-hued ribbon.

"Sit down, sit down!" Bidwell offered, his mood jovial because the day promised to be as sunwarmed and beautiful as the one before. "Come have breakfast, but please let us announce a truce on the subject of theories."

"I haven't time for breakfast, " Matthew said. "I am on my way to—"

"Oh, of course you have time! Come sit down and at least eat a blood sausage!" Bidwell indicated the platter heaped with sausages, but their color was so similar to the ebon collapsed blisters on the magistrate's back that Matthew couldn't have swallowed one if it had been shot into his throat from a pistol. "Or, here, have a pickled melon!"

"No, thank you. I am on my way to see Mr. Paine. Can you tell me where he lives?"

"To see Nicholas? Why?" Bidwell speared a segment of pickled melon with his knife and slid it into his mouth.

"Some business I wish to discuss."

"What business?" Bidwell now was truly suspicious. "Any business you have with him is also business with me."

"All right, then!" Matthew had reached his zenith of frustration. "I wish to ask him to take the magistrate to Charles Town! I want him placed in an infirmary there!"

Bidwell cut a blood sausage in two and chewed thoughtfully on half of it. "So you don't trust Dr. Shields's method of treatment? Is that what you're saying?"

"It is."

"I'll have you know, " and here Bidwell aimed his knife at Matthew, "that Ben is just as good a doctor as any of those quacks in Charles Town." He frowned, knowing that hadn't come out as he'd intended. "I mean to say, he's an able practitioner. Without his treatment, I'll grant you that the magistrate would have been deceased days ago!"

"It's the days hence I'm concerned about. The magistrate is showing no improvement at all. Just now he was speaking to me in delirium!"

Bidwell pushed his knife into the second half of sausage and guided the greasy black thing into his mouth. "You should by all means be on your way, then, " he said as he chewed. "Not to see Nicholas, but to visit the witch."

"Why should I wish to do that?"

"Well, isn't it obvious? One day after the decree is delivered, and the magistrate lies at death's door? Your skirt has placed a curse on him, boy!"

"That's nonsense!" Matthew said. "The magistrate's condition has worsened because of this excessive bloodletting! And also because he was required to sit in that cold gaol for hours when he should have been in bed resting!"

"Oh, ho! His sickness is now my fault, is that it? You cast about for blame from everyone except that to whom it rightly belongs! Besides... if you hadn't pulled your stunt with Seth Hazelton, the witch's case would have been heard in the public meetinghouse—which has a very comfortable hearth, I might add. So if you wish to blame anyone, go speak to a mirror!"

"All I wish to do is find the house of Nicholas Paine, " Matthew said, his cheeks flushed and his teeth gritted. "I don't care to argue with you, for that is like trying to outbray a jackass. Will you direct me to his house, or not?"

Bidwell busied himself by stirring the scrambled eggs on his plate. "I am Nicholas's employer, and I direct his comings and goings, " he said. "Nicholas will not go to Charles Town. He is needed here to help with the preparations."

"By God!" Matthew shouted, with such force that Bidwell jumped in his chair. "Would you deny the magistrate a chance at living?"

"Calm your vigor, " Bidwell warned. A servant girl peeked in from the kitchen and then quickly drew her head back. "I will not be shouted at in my own house. If you wish to spend time hollering down the walls at the gaol, I might arrange it for you."

"Isaac needs better medical attention than what he's getting, " Matthew insisted. "He needs to be taken to Charles Town immediately. This morning, if possible."

"And I say you're wrong. I'd also say that the trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch. But... if you're so willing to gallop in that direction, you should load him on a wagon and take him yourself. I will even make you a loan of a wagon and two horses, if you will sign a note of agreement."

Matthew had stood listening to this with his face downcast, staring at the floor. Now he drew in a deep breath, his cheeks mottled with red, and he walked purposefully to the end of the table. Something in his pace or demeanor alerted Bidwell to danger, because the man started to push his chair back and rise to his feet—but before he could, Matthew had reached Bidwell's side and with one sweep of his arm sent the breakfast platters off the table to the floor in a horrendous echoing crash.

As Bidwell struggled to stand up, his distended belly jiggling and his face dark with rage, Matthew clamped a hand on his right shoulder and bore down with all his weight, at the same time thrusting his face into Bidwell's.

"That man you call a wretch, " Matthew said, in what was barely more than an ominous whisper, "has served you with all of his heart and soul." Matthew's eyes blazed with a fire that promised to scorch Bidwell to a cinder, and the master of Fount Royal was for the moment transfixed. "That man you call a wretch lies dying because he has served you so well. And you, sir, for all of your wealth, fine clothes, and pufferies, are not worthy to clean the magistrate's boots with your dung-dripping tongue."

Bidwell suddenly laughed, which made Matthew draw back.

"Is that the worst insult you can construct?" Bidwell lifted his eyebrows. "Boy, you are a rank amateur! On the matter of the boots, however, I'll have you recollect that they are not the magistrate's. Indeed, every item of your own clothing was supplied by me. You came to this town near-naked, the both of you. So remember that I clothed you, fed you, and housed you, while you are flinging insults in my face." He noted the presence of Mrs.

Nettles from the corner of his eye, and he turned his head toward her and said, "All's well, Mrs. Nettles. Our young guest has shown his tail, that's—"

The noise of the front door bursting open interrupted him. "What the bloody hell?" he said, and now he brushed Matthew's hand aside and hoisted himself to his feet.

Edward Winston came into the dining room. But it was a different Winston than Matthew had seen; this one was breathing hard, as if he'd been running, and his face was drawn and pale in the aftermath of what seemed a terrible shock.

"What's the matter?" Bidwell asked. "You look as if you've—"

"It's Nicholas!" Winston put a hand up to his forehead and appeared to be fighting a faint.

"What about him? T^k sense, man!"

"Nicholas... is dead, " Winston answered. His mouth gaped, trying to form the words. "He has been murdered."

Bidwell staggered as if from a physical blow. But instantly he righted himself and his sense of control came to the forefront. "Not a word about this!" he told Mrs. Nettles. "Not to a single servant, not to anyone! Do you hear me?"

"Yes sir, I do." She appeared just as stunned as her master.

"Where is he?" Bidwell asked Winston. "The body, I mean?"

"His house. I just came from there."

"You're sure of this?"

Winston managed a grim, sickened half-smile. "Go look for yourself. I promise you won't soon forget such a sight."

"Take me there. Clerk, you come too. Remember, Mrs. Nettles: not a word about this to a single soul!"

During the walk in the early sunlight, Bidwell maintained his pace at a quick clip for a man of his size. Several citizens called a morning greeting, which Bidwell had the presence of mind to answer in as carefree a voice as he could manage. It was only when one farmer tried to stop him to talk about the forthcoming execution that Bidwell snapped at the man like a dog at a worrisome flea. Then Bidwell, Winston, and Matthew reached the whitewashed dwelling of Nicholas Paine, which stood on Harmony Street four houses northward of Winston's shuttered pigsty.

Paine's house was also shuttered. Winston's pace slowed as they neared the closed door, and finally he stopped altogether.

"Come along!" Bidwell said. "What's wrong with you?"

"I... would rather stay out here."

"Come along, I said!"

"No, " Winston answered defiantly. "By God, I'm not going in there again!"

Bidwell stared at him openmouthed, thunderstruck by this show of impudence. Matthew walked past both men, lifted the door's latch, and pushed the door open. As he did, Winston turned his face and walked away a few strides.

Matthew's first impression was of the copious reek of blood. Secondly, he was aware of the buzzing of flies at work. Thirdly, he saw the body in the slanting rays of vermilion light that entered between the shutter slats.

Fourthly, his gorge rose and if he had eaten any breakfast he surely would have expelled it.

"Oh... my Jesus, " Bidwell said softly, behind him. Then Bidwell was overcome by the picture. He hurried outside and around the house to vomit up his blood sausage and pickled melon where he would not be seen by any passing citizen.

Matthew stepped across the threshold and closed the door to block this sight from view of the street. He stood with his back against the door, the fresh sunlight reflecting off the huge pool of blood that surrounded the chair in which Paine was sitting. Indeed, it appeared that every drop had flowed from the man's veins onto the floor, and the corpse had taken on a waxy sallow color. Matthew saw that Paine had been tied in an upright position, ropes binding his arms behind him and his ankles to the chair legs. His shoes and stockings had been removed, and his ankles and feet slashed to sever the arteries. Likewise slashed were the insides of both arms beginning at the elbows. Matthew shifted his position to see that the deep, vein-slicing cuts continued down the forearms to the wrists. He moved a little closer to the corpse, careful that he not step into the crimson sea of gore.

Paine's head was tilted backward. In his mouth was stuffed a yellow cloth, possibly a pair of stockings. His eyes, mercifully, were closed. Around his neck was knotted a noose. On the right side of his forehead there was a vicious black bruise, and blood had flowed from both nostrils down the white of his shirt. A dozen or more flies crawled over the gashes in Paine's corpse and supped from the bloody banquet at his feet.

The door opened and Bidwell dared enter. He held a handkerchief pressed to his mouth, his face gleaming with beads of sweat. Quickly, he closed the door at his back and stood staring numbly at all the carnage.

"Don't be sick again, " Matthew warned him. "If you are, I shall be as well and it will not add to this prettiness."

"I'm all right, " Bidwell croaked. "I... oh dear God... oh Christ... who could have done such a murder as this?"

"One man's murder is another man's execution. That's what this is. You see the hangman's noose?"

"Yes." Bidwell rapidly averted his eyes. "He... he's been drained of blood, hasn't he?"

"It appears his arteries have been opened, yes." Matthew walked around to the back of the body, getting as close as possible without sinking his shoes into the quagmire. He saw a red clump of blood and tissue near the crown of Paine's head. "Whoever killed him beat him first into insensibility with a blunt object, " Matthew said. "He was struck on the head by someone standing behind and above him. I think that would be a requirement because otherwise Paine would be a formidable opponent."

"This is the Devil's work!" Bidwell said, his eyes glassy. "Satan himself must have done it!"

"If that is so, Satan has a clinical eye as to the flow of blood. You'll notice that Paine's throat was not slashed, as I understand was done to Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth. Whoever murdered Paine wished him to bleed to death slowly and in excruciating fashion. I venture Paine might have regained consciousness during the procedure, and then was struck again on the forehead. If he was able to return to sensibility after that, by that time he would have been too weak to struggle."

"Ohhhh... my stomach. Dear God... I'm going to be sick again."

"Go outside, then, " Matthew directed, but Bidwell lowered his head and tried to ward off the flood. Matthew looked around the room, which showed no other signs of tumult, and fixed his attention on a nearby desk. Its chair was missing, and probably was the chair in which Paine had died. On a blotter atop the desk was a sheet of paper with several lines written upon it. An inkpot was open, and on the floor lay the quill pen. A melted stub in a candlestick attested to his source of light. Matthew saw drops and smears of blood on the floor between the desk and where the chair was positioned. He walked to the desk and read the paper.

"I, Nicholas Paine, " he recited, "being of sound mind and of my own free will do hereby on this date of May eighteenth, sixteen hundred and ninety- nine, confess to the murder of..." And here the writing ended in a blotch of ink. "Written sometime after midnight, it seems, " Matthew said. "Or close enough that Paine scribed today's date." He saw something else in the room that warranted his attention: on the bedpallet was an open trunk that had been partly packed with clothing. "He was about to leave Fount Royal, I think."

Bidwell stared with dread fascination at the corpse. "What... murder was he confessing?"

"An old one, I believe. Paine had some sins in his past. I think one of them caught up with him." Matthew walked to the bed to inspect the contents of the trunk. The clothes had been thrown in, evidence of intention of a hurried departure.

"You don't think the Devil had anything to do with this? Or the witch?"

"I do not. The murders of the reverend and Daniel Howarth were—as I understand their description—meant to kill quickly. This was meant to linger. Also, you'll note there are no claw marks, as in the other killings. This was done with a very sharp blade by a hand that was both vengeful and... shall we say... experienced in the craft of cutting."

"Oh my God... what shall we do?" Bidwell lifted a trembling hand to his forehead, his wig tilted to one side on his pate. "If the citizens find out about this... that we have another murderer among us... we won't have a soul in Fount Royal by the end of the day!"

"That, " Matthew said, "is true. It will do no good to advertise this crime. Therefore, don't expose it."

"What do you suggest? Hiding the corpse?"

"The details, I'm sure, are better left to you. But yes, I propose wrapping the corpse in a bedsheet and disposing of it at a later date. The later, of course, the more... disagreeable the task will be."

"We cannot just pretend Paine has left Fount Royal! He has friends here! And he at least deserves a Christian burial!"

Matthew aimed his stare at Bidwell. "It is your choice, sir. And your responsibility. After all, you are his employer and you direct his comings and goings." He walked around the body again and approached the door, which Bidwell stood against. "If you'll excuse me?"

"Where are you going?" A flare of panic leaped in Bidwell's eyes. "You can't leave!"

"Yes, I can. Don't concern yourself with my speaking about this to anyone, for I vow I shall not." Except for one person, he might have added. The person he now intended to confront.

"Please... I need your help."

"By that, if you mean you need a pair of hands to strip the pallet, roll Paine up in the sheet, and scrub the floor with ashes and tar soap... then I must deny your noble request. Winston might help you, but I doubt if any amount of coercion or threat will make him cross that threshold again." Matthew smiled tightly. "Therefore... speaking to a man who so abhors failure... I sincerely hope you are successful at your present challenge. Good day to you, sir." Matthew thought he was going to have to bodily pry Bidwell away from the door, which might have been a labor fit for Hercules, but at last the master of Fount Royal moved aside.

As Matthew started to open the door, Bidwell said in a small voice, "You say... ashes and tar soap, then?"

"Some sand, too, " Matthew advised. "Isn't that how they scrub blood off the deck of a ship?" Bidwell didn't answer, but stood looking at the corpse with his handkerchief pressed against his mouth.

Outside, the air had never smelled sweeter. Matthew closed the door again, his stomach still roiling and what felt like cold sweat down the valley of his spine. He approached Winston, who stood in the shadow of an oak tree a few yards away.

"How did you come to find him?" Matthew asked.

Winston still appeared dazed, his color not yet returned. "I... intended... to ask Nicholas to escort me to Charles Town. On the pretense of negotiating for supplies."

"After which, you intended not to return here?"

"Yes. I planned on leaving Nicholas while I went to see Danforth. Then... I would simply lose myself in Charles Town."

"Well, half of your intent has come to fruition, " Matthew said. "You are indeed lost. Good day." He turned away from Winston and walked back along Harmony Street in the direction they'd come, as he had seen the infirmary in passing.

Presently Matthew stood before the door and pulled the bell-cord. There was no response to the first pull, nor to the fifth. Matthew tried the door, found it unlatched from within, and entered the doctor's domain.

The parlor held two canaries in a gilded cage, both singing happily toward the shafts of light that filtered through the white shutters. Matthew saw another door and knocked at it, but again there was no reply. He opened it and ventured into a hallway. Ahead there were three rooms, the doors of the first two ajar. In the initial room stood the barber's chair and leather razor-sharpening strop; in the second room there was a trio of beds, all of which were neatly made and unoccupied. Matthew continued down the hallway to the third door, where he knocked once more.

When there was no response he pushed the door open and faced what appeared to be the doctor's chemistry study, judging from all the arcane bottles and beakers. The chamber held a single shuttered window through which the rays of bright sunlight streamed, though hazed by a pall of blue-tinged smoke.

Benjamin Shields sat in a chair with his back against the wall, holding a small object in a clamplike instrument in his right hand. The object was smoldering, emitting a thin smoke plume. Matthew thought the clouded air smelled of a combination of burnt peanuts and a rope that had been set afire.

The doctor's face was veiled by shadow, though stripes of contaminated light lay across the right shoulder and arm of his tan-colored suit. His spectacles had been placed atop a stack of two leatherbound books that sat on the desk to his right. His legs were crossed at the ankles, in a most casual pose. Matthew didn't speak. He watched as the doctor lifted the burning object—some kind of wrapped tobacco stick, it appeared—to his lips and pulled in a long, slow draw.

"Paine has been found, " Matthew said. Just as slowly as he had drawn the smoke, the doctor released it from his mouth. It floated in a shimmering cloud through the angled sunrays.

"I thought your creed was to save lives, not take them, " Matthew went on. Again, Shields drew from the stick, held it, then let the smoke dribble out.

Matthew looked around at the vessels of the doctor's craft, the glass bottles and vials and beakers. "Sir, " he said, "you are as transparent as these implements. For what earthly reason did you commit such an atrocity?"

Still there was no reply.

Matthew felt as if he'd entered a tiger's den, and the tiger was playing with him like a housecat before it bared its fangs and claws and sprang at him. He kept firmly in mind the position of the door behind him. The savagery of Paine's death was undeniable, and therefore the ability of savagery lay within the man who sat not ten feet away. "May I offer a possible scenario?" Matthew asked, and continued anyway when the doctor refused to speak. "Paine committed some terrible offense against you—or your family—some years ago. Did he murder a family member? A son or a daughter?" A pause did not coax a reaction, except for a further cloud of smoke.

"Evidently he did, " Matthew said. "By a gunshot wound, it seems. But Paine was wounded first, therefore I'm inclined to believe his victim was male. Paine must have had cause to find a doctor to treat his injury. Is that how you followed his trail? You searched for the doctor who treated him, and tracked Paine from that point? How many months did it take? Longer than that? Years?" Matthew nodded. "Yes, I'd suspect several years. Many seasons of festering hatred. It must have taken that long, for a man of healing to give himself over so completely to the urge for destruction."

Shields regarded the burning tip of his tobacco stick.

"You learned the circumstances of the death of Paine's wife, " Matthew said. "But Paine, in wishing to put the past behind him, had never told anyone in Fount Royal that he'd ever been married. He must have been astounded when he realized you knew his history... and, Paine being an intelligent man, he also realized why you knew. So you went to his house sometime around midnight, is that correct? I presume you had all the ropes and blades you needed in your bag, but you probably left that outside. Did you offer to keep your silence if Paine would write a confession and immediately leave Fount Royal?"

Smoke drifted slowly through the light.

"Paine never dreamt you'd gone there to kill him. He assumed you were interested in unmasking him before Bidwell and the town, and that the confession was the whole point of it. So you let Paine sit down and begin writing, and you took the opportunity to bash him in the head with a blunt instrument. Was it something you had hidden on you or something already there?"

No response was forthcoming.

"And then came the moment you relished, " Matthew said.

"You must have relished it, to have performed it so artfully. Did you taunt him as you opened his veins? His mouth was gagged, his head near cracked, and his blood running out in streams. He must have been too weak to overturn the chair, but what would it have mattered? He probably did hear you taunting him as he died, though. Does that knowledge give you a feeling of great joy, sir?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "Is this one of the happiest mornings of your life, now that the man you've sought so long and steadfastly is a blood-drained husk?"

Shields took another draw from the stick, released the smoke, and then leaned forward. Light touched his moist, perspiring face, and revealed the dark violet hollows of near-madness beneath his eyes.

"Young man, " the doctor said calmly, his voice thick with constrained emotion, "I should like to tell you... that these baseless accusations are extremely ill advised. My attention should rightly be directed to the magistrate's health... rather than any other mental pressure. Therefore... if you desire the magistrate to live beyond this evening... what you ought to do is..." He paused to suck once more from the dwindling stick. "... is make absolutely certain I am free to treat him." He leaned back again, and the shadows claimed his countenance. "But you have already decided that, have you not? Otherwise you never would have come here alone."

Matthew watched the smoke move slowly across the room. "Yes, " he said, feeling that his soul had less foundation than those miniature clouds. "I have already decided."

"An excellent... splendid decision. How goes his health this morning?"

"Badly." Matthew stared at the floor. "He's been delirious."

"Well... that may wax and wane. The fever, you see. I do believe the blistering will show a benefit, though. I intend to apply a colonic today, and that should aid in his recovery."

"His recovery?" Matthew had spoken it with a shade of mockery. "Do you honestly believe he's going to recover?"

"I honestly believe he has a chance, " came the reply. "A small chance, it is true... but I have seen patients come back from such an adverse condition. So... the best we can do is continue treatment and pray that Isaac will respond."

It was insane, Matthew thought. Here he was, talking about the healing arts with a half-crazed butcher! And talking about prayer, to add another level of lunacy! But what choice did he have? Matthew remembered what Bidwell had said, and it had rung very true though he'd made a show of temper over it: The trip to Charles Town might well kill the poor wretch.

Springtime or not, the open air and the swamp humours it carried were dangerous to Woodward's remaining strength. The wagon trip over that road would be torture to him, no matter how firmly he was swaddled. In spite of how much he wished to the contrary, Matthew sincerely doubted that the magistrate would reach Charles Town alive.

So he was forced to trust this man. This doctor. This murderer. He had noted a mortar and pestle on the shelf, and he said, "Can't you mix some medicine for him? Something that would break his fever?"

"Fever does not respond to medicine as much as it responds to the movement of blood, " Shields said. "And as a matter of record, the supply of medicine through Charles Town has become so pinched as to be withered. But I do have some vinegar, liverwort, and limonum. I could mix that with a cup of rum and opium and have him drink it... say... thrice daily. It might heat the blood enough to destroy the afflictions."

"At this point, anything is worth trying... as long as it doesn't poison him."

"I do know my chemicals, young man. You may rest assured of that."

"I won't rest, " Matthew said. "And I am not assured."

"As you please." Shields continued smoking what was now only a stub. The blue clouds swirled around his face, obscuring it from scrutiny even the more.

Matthew released a long, heavy sigh. "I don't doubt you had sufficient reason to kill Paine, but you certainly seemed to enjoy the process. The hangman's noose was a bit much, don't you think?"

Shields said, "Our discussion of Isaac's treatment has ended. You may go."

"Yes, I'll go. But all that you told me of leaving Boston because your practise was suffering... of wanting to aid in the construction of a settlement and having your name forever emblazoned upon this infirmary... those were all lies, weren't they?" Matthew waited, but he knew there would be no reply. "The one true accomplishment you sought was the death of Nicholas Paine." This had not been phrased as a question, because Matthew needed no answer to what he knew to be fact.

"You will pardon me, " Shields said quietly, "if I do not rise to show you out."

There was nothing more to be said, and certainly nothing more to be gained. Matthew retreated from the doctor's study, closed the door, and walked back along the hallway in a mind-numbed daze. The burning-rope smell of that tobacco stick had leeched into his nostrils. When he got outside, the first thing he did was lift his face to the sunlight and draw in a great draught of air. Then he trudged the distance to Bidwell's mansion, his head yet clouded on this clear and perfect day.

thirty

"MR. VAUGHAN?" He got up from his chair, where he'd been drowsing in the twilight of early evening, and opened the door. "What does he want?"

Mrs. Nettles pursed her lips, as if in a silent scold for his deficient memory. "He says he's come to escort you to his home for dinner, and that it shall be a'table at six o'clock."

"Oh, I did forget! What time is it now?"

"Near ha' past five, by the mantel clock."

"If there was ever an evening I didn't care to go out to dinner, this is it, " Matthew said, rubbing his bleary eyes.

"That may be so, " Mrs. Nettles said curtly, "but as much as I do nae care for Lucretia Vaughan, I am also sure some effort has been made to show you hospitality. Ye ought nae to disappoint 'em."

Matthew nodded, though he couldn't erase his frown. "Yes, you're right. Very well, then: please tell Mr. Vaughan I'll be downstairs in a few minutes."

"I shall. Oh... have ye seen Mr. Bidwell since mornin'?"

"No, I haven't."

"He always tells me if he's gonna attend dinner. I'm driftin' without a sea-chain, nae knowin' what he cares ta do."

"Mr. Bidwell... likely is wrapped up in the sorry engagement involving Mr. Paine, " Matthew said. "You of all people must know how buried he becomes in his work."

"Oh, yes sir, 'tis true! But y'know, we're havin' a festival of sorts here tomorra eve. Mr. Bidwell's hostin' a dinner for some of the maskers. Even though we've suffered such a tragedy, I do need ta know what he desires a'table."

"I'm sure he'll be around sooner or later tonight."

"Mayhaps. I've told no one about the murder, sir. Just as he wished. But do you have any idea who mi' ha' done it?"

"Not Rachel, the Devil, or any imagined demon, if that's what you're asking. This was a man's work." He dared go no further. "Excuse me, I'd best get ready."

"Yes sir, I'll tell Mr. Vaughan."

As he hurriedly scraped a razor across the day's growth and then washed his face, Matthew steeled himself for companionship though he fervently wished only to be left alone. He had spent the day attending to the magistrate, and observing Dr. Shields as the excruciating colonic was applied. A fresh plaster had been pressed to the pine oil dressing on Woodward's chesty and the pine oil liniment had also been rubbed around his nostrils. The doctor on his first visit this morning had brought a murky amber liquid that the magistrate swallowed with great difficulty, and had administered a second dose of the potion around four o'clock. Matthew could not help but watch Dr. Shields's hands and envision their grisly work of the previous midnight.

If Matthew had been expecting rapid results, he was disappointed; for most of the day Woodward had remained in a stupor, his fever merciless; but at least the magistrate once asked Matthew if preparations for Madam Howarth's execution were proceeding, therefore he seemed to have returned from his bout with delirium.

Matthew put on a fresh shirt and buttoned it up to the neck, then left his room and went downstairs. Waiting for him was a slim, small-statured man in a gray suit, white stockings, and polished square-toed black shoes. On his head was a brown tricorn and he was holding a lantern that bore double candles. It took only a few seconds of observation for Matthew to detect the darned patches at the man's knees and the fact that his suit jacket was perhaps two sizes too large, indicating either a borrow or a barter.

"Ah, Mr. Corbett!" The man exhibited a smile that was strong enough, but something about his deep-set pale blue eyes, in a face that had a rather gaunt and skeletal appearance, suggested a watery constitution. "I am Stewart Vaughan, sir. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

Matthew shook his hand, meeting a grip that had little substance. "Good evening to you, sir. And I thank you for your invitation to dinner."

"Our gratitude that you might grace us. The ladies are waiting. Shall we go?"

Matthew followed the man, who walked with a pronounced bowlegged gait. Over the roofs of Fount Royal the sky was crimson to the west and violet to the east, the first stars gleaming in the ruddy orange directly above. The breeze was soft and warm, and crickets chirruped in the grass around the spring.

"A lovely evening, is it not?" Vaughan asked as they left Peace Street and walked along Harmony. "I feared we would all drown ere we saw Good Sol again."

"Yes, it was a difficult time. Thanks be to God the clouds have passed for a time."

"Thanks be to God that the witch will soon be dead! She had a hand in that deluge, I'll swear to it!"

Matthew answered with a grunt. He realized it was going to be a very long evening, and he was still measuring that phrase Vaughan had used: The ladies are waiting.

They passed Van Gundy's tavern, which—from the racket of its customers and the caterwauls of two aspiring musicians playing a gittern and a drum—seemed to be a place of high and potent spirits. Matthew thought that Vaughan aimed a wistful eye at the establishment as they continued on. In another moment they walked by the house of the recently deceased Nicholas Paine, and Matthew noted with interest that candlelight could be seen through the shutter slats. He envisioned Bidwell on his knees, scrubbing blood off the floor with tar soap, ashes, and sand, and cursing cruel Fate while Paine's corpse was wrapped up in a sheet and stowed beneath the pallet for future disposal. He was sure Winston had invented some reason to tell Bidwell why he'd gone to see Paine so early in the morning. If nothing else, Winston was an agile liar.

"There is the house, " Vaughan said, indicating a well-lit dwelling two houses northward and across Harmony Street from Paine's. Matthew had remembered Paine's admission of having carnal relations with Lucretia Vaughan, and he could see her approaching his house with a basket of hot buns and he returning the favor by knocking at her entry with a pistol in his pocket.

Matthew saw a small sign above the door that read Breads & Pies Baked Daily. Then Vaughan opened the door with the announcement, "I've brought our guest!" and Matthew entered the abode.

The house smelled absolutely delicious. A fragrant bread or pie had only just been baked, but also in the house were the commingled aromas of past delights. Matthew saw that the lady Vaughan possessed an extremely neat and painstaking hand, as the floor had been swept spotless, the white-washed walls free of any trace of hearth soot or smoke, and even the wood surfaces of the furniture smoothed and polished. Around the large stone fireplace stood a well-organized battery of skillets and cooking pots, the genteel fire burning under a pot on a jackhook. Even the cooking implements appeared to have been scrubbed clean. Adding to the pleasant, welcoming air of the house were several sprays of wildflowers set about in hammered-tin containers, and the remarkable extravagance of perhaps a dozen candles casting golden light. The supper table, which was covered with a snowy linen cloth and displayed four places readied, stood in the corner of the room opposite the hearth.

The hostess made her entrance from another door at the rear of the house, where the bedchamber likely was. "Mr. Corbett!" she said, showing a toothy smile that might have shamed the sun's glow. "How wonderful to have you in our home!"

"Thank you. As I told your husband, I appreciate the invitation."

"Oh, our pleasure, I assure you!" Lucretia Vaughan, in this wealth of candlelight, was indeed a handsome woman, her fine figure clad in a rose-hued gown with a lace-trimmed bodice, her light brown curls showing copper and aureate glints. Matthew could readily see how Paine could be spelled by her; to be fixed in the sights of her penetrating blue eyes was akin to the application of heat. Indeed, Matthew felt a sensation of melting before her leonine presence.

As perhaps she sensed this, she seemed to increase the power of her personality. She approached him nearer, her eyes locked with his. He caught the scent of a peach-inspired perfume. "I know you have many other offers to attend dinner, " she said. "It is not often that we find such a sophisticated gentleman in our midst. Stewart, leave your jacket on. We are so very pleased you have chosen to grace our humble table with your presence." Her instruction to her husband had been like the swift stroke of a razor, not even requiring her to glance at him. Matthew was aware of Stewart standing to his left, shrugging again into the garment the man had nearly gotten out of. "Your hat is removed, " Lucretia said. Stewart's hand instantly obeyed, revealing a thin thatch of blond hair.

'"Sophistication is what we yearn for in this rustic town." It seemed to Matthew that the woman had come even closer to him, though he hadn't seen her move. "I note you have buttoned your shirt to your throat. Is that the current fashion in Charles Town?"

'"Uh... no, I simply did it on the moment."

"Ah!" she said brightly. "Well, I'm sure it shall be fashionable in the future." She turned her head toward the rear doorway. "Cherise? Dearest? Our guest wishes to meet you!"

There was no response. Lucretia's smile appeared a shade frayed. Her voice rose to a higher, sharper pitch: "Cherise? You are expected!"

"Obviously, " Stewart ventured meekly, "she's not yet ready."

The wife speared her husband with a single glance. "I shall help her prepare. If you'll pardon me, Mr. Corbett? Stewart, offer our guest some wine." She was through the door and gone before she'd completed her last direction.

"Wine, " Stewart said. "Yes, wine! Would you care for a taste, Mr. Corbett?" He proceeded to a round table on which was placed a rather ostentatious green glass decanter and three cuplike glasses of the same emeraude. Before Matthew had answered "Yes, " the decanter was unstoppered and the pouring begun. Stewart passed a glass to Matthew and set in on his own with the gusto of a salt-throated sailor.

Matthew had no sooner taken his first sip of what was rather a bitter vintage when from the rear doorway two feminine voices, determined to overpower each other, rose in volume, tangled like the shrieks of harpies, and then fell to abrupt silence as if those winged horrors had dashed themselves upon jagged rocks.

Stewart cleared his throat. "I myself have never been whipped, " he said. "I imagine it is a less than pleasant experience?"

"Less than pleasant, " Matthew agreed, glancing now and again at the doorway as at a portal beyond which an infernal struggle raged. "But more than instructive."

"Oh yes! I would think so! You committed an injury to the blacksmith, I understand? Well, I'm sure you must have had a reason. Did you see him treating a horse with less than affection?"

"Um..." Matthew took a sturdier drink of wine. "No, I believe Mr. Hazelton has a strong affection for horses. It was... let us say... a matter best kept stabled."

"Yes, of course! I've no wish to pry." Stewart drank again, and after a pause of three or four interminable seconds he laughed. "Oh! Stabled! I get your jest!"

Lucretia emerged once more, her radiance undiminished by the wrangling that had just occurred. "My apologies, " she said, still smiling. "Cherise is... having some difficulty with her hair. She wishes to make a good presentation, you see. She is a perfectionist, and so magnifies even small blemishes."

"Her mother's daughter, " Stewart muttered, before he slid his lips into the glass.

"But what would this world be without its perfectionists?" Lucretia was addressing Matthew, and deigned not to respond to her husband's comment. "I shall tell you: it would be all dust, dirt, and utter confusion. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?"

"I'm sure it would be disastrous, " Matthew replied, and this was enough to put a religious shine in the woman's eyes.

She made a sweeping gesture toward the table. "As Cherise may be some moments yet, we should adjourn to dinner, " she announced. "Mr. Corbett, if you will sit at the place that has a pewter plate?"

There was indeed a pewter plate on the table, one of the few that Matthew had ever seen. The other plates were of the common wooden variety, which indicated to Matthew the importance the Vaughans gave to his visit. Indeed, he felt as if they must consider him royalty. He sat in the appointed chair, with Stewart seated to his left. Lucretia quickly donned an apron and went about spooning and ladling food from the cooking pots into white clay serving bowls. Presently the bowls were arranged on the table, containing green stringbeans with hogsfat, chicken stew with boiled potatoes and bacon, corncakes baked in cream, and stewed tomatoes. Along with a golden loaf of fresh fennel-seed bread, it was truly a king's feast. Matthew's glass was topped with wine, after which Lucretia took off her apron and seated herself at the head of the table, facing their guest, where by all rights of marriage and household the husband ought to be.

"I shall lead us in our thanks, " Lucretia said, another affront to the duties of her husband. Matthew closed his eyes and bowed his head. The woman gave a prayer of thanksgiving that included Matthew's name and mentioned her hope that the wretched soul of Rachel Howarth find an angry God standing ready to smite her spectral skull from her shoulders after the execution stake had done its work. Then the fervent "Amen" was spoken and Matthew opened his eyes to find Cherise Vaughan standing beside him.

"Here is our lovely daughter!" Lucretia exclaimed. "Cherise, take your place."

The girl, in a white linen gown with a lace bodice and sleeves, continued to stand where she was and stare down at Matthew. She was indeed an attractive girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, her waves of blonde hair held fixed by a series of small wooden combs. Matthew imagined she must closely resemble her mother at that age, though her chin was longer and somewhat more square and her eyes almost as pale blue as her father's. In these eyes, however, there was no suggestion of a watery constitution; there was instead a haughty chill that Matthew instantly dropped his gaze from, lest he shiver from a December wind on this May night.

"Cherise?" Lucretia repeated, gently but firmly. "Take. Your. Place. Please."

The girl sat down—slowly, at her own command—on Matthew's right. She wasted no time in reaching out and spooning chicken stew onto her plate.

"Are you not even going to say hello to Mr. Corbett?"

"Hello, " she answered, pushing the first bite of food into her cupid's-bow mouth.

"Cherise helped prepare the stew, " Lucretia said. "She has been desirous to make certain it was to your liking."

"I'm sure it's excellent, " Matthew answered. He spooned some of the stew onto his plate and found it as good as it appeared, then he tore off a hunk of bread and sopped it in the thick, delicious liquid.

"Mr. Corbett is a fascinating young man." This was spoken to Cherise, though Lucretia continued to gaze upon him. "Not only is he a sophisticated gentleman and a judicial apprentice from Charles Town, but he fought off that mob of killers and thieves who attacked the magistrate. Armed only with a rapier, I understand?"

Matthew accepted a helping of stewed tomatoes. He could feel three pairs of eyes upon him. Now was the moment to explain that the 'mob' consisted of one ruffian, an old crone, and an infirm geezer... but instead his mouth opened and what came out was, "No... I... had not even a rapier. Would you pass the corncakes, please?"

"My Lord, what a night that must have been!" Stewart was profoundly impressed. "Did you not have a weapon at all?"

"I... uh... used a boot to good advantage. This is an absolutely wonderful stew! Mr. Bidwell's cook ought to have this recipe."

"Well, our Cherise is a wonderful cook herself, " Lucretia assured him. "I am currently teaching her the secrets of successful pie baking. Not an easy subject to command, I must say."

"I'm sure it's not." Matthew offered a smile to the girl, but she was having none of it. She simply ate her food and stared straight ahead with no trace of expression except, perhaps, absolute boredom.

"And now... about the treasure chest full of gold coins you found." Lucretia laid her spoon and knife delicately across her plate. "You had it sent back to Charles Town, I understand?"

Here he had to draw the line. "I fear there was no treasure chest. Only a single coin."

"Yes, yes... of course. Only a single coin. Very well, then, I can see you are a canny guardian of information. But what can you tell us of the witch? Does she weep and wail at the prospect of burning?"

The stew he was about to swallow had suddenly sprouted thorns and lodged in his throat. "Mrs. Vaughan, " he said, as politely as possible, "if you don't mind... I would prefer not to talk about Rachel Howarth."

Suddenly Cherise looked at him and grinned, her blue eyes gleaming. "Oh, that is a subject I find of interest!" Her voice was pleasingly melodic, but there was a wickedly sharp edge to it as well. "Do tell us about the witch, sir! Is it true she shits toad-frogs?"

"Cherise!" Lucretia had hissed the name, her teeth gritted and her eyes wide with alarm. Instantly her composure altered with the speed of a chameleon's color change; her smile returned, though fractured, and she looked down the table at Matthew. "Our daughter has... an earthy sense of humor, Mr. Corbett. You know, it is said that some of the finest, most gracious ladies have earthy senses of humor. One must not be too stiff and rigid in these strange times, must one?"

"Stiff and rigid, " the girl said, as she pushed a tomato into her mouth and gave a gurgling little laugh. Matthew saw that Lucretia had chosen to continue eating, but red whorls had risen in her cheeks. Stewart drank down his glass of wine and reached for the decanter.

No one spoke for a time. It was then that Matthew was aware of a faint humming sound, but he couldn't place where it was coming from. "I might tell you, as a point of information, " he said, to break the wintry silence, "that I am not yet a judicial apprentice. I am a magistrate's clerk, that's all."

"Ah, but you shall be a judicial apprentice in the near future, will you not?" Lucretia asked, beaming again. "You are young, you have a fine mind and a desire to serve. Why should you not enter the legal profession?"

"Well... I probably shall, at some point. But I do need much more education and experience."

"A humble soul!" She spoke it as if she had found the Grail itself. "Do you hear that, Cherise? The young man stands on the precipice of such political power and wealth, and he remains humble!"

"The problem with standing on a precipice, " he said, "is that one might fall from a great height."

"And a wit as well!" Lucretia seemed near swooning with delight. "You know how wit charms you, Cherise!"

Cherise stared again into Matthew's eyes. "I desire to know more about the witch. I have heard tell she took the cock of a black goat into her mouth and sucked on it."

"Umph!" A rivulet of wine had streamed down Stewart's chin and marred his gray jacket. He had paled as his wife had reddened.

Lucretia was about to either hiss or shriek, but before she could, Matthew met the girl's stare with equal force and said calmly, "You have heard a lie, and whoever told you such a thing is not only a liar but a soul in need of a mouth-soaping."

"Billy Reed told me such a thing. Shall I find him tomorrow and tell him you're going to soap his mouth?"

"That thug's name shall not be uttered in this house!" The veins were standing out in Lucretia's neck. "I forbid it!"

"I will find Billy Reed tomorrow, " Cherise went on, defiantly. "Where shall I tell him you will meet him with your soap?"

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Corbett! I beg a thousand pardons!" In her agitation, the woman had spilled a spoonful of corncake and cream on the front of her gown, and now she was blotting the stain with a portion of the tablecloth. "That thug is James Reed's miscreant son! He's near an imbecile, he has the ambition of a sloth... and he has wicked designs on my daughter!"

Cherise grinned—or, rather, leered—into Matthew's face. "Billy is teaching me how to milk. In the afternoons, at their barn, he shows me how to hold the member. How to slide my hand up and down... up and down... up and down..." She displayed the motion for him, much to his discomfort and her mother's choked gasp. "Until the cream spurts forth. And a wonderful hot cream it is, too."

Matthew didn't respond. It did occur to him that—absolutely, positively—he'd lately been hiding in the wrong barn.

"I think, " Stewart said, rising unsteadily to his feet, "that the rum bottle should be unstoppered."

"For God's sake, stay away from that rum!" Lucretia hollered, oblivious now to their honored guest. "That's the cause of all our troubles! That, and your poor excuse for a carpentry shop!"

Matthew's glance at Cherise showed him she was eating her dinner with a smirk of satisfaction upon her face, which was now not nearly so lovely. He put his own spoon and knife down, his appetite having fled. Stewart was fumbling in a cupboard and Lucretia was attacking her food with a vengeance, her eyes dazed and her face as red as the stewed tomatoes. In the silence that fell, Matthew heard the strange humming sound again. He looked up.

And received a jolt.

On the ceiling directly above the table was a wasp's nest the size of Mr. Green's fist. The thing was black with wasps, all crowded together, their wings folded back along their stingers. As Matthew watched, unbelieving, he saw a minor disturbance ripple across the insects and several of them commenced that angry humming noise.

"Uh... Mrs. Vaughan, " he said thickly. "You have..." He pointed upward.

"Yes, wasps. What of it?" Her manners—along with her composure, her family, and the evening—had greatly deteriorated.

Matthew realized why the nest must be there. He'd heard of such a thing, but he'd never before seen it. As he understood, a potion could be bought or made that, once applied to an indoor ceiling, enraptured wasps to build their nests on the spot.

"Insect control, I assume?" he asked.

"Of course, " Lucretia said, as if any fool on earth knew that. "Wasps are jealous creatures. We suffer no mosquitoes in this house."

"None that will bite her, anyway, " Stewart added, and then he continued suckling from the bottle.

This evening, Matthew thought, might have been termed a farce had there not been such obvious suffering from all persons involved. The mother ate her dinner as if in a stunned trance, while the daughter now set about consuming her food more with fingers than proper utensils, succeeding in smearing her mouth and chin with gleaming hogsfat. Matthew finished his wine and a last bite of the excellent stew, and then he thought he should make his exit before the girl decided he might look more appealing crowned with a serving-bowl.

"I... uh... presume I'd best go, " he said. Lucretia spoke not a word, as if her inner fire had been swamped by her daughter's wanton behavior. Matthew pushed his chair back and stood up. "I wish to thank you for the dinner and the wine. Uh... no need to walk me back to the mansion, Mr. Vaughan."

"I wasn't plannin' on it, " the man said, clutching the rum bottle to his chest.

"Mrs. Vaughan? May I... uh... take some of that delicious bread with me?"

"All you wish, " she murmured, staring into space. "The rest of it, if you like."

Matthew accepted what was perhaps half a loaf. "My appreciation."

Lucretia looked up at him. Her vision cleared, as she seemed to realize that he actually was leaving. A weak smile flickered across her mouth. "Oh... Mr. Corbett... where are my manners? I thought... hoped... that after dinner... we might all play atlanctie loo."

"I fear I am without talent at card games."

"But... there are so many things I wished to converse with you about. The magistrate's condition being one. The state of affairs in Charles Town. The gardens... and the balls."

"I'm sorry, " Matthew said. "I don't have much experience with either gardens or balls. As to the state of affairs in Charles Town, I would call them... somewhat less interesting than those in Fount Royal. The magistrate is still very ill, but Dr. Shields is administering a new medicine he's concocted."

"You know, of course, " she said grimly, "that the witch has cursed your magistrate. For the guilty decree. I doubt he shall survive with such a curse laid on him."

Matthew felt his face tighten. "I believe differently, madam."

"Oh... I... I am being so insensitive. I am only repeating what I overhead Preacher Jerusalem saying this afternoon. Please forgive me, it's just that—"

"That she has a knife for a tongue, " Cherise interrupted, still eating with graceless fingers. "She only apologizes when it cuts herself."

Lucretia leaned her head toward her daughter, much in the manner of a snake preparing to strike. "You may leave the table and our presence, " she said coldly. "Inasmuch as you have disgraced yourself and all of us, I do hope you are happy."

"I am happy. I am also still hungry." She refused to budge from her place. "You know that you were brought here to save me, do you not?" A quick glance was darted at Matthew, as she licked her greasy fingers. "To rescue me from Fount Royal and the witless rustics my mother despises? Oh, if you are so sophisticated you must have known that already!"

"Stop her, Stewart!" Lucretia implored, her voice rising. "Make her hush!"

The man, however, tilted the bottle to his mouth and then began peeling off his suit jacket.

"Yes, it's true, " Cherise said. "My mother sells them breads and pies and wishes them to choke on the crumbs. You should hear her talk about them behind their backs!"

Matthew stared down into the girl's face. Her mother's daughter, Stewart had said. Matthew might have recognized the streak of viciousness. The pity, he mused, was that Cherise Vaughan seemed to be highly intelligent. She had recognized, for instance, that speaking of Rachel Howarth had caused him great discomfort of a personal nature.

"I will show myself out, " Matthew said to Mrs. Vaughan. "Again, thank you for the dinner." He started toward the door, carrying the half-loaf of fennel-seed bread with him.

"Mr. Corbett? Wait, please!" Lucretia stood up, a large cream stain on the front of her gown. Again she appeared dazed, as if these verbal encounters with her daughter sapped the very life from her. "Please... I have a question for you."

"Yes?"

"The witch's hair, " she said. "What is to become of it?"

"Her... hair? I'm sorry, I don't understand your meaning."

"The witch has such... shall I say... attractive hair. One might say beautiful, even. It is a sadness that such thick and lovely hair should be burnt up." Matthew could not have replied even if he'd wished to, so stunned was he by this direction of thinking.

But the woman continued on. "If the witch's hair should be washed... and then shorn off, on the morning of her execution... there are many, I would venture—who might pay for a lock of it. Think of it: the witch's hair advertised and sold as a charm of good fortune." Her countenance seemed to brighten at the very idea of it. "It might be heralded as firm evidence of God's destruction of Evil. You see my meaning now?"

Still Matthew's tongue was frozen solid.

"Yes, and I would grant you a portion of the earnings as well, " she said, mistaking his amazed expression as approval. "But I think it best if you washed and cut the hair yourself, on some pretext or another, as we wouldn't wish too many fingers in our pie."

He just stood there, feeling sick. "Well?" she urged. "Can we consider ourselves in company?"

Somehow, he turned from her and got out the door. As he walked away along Harmony Street, a cold sheen of moisture on his face, he heard the woman calling him from her doorway: "Mr. Corbett? Mr. Corbett?"

And louder and more shrill: "Mr. Corbett?"

thirty-one

PAST THE HOUSE of deceased Nicholas Paine he went, past Van Gundy's tavern where the revelers made merry, past Dr. Shields's infirmary and the squalid house of Edward Winston. Matthew walked on, his head bowed and the half-loaf of fennel-seed bread in his hand, the night sky above him a field of stars and, in his mind, darkness heavy and unyielding.

He turned left onto Truth Street. Further along, the blackened ruins of Johnstone's schoolhouse secured his attention. It was a testament to the power of the infernal fire as well as a testament to the power of infernal men. He recalled how Johnstone had raged in helpless anguish that night, as the flames had burned unchecked. The schoolmaster might be bizarre—with his white face powder and his deformed knee—but it was a surety that the man had felt his teaching was a vital calling, and that the loss of the schoolhouse was a terrible tragedy. Matthew might have had his suspicions about Johnstone, but the fact that the man believed Rachel not to be a witch—and, indeed, that the entire assertion of witchcraft was built on shaky ground—gave Matthew hope for the future of education.

He went on, nearer to where he had known he was going. And there the gaolhouse stood. He didn't hesitate, but quietly entered the darkened structure.

Though he endeavored to be quiet, his opening of the door nevertheless startled Rachel. He heard her move on her pallet of straw, as if drawing herself more tightly into a posture of self-protection. It occurred to him that, with the door still unchained, anyone might enter to taunt and jeer at her, though most persons would certainly be afeared to do so. One who would not be afeared, however, would be Preacher Jerusalem, and he imagined the snake must have made an appearance or two when no other witnesses were present.

"Rachel, it's me, " he said. Before she could answer or protest his presence, he said, "I know you've wished me not to come, and I do respect your wishes... but I wanted to tell you I am still working on your... um... your situation. I can't yet tell you what I've found, but I believe I have made some progress." He approached her cell a few more paces before he stopped again. "That is not to say I've come to any kind of solution, or have proof of such, but I wished you to know I have you always in mind and that I won't give up. Oh... and I've also brought you some very excellent fennel-seed bread."

Matthew went the rest of the way and pushed the bread through the bars. In the absolute dark, he was aware only of her vague shape coming to meet him, like a figure just glimpsed in some partially remembered dream.

Without a word, Rachel took the bread. Then her other hand grasped Matthew's and she clutched it firmly against her cheek. He felt the warm wetness of tears. She made a choked sound, as if she were trying mightily to restrain a sob.

He didn't know what to say. But at this revelation of unexpected emotion his heart bled and his own eyes became damp.

"I... shall keep working, " Matthew promised, his voice husky. "Day and night. If an answer is to be found... I swear I will find it."

Her response was to press her lips against the back of his hand, and then she held it once more to her tear-stained cheek. They stood in that posture. Rachel clutched to him as if she wanted nothing else in the world at that moment but the warmth—the care—of another human being. He wished to take his other hand and touch her face, but instead he curled his fingers around one of the iron bars between them.

"Thank you, " she whispered. And then, perhaps overcoming with an effort of will her momentary weakness, she let go of his hand and took the bread with her back to her place in the straw.

To stay longer would be hurtful both to himself and her, for in his case it would make leaving all the more painful. He had wished her to know she was not forgotten, and that had certainly been accomplished. So he took his leave and presently was walking westward along Truth Street, his face downcast and his brow freighted with thought.

Love.

It came to him not as a stunning blow, but as a soft shadow.

Love. What was it, really? The desire to possess someone, or the desire to free them?

Matthew didn't believe he had ever been in love before. In fact, he knew he had not been. Therefore, since he had no experience, he was at a loss to clearly examine the emotion within him. It was an emotion, perhaps, that defied examination and could not be shaped to fit into any foursquare box of reason. Because of that, there was something frightening about it... something wild and uncontrollable, something that would not be constrained by logic.

He felt, though, that if love was the desire to possess someone, it was in reality the poor substance of self-love. It seemed to him that a greater, truer love was the desire to open a cage—be it made of iron bars or the bones of tormented injustice—and set the nightbird free.

He wasn't sure what he was thinking, or why he was thinking it. On the subjects of the Latin and French languages, English history, and legal precedents he was comfortable with his accumulated knowledge, but on this strange subject of love he was a total imbecile. And, he was sure the magistrate would say, also a misguided youth in danger of God's displeasure.

Matthew was here. So was Rachel. Satan had made a recent fictitious appearance and certainly dwelled in both the lust of Exodus Jerusalem and the depraved soul of the man who worked the poppet strings.

But where was God, in all this?

If God intended to show displeasure, it seemed to Matthew that He ought to take a little responsibility first.

Matthew was aware that these thoughts might spear his head with lightning on a cloudless night, but the paradox of Man was the fact that one might have been made in the image of God, yet it was often the most devilish of ideas that gave action and purpose to the human breed.

He returned to Bidwell's mansion, where he learned from Mrs. Nettles that the master had not yet returned from his present task. However, Dr. Shields had just left after giving Woodward a third dose of the medicine, and currently the magistrate was soundly asleep. Matthew chose a book from the library— the tome on English plays and dramatists, so that he might better acquaint himself with the craft of the maskers—and went upstairs. After looking in on Woodward to verify that he was indeed sleeping but breathing regularly, Matthew then retired to his bedchamber to rest, read, think, and await the passage of time.

In spite of what had been a very trying day, and the fact that the image of Paine's butchered corpse was still gruesomely fresh in his mind, Matthew was able to find short periods of sleep. At an hour he judged to be past midnight, he relit the lantern he had blown out upon lying down and took it with him into the hallway.

Though it was certainly late, there was still activity in the house. Bidwell's voice could be heard—muffled but insistent— coming from the upstairs study. Matthew paused outside the door, to hear who was in there with him, and caught Winston's strained reply. Paine's name was mentioned. Matthew thought it best he not be a party to the burial plans, even through the thickness of a door, and so he went on his way down the stairs, descending quietly.

A check of the mantel clock in the parlor showed the time to be thirty-eight minutes after midnight. He entered the library and unlatched the shutters so that if the door was later locked from the inside he might still gain admittance without ringing for Mrs. Nettles. Then he set off for the spring, the lantern held low at his side.

On the eastern bank, Matthew set the lamp on the ground next to a large water oak and removed his shoes, stockings, and shirt. The night was warm, but a foot slid into the water gave him a cold shock. It was going to take a sturdy measure of fortitude just to enter that pond, much less go swimming about underwater in the dark.

But that was what he had come to do, and so be it. If he could find even a portion of what he suspected might be hidden down there, he would have made great progress in solving the riddle of the surveyor's visit.

He eased into the shallows, the cold water stealing his breath. A touch of that fount's kindness upon his groin, and his stones became as true rocks. He stood in water up to his waist for a moment, his feet in the soft mud below, as he steeled himself for further immersion. Presently, though, he did become acclimated to the water and he reasoned that if turtles and frogs could accept it, then so could he. The next challenge was going ahead and sliding the rest of the way down, which he did with clenched teeth.

He moved away from the bank. Instantly he felt the bottom angling away under his feet. Three more strides, and he was up to his neck. Then two more... and suddenly he was treading water. Well, he thought. The time had come.

He drew a breath, held it, and submerged.

In the darkness he felt his way along the sloping bottom, his fingers gripping into the mud. As he went deeper, he was aware of the thump of his own heartbeat and the gurgle of bubbles leaving his mouth. Still the bottom continued to slope downward at perhaps an angle of thirty degrees. His hands found the edges of rocks protruding from the mud, and the soft matting of moss-like grass. Then his lungs became insistent, and he had to return to the surface to fill them.

Again he dove under. Deeper he went this time, his arms and legs propelling his progress. A pressure clamped hold of his face and began to increase as he groped his way down. On this descent he was aware of a current pulling at him from what seemed to be the northwestern quadrant of the fount. He had time to close his fists in the mud, and then he had to rise once more.

When he reached the surface, he trod water and squeezed the mud between his fingers. There was nothing but finely grained terra liquum. He took another breath, held it, and went down a third time.

As Matthew descended what he estimated to be more than twenty feet, he again felt the insistent pull of a definite current, stronger as he swam deeper. He reached into the sloping mud. His fingers found a flat rock—which suddenly came to life and shot away underneath him, the surprise bringing a burst of bubbles from his mouth and causing him to instantly rise.

On the surface he had to pause to steady his nerves before he dove again, though he should have expected to disturb turtles. A fourth descent allowed him to gather up two more fistfuls of mud, but in the muck was not a trace of gold or silver coinage.

He resolved on the fifth dive to stay down and search through the mud as long as possible. He filled his lungs and descended, his body beginning to protest such exertion and his mind beginning to recoil from the secrets of the dark. But he did grip several handfuls and sift through them, again without success.

After the eighth dive, Matthew came to the conclusion that he was simply muddying the water. His lungs were burning and his head felt dangerously clouded. If indeed there was a bounty of gold and silver coins down there, they existed only in a realm known by the turtles. Of course, Matthew had realized that a pirate's treasure vault would be no vault at all if just anyone—particularly a land creature like himself—could swim down and retrieve it. He had never entertained the illusion that he could— or cared to—reach the fount's deepest point, which he recalled Bidwell saying was some forty feet, but he'd hoped he might find an errant coin. He imagined the retrieval process would involve several skilled divers, the kind of men who were useful at scraping mollusks from the bottoms of ships while still at sea. The process might also demand the use of hooks and chains, a dense netting and a lever device, depending on how much treasure was hidden.

He had surfaced from this final dive near the center of the spring, and so he began the swim back to the shallows. He was intrigued by the current he'd felt below the level of fifteen feet or thereabouts. It had strengthened as he'd gone deeper, and Matthew wondered at the ferocity of its embrace at the forty-foot depth. Water was definitely flowing down there at the command of some unknown natural mechanism.

In another moment his feet found the mud, and he was able to stand. He waded toward the bank and the tree beside which he'd left his clothes and the lantern.

And that was when he realized his lamp was no longer there.

Instantly a bell of alarm clanged in his mind. He stood in the waist-deep water, scanning the bank for any sign of an intruder.

Then a figure stepped out from behind the tree. In each hand was a lantern, but they were held low so Matthew couldn't see the face.

"Who's there?" Matthew said, trying mightily to keep his speech from shivering as much as his body was beginning to.

The figure had a voice: "Would you care to tell me what you're up to?"

"I am swimming, Mr. Winston." Matthew continued wading toward the bank. "Is that not apparent?"

"Yes, it's apparent. My question remains valid, however."

Matthew had only a few seconds to construct a reply, so he gave it his best dash of pepper. "If you knew anything of health, " he said, "which obviously you do not, because of your living habits, you would appreciate the benefit to the heart of a nocturnal swim."

"Oh, of course! Shall I fetch a wagon to help load this manure?"

"I'm sure Dr. Shields would be glad to inform you of the benefit." Matthew left the water and, dripping, approached Winston. He took the lantern that Winston offered. "I often swim at night in Charles Town, " he plowed on, deepening the furrow.

"Do tell."

"I am telling." Matthew leaned down to pick up his shirt and blot the moisture from his face. He closed his eyes in so doing. When he opened them he realized that one of his shoes—which had both been on the ground when he'd picked up the shirt— was now missing. At the same instant he registered that Winston had taken a position behind him.

"Mr. Winston?" Matthew said, quietly but clearly. "You don't really wish to do what you're considering." From Winston there was no word or sound.

Matthew suspected that if a blow from the stout wooden heel was going to come, it would be delivered to his skull as he turned toward the other man. "Your disloyalty to your master need not deform itself into murder." Matthew blotted water from his chest and shoulders with a casual air, but inwardly he was an arrow choosing his direction of flight. "The residents might find a victim of drowning on the morrow... but you will know what you've done. I don't believe you to be capable of such an act." He swallowed, his heart pounding through his chest, and took the risk of looking at Winston. No blow fell. "I am not the reason for your predicament, " Matthew said. "May I please have my shoe?"

Winston sighed heavily, his head lowered, and held out his hand with the shoe in it. Matthew noted that it was offered heel-first. "You are not a killer, sir, " Matthew said, after he'd accepted the shoe. "If you'd really wished to bash my head in, you never would have signalled your presence by moving the lantern. May I ask how come you to be here?"

"I... just left a meeting with Bidwell. He wants me to take care of disposing of Paine's corpse."

"So you came to consider the fount? I wouldn't. You might weigh the corpse down well enough, but the water supply would surely be contaminated. Unless... that's what you intend." Matthew had put on his shirt and was buttoning it.

"No, that's not my intention, though I had considered the fount for that purpose. I might wish the town to die, but I don't wish to cause the deaths of any citizens."

"A correction, " Matthew said. "You wish not to bear the blame for the death of Fount Royal. Also, you wish to improve your financial and business standing with Mr. Bidwell. Yes?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Well, you're aware then that you have Mr. Bidwell stretched over a very large barrel now, don't you?" Winston frowned. "What?"

"You and he share important knowledge he would rather not have revealed to his citizens. If I were in your position, I would make the most of it. You're adept at drawing up contracts, are you not?"

"I am."

"Then simply contract between yourself and Mr. Bidwell the task of corpse disposal. Write into it whatever you please and negotiate, realizing of course that you will most likely not get everything you feel you deserve. But I'd venture your style of living would find some improvement. And with Bidwell's signature on a contract of such... delicate nature, you need never fear losing your position with his company. In fact, you might find yourself promoted. Where is the body now? Still at the house?"

"Yes. Hidden under the pallet. Bidwell wept and moaned such that I... had to help him place it there."

"That was your first opportunity to negotiate terms. I hope you won't miss the next one." Matthew sat down in the grass to put on his stockings.

"Bidwell will never sign any contract that implicates him in hiding evidence of a murder!"

"Not gladly, no. But he will sign, Mr. Winston. Particularly if he understands that you—his trusted business manager—will take care of the problem without bringing anyone else into it.

That's his greatest concern. He'll also sign when you make him understand—firmly but diplomatically, I hope—that the task will not and cannot be done without your doing it. You might emphasize that the contract with his signature upon it is a formality for your legal protection."

"Yes, that would make sense. But he'll know I might use the contract as future leverage against him!"

"Of course he will. As I said, I doubt if you'll find yourself without a position at Bidwell's firm anytime soon. He might even send you back to England on one of his ships, if that's what you want." The job of putting on his stockings and shoes done, Matthew stood up. "What do you want, Mr. Winston?"

"More money, " Winston said. He took a moment to think. "And a fair shake. I should be rewarded for my good work. And I ought to get credit for the business decisions I've made that have helped pad Bidwell's pockets."

"What?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "No mansion or statue?"

"I am a realistic man, sir. I might only push Bidwell so far."

"Oh, I think you should at least try for the mansion. If you'll excuse me now?"

"Wait!" Winston said when Matthew started to walk away. "What do you suggest I do with Paine's corpse?"

"Actually, I have no suggestion and I don't care to know what you do, " Matthew replied. "My only thought is... the dirt beneath Paine's floor is the same dirt that fills the cemetery graves. I know you have a Bible and consider yourself a Christian."

"Yes, that is right. Oh... one more thing, " Winston added before Matthew could turn to leave. "How are we to explain Paine's disappearance? And what shall we do to find his killer?"

"The explanation is your decision. About finding his killer... from what I understand, Paine dabbled with other men's wives. I'd think he had more than his share of enemies. But I am not a magistrate, sir. It is Mr. Bidwell's responsibility, as the mayor of this town, to file the case. Until then..." Matthew shrugged. "Good night."

"Good night, " Winston said as Matthew departed. "And good swimming to you."

Matthew went directly to Bidwell's house, to the library shutters he'd unlatched, opened them, and put the lantern on the sill. Then he carefully pulled himself up through the window, taking care not to overturn the chess set on his entry. Matthew took the lantern and went upstairs to bed, disappointed that no evidence of a pirate's hoard had been found but hopeful that tomorrow—or later today, as the fact was—might show him some path through the maze of questions that confronted him.

When the rooster choir of Friday's sunrise sounded, Matthew awakened with the fading impression of a dream but one very clear image remaining in his memory: that of John Goode, talking about the coins he'd discovered and saying May's got it in her mind we're gon' run to the Florida country.

He rose from bed and looked out the window at the red sun on the eastern horizon. A few clouds had appeared, but they were neither dark nor pregnant with rain. They moved like stately galleons across the purple sky.

The Florida country, he thought. A Spanish realm, the link to the great—though English-despised—cities of Madrid and Barcelona. The link, also, to Rachel's Portuguese homeland.

He recalled Shawcombe's voice saying You know them Spaniards are sittin' down there in the Florida country, not seventy leagues from here. They got spies all in the colonies, spreadin' the word that any black crow who flies from his master and gets to the Florida country can be a free man. You ever heard such a thing? Them Spaniards are promisin' the same thing to criminals, murderers, every like of John Badseed.

Seventy leagues, Matthew thought. Roughly two hundred miles. And not simply a two-hundred-mile jaunt, either. What of wild animals and wild Indians? Water would be no hardship, but what of food? What of shelter, if the heavens opened their floodgates again? Such a journey would make his and the magistrate's muddy trek from Shawcombe's tavern seem an afternoon's idyll.

But evidently others had made the journey and survived, and from much greater distances than two hundred miles. May was an elderly woman, and she had no qualms about going. Then again, it was her last hope of freedom.

Her last hope.

Matthew turned away from the window, walked to the basin of water atop his dresser, and liberally splashed his face. He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking, but—whatever it may have been—it was the most illogical, insane thought he'd ever had. He was surely no outdoorsman or leatherstocking, and also he was proud to be a British subject. So he might dismiss from his mind all traces of such errant and unwise consideration.

He shaved, put on his clothes, and crossed the hallway to look in on the magistrate. Dr. Shields's latest potion was evidently quite powerful, as Woodward still dwelled in the land of Nod. A touch of the magistrate's bare arm, however, gave Matthew reason for great joy: sometime during the night, Woodward's fever had broken.

At breakfast Matthew sat alone. He ate a dish of stirred eggs and ham, washed down with a strong cup of tea. Then he was out the door on a mission of resolve: to confront the ratcatcher in his well-ordered nest.

The morning was pleasantly warm and sunny, though a number of white-bellied clouds paraded across the sky. On Industry Street, Matthew hurried past Exodus Jerusalem's camp but neither the preacher nor his relations were in evidence. He soon came to the field where the maskers had made their camp, near the Hamilton house. Several of the thespians were sitting around a fire over which a trio of cooking pots hung. Matthew saw a burly, Falstaffian fellow smoking a churchwarden pipe while conversing with emphatic gestures to two other colleagues. A woman of equal if not greater girth was busy with needle and thread, darning a red-feathered hat, and a more slender female was at work polishing boots. Matthew knew little about the craft of acting, though he did know that all thespians were male and therefore the two women must be wives who travelled with the troupe.

"Good day, young man!" one of the actors called to him, with a lift of the hand.

"Good day to you!" Matthew answered, nodding.

In another few minutes Matthew entered the somber area of deformed orchards. It was fitting, then, that this was the locale chosen for Rachel's burning, as the justice such a travesty represented was surely misshapen. He looked at a barren brown field upon which had been erected the freshly axed execution stake. At its base, ringed by rocks, was a large firemound of pinewood timbers and pineknots. About twenty yards away from it stood another pile of wood. The field had been chosen to accommodate the festive citizens and to be certain no errant sparks could reach a roof.

At first light on Monday morning Rachel would be brought here by wagon and secured to the stake. Some kind of repugnant ceremony would take place, with Bidwell as its host. Then, after the crowd's flame had been sufficiently bellowed, torches would be laid to the firemound. More fuel would be brought over from the woodpile, to keep the temperature at a searing degree. Matthew had never witnessed an execution by burning, but he reasoned it must be a slow, messy, and excruciating business. Rachel's hair and clothes might be set aflame and her flesh roasted, but if the temperature wasn't infernal enough the real burning would take hours. It would be an all-day thing, anyway, for Matthew suspected that even a raging fire had difficulty gnawing a human body to the bones.

At what point Rachel would lose consciousness, he didn't know. Even though she wished to die with dignity and might have readied herself for the ordeal as much as humanly possible, her screams would be heard from one wall of Fount Royal to the other. It was likely Rachel would perish of asphyxiation before the fire cooked her. If she had her senses about her, she might hurry death by breathing in the flames and copious smoke. But who at that agonizing moment could do anything but wail in torment and thrash at their bonds?

Matthew assumed the fire would be kept burning throughout the night, and the citizens encouraged to witness as the witch shrank away to a grisly shade of her former self. The execution stake would dwindle too, but would be kept watered to delay its disappearance. On Tuesday morning, when there was nothing left but ashes and blackened bones, someone—Seth Hazelton, possibly—might come with a mallet to smash the skull and break the burnt skeleton into smaller fragments. It was then that Matthew could envision the swooping down of Lucretia Vaughan—armed with as many buckets, bottles, and containers as she might load upon a wagon—eager to scoop up ashes and bits of bone to sell as charms against evil. It occurred to him that her intelligence and rapacity might encourage her to enter an unholy alliance with Bidwell and Preacher Jerusalem, the former to finance and package this abomination and the latter to hawk it in towns and villages up and down the seaboard.

He had to banish such thoughts, ere they sapped the strength of his belief that an answer could be found before that awful Monday dawn.

He continued westward along Industry. Presently he saw a wisp of white smoke curling from the chimney of Linch's house. The lord of rodents was cooking his breakfast.

The shutters were wide open. Obviously Linch wasn't expecting any visitors. Matthew walked to the door, under the hanging rat skeletons, and knocked without hesitation.

A few seconds passed. Then, suddenly, the shutters of the window nearest the door were drawn closed—not hastily or loudly, but rather with quiet purpose. Matthew knocked again, with a sterner fist.

"Who is it?" came Linch's wary voice.

Matthew smiled thinly, realizing that Linch might just as easily have looked out the window to see. "Matthew Corbett. May I speak with you?"

"I'm eatin' my breakfast. Don't care for no mornin' chat."

"It should just take a minute."

"Ain't got a minute. Go 'way."

"Mr. Linch, " Matthew said, "I do need to speak with you. If not now, then I'll have to persist."

"Persist all you please. I don't give a damn." There was the sound of footsteps walking away from the door. The shutters of a second window were pulled closed, followed by the shutters of a third. Then the final window was sealed with a contemptuous thump.

Matthew knew there was one sure way to make Linch open the door, though it was also surely a risk. He decided to take it.

"Mr. Linch?" Matthew said, standing close to the door. "What interests you so much about the Egyptian culture?"

A pot clattered to the floor within.

Matthew stepped away from the door several paces. He waited, his hands clasped behind his back. A latch was thrown with violent force. But the door was not fairly ripped from its hinges in being opened, as Matthew had expected. Instead, there was a pause.

Control, Matthew thought. Control is Linch's religion, and he's praying to his god. The door was opened. Slowly.

But just a crack. "Egyptian culture? What're you blatherin' about, boy?"

"You know what I mean. The book in your desk."

Again, a pause. Something about it this time was ominous.

"Ohhhhh, it was you come in my house and gone through my things, eh?" Now the door opened wider, and Linch's clean but unshaven face peered out. His pale, icy gray eyes were aimed at Matthew with the power of weapons, his teeth bared in a grin. "I found your shoemud on my floor. You didn't shut my trunk firm enough, either. Have to be blind not to see it was open a quarter-inch."

"You're very observant, aren't you? Does that come from catching rats?"

"It does. I see, though, I let a whorin' mother's two-legged rat creep in and nibble my cheese."

"Interesting cheese, too, " Matthew said, maintaining his distance from the door. "I would never have imagined you... how shall I say this?... lived in such virtuous order, from the wreck you've allowed the exterior of your house to become. I also would never have imagined you to be a scholar of ancient Egypt."

"There is a law, " Linch said, his grin still fixed and his eyes still aimed, "against enterin' a man's house without bein' invited. I believe in this town it's ten lashes. You care to tell Bidwell, or you want me to?"

"Ten lashes." Matthew frowned and shook his head. "I would surely hate to suffer ten lashes, Mr. Linch."

"Fifteen, if I can prove you thieved any thin'. And you know what? I might just be missin' a..."

"Sapphire brooch?" Matthew interrupted. "No, that's in the drawer where I left it." He offered Linch a tight smile.

The ratcatcher's expression did not change, though there might have been a slight narrowing of the eyes. "You're a cocksure bastard, ain't you? But you're good. I'll grant you that. You knotted the twine back well enough to fool me... and I ain't fooled very often."

"Oh, I think it's you who does the fooling, Mr. Linch. What is this masquerade about?"

"Masquerade? You're talkin' riddles, boy!"

"Now you just said an interesting word, Mr. Linch. You yourself are a riddle, and one I mean to solve. Why is it that you present yourself to the town as being... and let us be plainspoken here... a roughhewn and filthy dolt, when you actually are a man of literacy and good order? Meticulous order, I might say. And need I add the point of your obvious financial status, if indeed that brooch belongs to you?"

From Linch there was not a word nor a trace of reaction but Matthew could tell from the glint of his extraordinary eyes that the man's mind was working, grinding these words into a fine dust to be weighed and measured.

"I suspect that even your harborfront accent is shammed, " Matthew went on. "Is it?"

Linch gave a low, quiet laugh. "Boy, your brainpan has been dented. If I were you, I'd either go get drunk or ask the town quack for a cup of opium."

"You are not who you pretend to be, " Matthew said, defying the man's cutting stare. "Therefore... who are you?"

Linch paused, thinking about it. Then he licked his lower lip and said, "Come on in and we'll have us a talk."

"No, thank you. I do enjoy the sun's warmth. Oh... I also spoke to one of the maskers as I passed their camp. If I were to... suffer an accident, say... I'm sure the man would recall I'd been walking in this direction."

"Suffer an accident? What foolishness are you prattlin'? No, come on in and I'll spell you what you care to know. Come on." Linch hooked a finger at him.

"You may spell me what I care to know right here as well as in there."

"No, I can't. 'Sides, my breakfast is coolin'. Tell you what: I'll open all the shutters and leave the door wide. That suit you?"

"Not really. I have noticed a dearth of neighbors in this vicinity."

"Well, either come in or not, 'cause I'm done with this chat-tin'." He opened the door to its widest possible degree and walked away. Soon afterward, the nearest window was opened, the shutters pushed as far as their hinges would allow. Then the next window was opened, and afterward the third and fourth.

Matthew could see Linch, wearing tan-colored breeches and a loose-fitting gray shirt, busying himself around the hearth. The interior of the house appeared just as painstakingly neat as Matthew had previously seen it. He realized that he'd begun a duel of nerves with the ratcatcher, and this challenge to come into the house was the riposte to his own first slash concerning Linch's interest in Egyptian culture.

Linch stirred something in a skillet and added what might have been spices from a jar. Then, seemingly unconcerned with Matthew, he fetched a wooden plate and spooned food onto it.

Matthew watched as Linch sat down at his desk, placed the plate before him, and began to eat with a display of mannered restraint. Matthew knew nothing was to be gained by standing out here, yet he feared entering the ratcatcher's house even with the door and every window open wide. Still... the challenge had been given, and must be accepted.

Slowly and cautiously, he advanced first to the doorway, where he paused to gauge Linch's reaction. The ratcatcher kept eating what looked to be a mixture of eggs, sausage, and potatoes all cooked together. Then, even more cautiously, Matthew walked into the house but stopped with the threshold less than an arm's length behind him.

Linch continued to eat, using a brown napkin to occasionally wipe his mouth. "You have the manners of a gentleman, " Matthew said.

"My mother raised me right, " came the reply. "You won't find me stealin' into private houses and goin' through people's belonging."

"I presume you have an explanation for the book? And the brooch as well?"

"I do." Linch looked out the window that his desk stood before. "But why should I explain anythin' to you? It's my business."

"That's true enough. On the other hand, can't you understand how... uh... strange this appears?"

"Strange is one of them things in the eye of the beholder now, ain't it?" He put his spoon and knife down and turned his chair a few inches so that he was facing Matthew more directly. The movement made Matthew back away apace. Linch grinned. "I scare you, do I?"

"Yes, you do."

"Well, why should you be scared of me? What have I ever done to you, 'cept save your ass from bein' et up by rats there in the gaol?"

"You've done nothing to me, " Matthew admitted. He was ready to deliver the next slash. "I just wonder what you may have done to Violet Adams."

To his credit—and his iron nerves—Linch only exhibited a slight frown. "Who?"

"Violet Adams. Surely you know the child and her family."

"I do They live up the street. Cleaned some rats out for 'em not too long ago. Now what am I supposed to have done to that little girl? Pulled her dress up and poked her twat?"

"No, nothing so crude... or so obvious, " Matthew said. "But I have reason to believe that you may have—"

Linch suddenly stood up and Matthew almost jumped out the door.

"Don't piss your breeches, " Linch said, picking up his empty plate. "I'm gettin' another helpin'. You'll pardon me if I don't offer you none?"

Linch went to the hearth, spooned some more of the breakfast onto his plate, and came back to his chair. When he sat down, he turned the chair a few more inches toward Matthew so that now they almost directly faced each other. A stream of sunlight lay across Linch's chest. "Go on, " he said as he ate, the plate in his lap. "You were sayin'?"

"Uh... yes. I was saying... I have reason to believe you may have defiled Violet Adams in a way other than physical."

"What other way is there?"

"Mental defilement, " Matthew answered. Linch stopped chewing. Only for a space of perhaps two heartbeats, however. Then Linch was eating once more, staring at the pattern of sunlight on the floorboards between them.

Matthew's sword was aimed. It was time to strike for the heart, and see what color blood spurted out. "I believe you created a fiction in the child's mind that she had an audience with Satan in the Hamilton house. I believe you've had a hand in creating such a fiction in many people hereabouts, including Jeremiah Buckner and Elias Garrick. And that you planted the poppets under Rachel Howarth's floor and caused Cara Grunewald to have a 'vision' that led to their discovery."

Linch continued to eat his breakfast without haste, as if these damning words had never been uttered. When he spoke, however, his voice was... somehow changed, though Matthew couldn't quite explain its difference other than a subtle shift to a lower pitch.

"And just how am I supposed to have done such a thing?"

"I have no idea, " Matthew said. "Unless you're a warlock, and you've learned sorcery at the Devil's knee."

Linch laughed heartily and put his plate aside. "Oh, that's rich indeed! Me a warlock! Oh, yes! Shall I shoot a fireball up your arse for you?"

"That's not necessary. If you wish to begin refuting my theory by explaining your masquerade, you may proceed."

Linch's smile faded. "And if I don't, you'll have me burnin' at the stake in place of your wench? Listen to me, boy: when you go see Dr. Shields, ask for a whole keg of opium."

"I'm sure Mr. Bidwell's curiosity about you will be fired just as mine was, " Matthew said calmly. "Particularly after I tell him about the book and the brooch."

"You mean you haven't already?" Linch gave a faint, sinister smile.

"No. Mind you, the maskers saw me pass their camp."

"The maskers!" Linch laughed again. "Maskers have less sense than rats, boy! They pay attention to no details but lookin' at their own damned faces in mirrors!"

This had been said with contemptuous ferocity... and suddenly Matthew knew.

"Ahhhhh, " he said. "Of course. You are a professional actor, aren't you?"

"I've already told you I spent some time with a circus, " Linch said smoothly. "My act with trained rats. I had some dealin's with actors, much to my sorrow. I say to Hell with the whole lyin', stealin' breed. But look here." He opened the drawer and brought out the Egyptian tome and the wallet that hid the sapphire brooch. Linch placed both objects on the desktop, then removed the twine-tied brown cotton cloth from the wallet and began to untie it with nimble fingers. "I expect I should give you some kind of explanation, such as it is."

"It would be much appreciated." And very intriguing to see what Linch came up with, Matthew thought.

"The truth is... that I am more learned than I let on. But I ain't shammin' the accent. I was born on the breast of the Thames, and I'm proud of it." Linch had undone the twine, and now he opened the cloth and picked up the sapphire brooch between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. He held it in the stream of sunlight, inspecting it with his pale, intense eyes. "This belonged to my mother, God rest her lovin' soul. Yes, it's worth a good piece of coin but I'd never part with it. Never. It's the only thing I've got to remember her by." He turned the brooch slightly, and light glinted from its golden edge into Matthew's face. "It's a thing of beauty, ain't it? So beautiful. Like she was. So, so beautiful." Again, the brooch was turned and again a glint of light struck Matthew's eyes.

Linch's voice had almost imperceptibly softened. "I'd never part with it. Not for any amount of money. So beautiful. So very, very beautiful."

The brooch turned... the light glinted...

"Never. For any amount of money. You see how it shines? So, so beautiful. Like she was. So, so beautiful."

The brooch... the light... the brooch... the light...

Matthew stared at the golden glint. Linch had begun to angle the brooch slowly in and out of the sun's stream, in a regular—and transfixing—pattern.

"Yes, " Matthew said. "Beautiful." With a surprising amount of difficulty, he pulled his gaze away from the brooch. "I want to know about the book."

"Ahhhh, the book!" Linch slowly raised the index finger of his left hand, which again secured Matthew's attention. Linch made a small circle in the air with that finger, then slid it down to the brooch. Matthew's eyes followed its smooth descent, and suddenly he was staring once more at the light... the brooch... the light... the brooch...

"The book, " Linch repeated softly. "The book, the book, the book."

"Yes, the book, " Matthew said, and just as he attempted to pull his gaze again from the brooch Linch held it motionless in the light for perhaps three seconds. The lack of movement now seemed as strangely compelling as the motion. Linch then began to move the brooch in and out of the light in a slow clockwise direction.

"The book." This was peculiar, Matthew thought. His voice sounded hollow, as if he were hearing himself speak from the distance of another room. "Why..." The brooch... the light... the brooch... the light. "Why Egyptian culture?"

"Fascinating, " Linch said. "I find the Egyptian culture fascinating."

The brooch... the light...

"Fascinating, " Linch said again, and now he too seemed to be speaking from a distance. "How they... forged an empire... from shifting sand. Shifting sand... all about... shifting sand... flowing... softly, softly..."

"What?" Matthew whispered. The brooch... the light... the brooch...

"Shifting... shifting sand, " Linch said.

... the light...

"Listen, Matthew. Listen."

Matthew was listening. It seemed to him that the room around him had become darkened, and the only glint of illumination came from that brooch in Linch's hand. He could hear no sound but Linch's low, sonorous voice, and he found himself waiting for the next word to be spoken.

"Listen... Matthew... the shifting sand... shifting... so so beautiful..."

The voice seemed to be whispering right in his ear. No, no: Linch was closer than that. Closer...

... the brooch... the light... the brooch... Closer.

"Listen, " came the hushed command, in a voice that Matthew now hardly recognized. "Listen... to the silence."

... the light... the shifting shifting sand... the brooch... the so so beautiful light...

"Listen, Matthew. To the silence. Every. Thing. Silent. Every. Thing. So so beautiful. The shifting shifting sand. Silent, silent. The town... silent. As if... the whole world... holds its breath..."

"Uh!" Matthew said; it was the panicked sound of a drowning swimmer, searching for air. His mouth opened wider... he heard himself gasp... a terrible noise...

"Silent, silent, " Linch was saying, in a hushed, slow singsong voice. "Every. Thing. Silent. Every. Till—"

"No!" Matthew took a backward step and collided with the doorframe. He jerked his eyes away from the glinting brooch, though Linch continued to turn it in and out of the sunlight. "No! You're not... going to..."

"What, Matthew?" Linch smiled, his eyes piercing through Matthew's skull to his very mind. "Not going to what?" He stood up from his chair... slowly... smoothly... like shifting shifting sand...

Matthew felt terror bloom within him unlike anything he'd ever experienced. His legs seemed weighted in iron boots. Linch was coming toward him, reaching out to grasp his arm in what seemed a strange slow-motion travesty of time. Matthew could not look away from Linch's eyes; they were the center of the whole world, and everything else was silent... silent...

He was aware that Linch's fingers were about to take hold of his sleeve.

With all the effort of will he could summon, Matthew shouted, "No!" into Linch's face. Linch blinked. His hand faltered, for perhaps a fraction of a second.

It was enough.

Matthew turned and fled from the house. Fled, though his eyes felt bloodshot and swollen. Fled though his legs were heavy and his throat as dry as shifting sand. Fled with silence thundering in his ears, and his lungs gasping for breath that had seemed stolen away from him only a few seconds before.

He fled along Industry Street, the warm sunlight thawing the freeze that had tightened his muscles and bones. He dared not look back. Dared not look back. Dared not.

But as he ran, putting precious distance between himself and that soft trap he had nearly been snared by, he realized the enormity and strange power of the force that Linch wielded. Such a thing was unnatural... monstrous... such a thing was shifting sand... shifting... sorcery and must be silent silent of the very Devil himself.

It was in his head. He couldn't get it out, and that further terrified him because the contamination of his mind—his most dependable resource—was utterly unthinkable.

He ran and ran, sweat on his face, and his lungs heaving.

thirty-two

MATTHEW SAT, shivering in the sunlight, in the grass beside the spring.

It had been a half hour since he'd fled Linch's house, and still he suffered the effects of their encounter. He felt tired and sluggish, yet frightened to the very core of his being. Matthew thought—and thinking seemed more of an effort than ever in his life—that Linch had done to his mind what he had done to Linch's dwelling: entered it without permission, poked about, and left a little smear of mud to betray his presence.

Linch had without a doubt been the winner of their duel.

But—also without a doubt—Matthew now knew Linch was the owner of the shadowy hand that could reach into the human mind and create whatever fiction it pleased. Matthew considered himself intelligent and alert; if he had been so affected by the ratcatcher's trancing ability, how simple a task it must have been to overwhelm the more rustic and less mentally agile Buckner, Garrick, and the other targets. And indeed Matthew suspected that the persons in whose minds Linch had planted the scenes of depravity had been carefully chosen because of their receptivity to such manipulation. Linch had obviously had a great deal of experience at this bizarre craft, and most surely he could recognize certain signals that indicated whether a person was a likely candidate for manipulation. Matthew thought that in his own case, Linch had been probing his line of mental defense and had been unsuccessful in breaking the barrier. Linch would probably have never even attempted such a thing if the man hadn't been desperate.

Matthew offered his face to the sun, trying to burn out the last vestiges of shifting sand from the storehouse of memory.

Linch, Matthew believed, had underestimated Violet Adams. The child was more intelligent than her timidity let her appear. Matthew believed that the house in which she described seeing Satan and the white-haired imp was not the Hamilton house, but the house of her own mind. And back there in the dark room was the memory of Linch trancing her. Surely the man had not actually sung that song as he'd done the work, but perhaps the recollection of the event had been locked away from her and so the song—which Violet had heard when Linch had come ratcatching at her house—was an alternate key.

The question was: where and when had Violet been entranced? Matthew thought that if Buckner and Garrick could remember correctly, they might supply the fact that Linch had also come ratcatching—or simply spreading poisoned bait as a "precaution"—to their own houses. Matthew could envision Linch asking either man to step out to the barn to look at evidence of rodent infestation, and then—once away from the sight of wives or other relatives—turning upon them the full power of this strange weapon that both erased reality and constructed a lifelike fiction. What was particularly amazing to Matthew was the fact that the effects of this power might be delayed some length of time; that is, Linch had given some mental command that the fiction not be immediately recollected, but instead recalled several nights later. And the memory of being entranced was erased from the mind altogether... except in the case of Violet Adams, whose mind had begun to sing to her in Linch's voice.

It was the damnedest thing he'd ever heard of. Surely it was some form of sorcery! But it was real and it was here and it was the reason Rachel was going to be burned on Monday morning.

And what could he do about it?

Nothing, it seemed. Oh, he could go to Bidwell and plead his case, but he knew what the result of that would be. Bidwell might arrange shackles for him and put him in a cushioned room where he would be no danger to others or himself. Matthew would fear even mentioning such a theory to the magistrate; even if Woodward were able to hear and respond, he would believe Matthew to be so severely bewitched that the stress might sink him into his grave.

The ratcatcher, it seemed, had done much more than winning a duel. Linch had demonstrated that the war was over and declared himself its absolute and cunning victor.

Matthew drew his knees up to his chin and stared out over the blue water. He had to ask the question that seemed to him the most basic query in existence yet also the most complex: Why?

For what reason would Linch put forth such an effort to paint Rachel as a witch? And why, indeed, was a man of his vile nature even in Fount Royal? Had he murdered Reverend Grove and Daniel Howarth? If Rachel was only a pawn in this strange game—if, for the sake of conjecture, Bidwell was the real target—then why go to such extremes to destroy Fount Royal? Was it possible Linch had been sent from Charles Town to do these dark deeds?

It seemed to Matthew that the jealous watchdogs in Charles Town might encourage the burning of a few empty houses, but they wouldn't stoop so low as to subsidize murder. Then again, who could say what reigned in a man's heart? It would not be the first time that gold coins were spent on a spill of crimson blood.

Matthew narrowed his eyes slightly, watching the surface of the spring ripple with a passing breeze.

Gold coins. Yes. Gold coins. Gold and silver, that is. Of the Spanish stamp.

Taking shape in Matthew's mind was a theory worth chewing on.

Say that, even though he'd found nothing last night, there was indeed a fortune of pirate coins down at the bottom of the fount. Say that somehow Linch—whoever he really was—had learned of its presence, possibly months or even years before he'd arrived on the scene. When Linch got here, he discovered a town surrounding the treasure vault. What, then, could he do to get the coins for himself and himself alone?

The answer: he could create a witch and cause Fount Royal to wither and die.

Perhaps Linch had gone swimming on more than one occasion, late at night, and discovered... Oh, Matthew thought, and the realization was like a punch... discovered not only gold and silver coins... but a sapphire brooch.

What if there was not just coinage in that treasure vault, but also jewelry? Or loose gemstones? If indeed Linch had brought that brooch up from the depths, then the ratcatcher was aware of how necessary it was to clear the town away before a real attempt at salvage could be undertaken.

Yes, Matthew thought. Yes. It was definitely a reason to kill two men and create a witch. But wait... Was it not in Linch's best interest that Rachel not be burned? With the removal of the "witch, " Fount Royal would likely start to grow healthy again. So what was he going to do to make sure the town's decline continued? Create a second witch? That seemed to Matthew to be a task requiring a great deal of risk and months of planning. No, Rachel had been the perfect "witch, " and the more reasonable action would be to somehow capitalize on her death.

Perhaps... with another murder? And who might find himself throat-slashed by the vengeance of "Satan" in a dimly lit room or hallway some evening hence?

Matthew suspected that this time Linch would go for Fount Royal's jugular. Would it be Dr. Shields lying in a pool of blood? Schoolmaster Johnstone? Edward Winston? No. Those three men, though vital, were replaceable in the future of Fount Royal.

The next victim would be Bidwell himself.

Matthew stood up, his flesh in chillbumps. Near him a woman was dipping two buckets while conversing with a man who was filling a keg. Their faces, though lined by their lives of difficult labor, were free from concern; in them was the statement that all was right with Fount Royal... or soon to be right, with the execution of the witch.

Little did they know, Matthew thought. Little did anyone know, except Linch. Especially little did Bidwell know, for as Rachel died writhing in the flames the plan would be set in motion to cut his throat in the same manner as the other victims.

And what could be done about it?

Matthew needed evidence. One sapphire brooch would not do; besides, Matthew was certain Linch would now hide it in a place even a rat couldn't discover. To expose the coins that Goode had found would be beneficial, but would also be a betrayal of Goode's trust. Obviously Linch was the thief who had entered Bidwell's house that night and taken the gold coin from Matthew's room, probably in an effort to ascertain if it was part of the treasure and where it might have come from. That was another question, however: how had an Indian gotten hold of a Spanish coin?

Matthew was feeling more like himself now. He wouldn't return to Linch's house alone for a barrel full of gold coins. But if he could find some piece of evidence that might implicate Linch... some hard proof to show Bidwell...

"There you are! I was just on my way to see you!" That voice, high-pitched and waspish, struck him with fresh dread.

He turned to face Lucretia Vaughan. She was smiling brightly, her hair contained under a stiff white bonnet, and she wore a lilac-colored dress. In her arms was a small basket. "I hoped to find you in good spirits this day!"

"Uh... yes. Good spirits." He was already edging away from her.

"Mr. Corbett, please allow me to present you with a gift! I know... well, I know our dinner last night was difficult for you, and I wished to—"

"It's all right, " Matthew said. "No gift is necessary."

"Oh, but it is! I realized how much you enjoyed your food— in spite of my daughter's display of willful misbehavior—therefore I wished to bake you a pie. I trust you like sweet yams?" She lifted the golden-crusted pie from the basket to show him. It was held in a pie dish of white clay decorated with small red hearts.

"It... truly looks wonderful, " Matthew told her. "But I can't accept it."

"Nonsense! Of course you can! And you may return the dish the next time you come to dinner. Say... Tuesday evening at six o'clock?"

He looked into her eyes and saw there a rather sad combination of voracity and fear. As gently as possible, he said, "Mrs. Vaughan, I can't accept the pie. And I can't accept your invitation to dinner, either."

She just stared at him, her mouth partway open and the pie dish still offered. "It is not in my power to help your daughter, " Matthew continued. "She seems to have her own mind about things, just as you do, and there lies the collision. I regret you have a problem in your household, but I can't solve it for you."

The woman's mouth had opened a little wider.

"Again, thank you for the dinner. I truly did enjoy it, and the company. Now, if you'll excuse—"

"You... ungrateful... young... bastard!" she suddenly hissed, her cheeks flaming red and her eyes half-crazed with anger. '"Do you realize what effort was expended to please you?"

"Uh... well... I'm sorry, but—"

"You're sorry, " she mimicked bitterly. "Sorry! Do you know how much money and time I spent on Cherise's gown? Do you know how I worked over that hearth and cleaned that house for your pleasure? Are you sorry about that, too?"

Matthew noticed that several citizens who'd come to the spring for water were watching. If Lucretia noticed, it made no difference to her because she kept firing cannonades at him. "Oh, but you came in our house and ate your fill, didn't you? You sat there like a lord at feast! You even took bread away with you! And now you're sorry!" Tears of rage—misguided rage, Matthew thought—wet her eyes. "I thought you were a gentleman! Well, you're a right sorry gentleman, aren't you?"

"Mrs. Vaughan, " Matthew said firmly, "I cannot save your daughter from what you perceive as—"

"Who asked you to save anybody, you self-righteous prig? How dare you speak to me as if I'm a milkmaid! I am a person of esteem in this town! Do you hear me? Esteem!"

She was shouting in his face. Matthew said quietly, "Yes, I hear you."

"If I were a man you wouldn't speak to me with such disrespect! Well, damn you! Damn you and Charles Town and damn all you who think you're better than other people!"

"Pardon me, " he said, and began walking toward the mansion.

"Yes, go on and run!" she hollered. "Run back to Charles Town, where your kind belongs! You city dog!" Something in her voice broke, but she forced it back. "Playing in your ludicrous gardens and dancing at your sinful balls! Go on and run!"

Matthew didn't run, but his walking pace was brisk enough. He saw that the window of Bidwell's upstairs study had opened and there was the master himself, looking out upon this unfortunate scene. Bidwell was grinning, and when he realized Matthew had seen him he put his hand to his mouth to hide it.

"Wait, wait!" the brazen woman shouted. "Here, take your pie!"

Matthew looked back in time to see Lucretia Vaughan hurl the pie—dish and all—into the spring. Then she fired a glare at him that might have scorched iron, turned on her heel, and stalked away, her chin lifted high as if she had put the Charles Town draggletail in his fly-blown place.

Matthew entered the mansion and went directly up the stairs to the magistrate's room. Woodward's shutters were closed, but Matthew thought the woman's enraged vocals must have frightened birds back in the swamp. The magistrate, however, still slept on, though he did shift his position to the side as Matthew stood next to his bed.

"Sir?" Matthew said, touching his shoulder. "Sir?"

Woodward's sleep-swollen eyes opened to slits. He struggled to focus. "Matthew?" he whispered.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh... I thought it was you. I had a dream. A crow... shrieking. Gone now."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No. Just... tired... very tired. Dr. Shields was here."

"He was? This morning?"

"Yes. Told me... it was Friday. My days and nights... they run together."

"I can imagine so. You've been very ill."

Woodward swallowed thickly. "That potion... Dr. Shields gives me. It has... a very disagreeable taste. I told him I should... wish some sugar in it on the next drinking."

Here was a reason for hope, Matthew thought. The magistrate was lucid and his senses were returning. "I think the potion is doing you some good, sir."

"My throat still pains me." He put a hand to it. "But I do feel ... somewhat lighter. Tell me... did I dream this, or... did Dr. Shields apply a funnel to my bottom?"

"You had a colonic, " Matthew said. He would long remember the aftermath of that particularly repugnant but necessary procedure. So too would the servant who had to wash out the two chamberpots filled with black, tar-like refusal.

"Ah. Yes... that would explain it. My apologies... to all involved."

"No apologies are necessary, sir. You've comported yourself with extreme grace for the... uh... unpleasantness of your situation." Matthew went to the dresser and got the bowl of fresh water that had been placed there and one of several clean cotton cloths.

"Always... the diplomat, " Woodward whispered. "This potion... does tire me. Matthew... what was done... to my back?"

"The doctor used blister cups." Matthew dipped the cloth into the water bowl.

"Blister cups, " Woodward repeated. "Oh. Yes... I do remember now. Quite painful." He managed a grim smile. "I must have been... knocking at death's door."

"Not nearly so close as that." Matthew wrang out the wet cloth and then began to gently apply the cool cotton to Woodward's still-pallid face. "Let us just say you were on a precarious street. But you're better now, and you're going to continue improving. Of that I'm positive."

"I trust... you are right."

"I am not only right, I am correct, " Matthew said. "The worst part of your illness has been vanquished."

"Tell that... to my throat... and my aching bones. Oh, what a sin it is... to be old."

"Your age has nothing to do with your condition, sir." Matthew pressed the cloth to Woodward's forehead. "You have youth in you yet."

"No... I have too much past behind me." He stared at nothing, his eyes slightly glazed in appearance, as Matthew continued to dampen his face. "I would... give... so much... to be you, son." Matthew's hand may have been interrupted in its motions for only a few fleeting seconds.

"To be you, " Woodward repeated. "And where you are. With the world... ahead of you... and the luxury of time."

"You have much time ahead of you too, sir."

"My arrow... has been shot, " he whispered. "And... where it fell... I do not know. But you... you... are just now drawing back your bow." He released a long, strengthless sigh. "My advice to you... is to aim at a worthy target."

"You will have much further opportunity to help me identify such a target, sir."

Woodward laughed softly, though the act seemed to pain his throat because it ended in a grimace. "I doubt... I can help you... with much anymore, Matthew. It has come... to my attention on this trip... that you have a very able mind of your own. You... are a man, now... with all that manhood entails. The bitter... and the sweet. You have made a good start... at manhood... by standing up for your convictions... even against me."

"You don't begrudge my opinions?"

"I would feel... an utter failure... if you had none, " he answered.

"Thank you, sir, " Matthew said. He finished his application of the cloth and returned it to the water bowl, which he placed atop the dresser again.

"That is not to say, " Woodward added, in as loud and clear a voice as he could summon, "that... we are in agreement. I still say... the woman is your nightbird... intent on delivering you to the dark. But... every man hears a nightbird... of some form or fashion. It is the... struggle to overcome its call that either... creates or destroys a man's soul. You will understand what I mean. Later... after the witch is long silenced."

Matthew stood beside the dresser, his head lowered. He said, "Sir? I need to tell you that—" And then he stopped himself. What was the use of it? The magistrate would never understand. Never. He hardly understood it himself, and he'd experienced Linch's power. No, putting these things into words might rob the magistrate of his improving health, and no good could come of it.

"Tell me what?" Woodward asked.

"That Mr. Bidwell is hosting a dinner tonight, " was the first thing that entered his mind. "The maskers have arrived early, and evidently there's to be a reception to honor them. I... wanted to tell you, in case you heard voices raised in festivity and wished to know why."

"Ah. This Satan-besieged town... could benefit... from voices raised in festivity." Woodward let his eyes close again. "Oh ... I am so tired. Come visit me later... and we shall talk about ... our trip home. A journey... I sincerely look forward to."

"Yes, sir. Sleep well." Matthew left the room.

In his own bedchamber, Matthew settled down in the chair by the window to continue reading the book on English plays. It was not that he was compelled to do so by the subject matter, but because he wished to give his mind a rest from its constant maze-crawl. It was his belief, also, that one might see a large picture only by stepping back from the frame. He'd been reading perhaps ten minutes when there came a knock at his door.

"Young sir?" It was Mrs. Nettles. "I ha' somethin' sent from Mr. Bidwell."

Matthew opened the door and found that the woman had brought a silver tray on which rested a single, beautifully blown glass goblet filled with amber liquid.

"What's this?"

"Mr. Bidwell asked that I open a verra old bottle of rum. He said ta tell you that you deserved a taste of such, after such a foul taste as ye had just recently." She looked at him questioningly. "Bein' a servant, I did nae ask what he meant."

"He's being kind. Thank you." Matthew took the goblet and smelled its contents. From the heady aroma, the liquor promised to send him to the same peaceful Elysium that the magistrate currently inhabited. Though it was quite early for drinking so numbing a friend, Matthew decided to allow himself at least two good swallows.

"I ha' another direction from Mr. Bidwell, " Mrs. Nettles said. "He asks that you take dinner in your room, the kitchen, or at Van Gundy's this eve. He asks me to inform you that your bill at Van Gundy's would be his pleasure."

Matthew realized it was Bidwell's way of telling him he was not invited to the maskers' dinner. Bidwell had no more use for the services of either the magistrate or Matthew, thus out of sight and out of mind. Matthew also suspected that Bidwell was a little wary of allowing him to roam loose at a gathering. "I'll eat at the tavern, " he said.

"Yes sir. May I get you any thin' else?"

"No." As soon as he said it, he reversed his course. "Uh... yes." The unthinkable thing had entered his mind once more, as if bound to determine how strong was his fortress wall between common sense and insanity. "Would you come in for a moment, please?" She entered and he shut the door.

He drank his first swallow of the rum, which lit a conflagration down his throat. Then he walked to the window and stood looking over the slave quarters in the direction of the tidewater swamp.

"I ha' things ta tend, " Mrs. Nettles said.

"Yes. Forgive me for drifting, but... what I need to ask you is..." He paused again, knowing that in the next few seconds he would be walking a thin and highly dangerous rope. "First of all, " he decided to say, "I passed by the field this morning. Where the execution will take place. I saw the stake... the firemound... everything in preparation."

"Yes sir, " she answered, with no emotion whatsoever.

"I know that Rachel Howarth is innocent." Matthew looked directly into Mrs. Nettles's dark, flesh-hooded eyes. "Do you hear me? I know it. I also know who is responsible for the two murders and Rachel's predicament... but I am absolutely unable to prove any of it."

"Are you free to name this person?"

"No. And please understand that my decision is not because I don't trust you, but because telling you would only compound your agony in this situation, as it has mine. Also, there are... circumstances I don't fathom, therefore it's best to speak no names."

"As you wish, sir, " she said, but it was spoken with a broad hint of aggravation.

"Rachel will burn on Monday morning. There is no doubt about that. Unless some extraordinary event occurs between now and then to overturn the magistrate's decree, or some revealing proof comes to light. You may be assured I will continue to shake the bushes for such proof."

"That is all well and good, sir, but what does this ha' to do with me?"

"For you I have a question, " he said. He took his second swallow of rum, and then waited for his eyes to cease watering. Now he had come to the end of the rope, and beyond it lay... what?

He took a deep breath and exhaled it. "Do you know anything of the Florida country?"

Mrs. Nettles gave no visible reaction. "The Florida country, " she repeated.

"That's right. You may be aware that it's Spanish territory? Perhaps two hundred miles from—"

"I do know your meanin'. And yes, for sure I know them Spaniards are down there. I keep up with my currents."

Matthew gazed out the window again, toward the swamp and the sea. "Do you also then know, or have you heard, that the Spanish offer sanctuary to escaped English criminals and English-owned slaves?"

Mrs. Nettles was a moment in replying. "Yes sir, I've heard. From Mr. Bidwell, talkin' at table one eve with Mr. Winston and Mr. Johnstone. A young slave by the name of Morganthus Crispin took flight last year. He and his woman. Mr. Bidwell believed they was goin' to the Florida country."

"Did Mr. Bidwell try to recapture the slaves?"

"He did. Solomon Stiles and two or three others went."

"Were they successful?"

"Successful, " she said, "in findin' the corpses. What was left of 'em. Mr. Bidwell told John Goode somethin' had et 'em, jus' tore 'em up terrible. Likely a burr, is what he said."

"Mr. Bidwell told this to John Goode?" Matthew lifted his eyebrows. "Why? To discourage any of the other slaves from running?"

"Yes sir, I 'spect so."

"Were the corpses brought back? Did you see them?"

"No sir, neither one. They left 'em out there, since there wasn't a value to 'em na' more."

"A value." Matthew said, and grunted. "But tell me this, then: was it possible that the slaves were indeed not killed? Was it possible they were never found, and Bidwell had to invent such a story?"

"I wouldn't know, sir. Of that Mr. Bidwell would nae confide in me."

Matthew nodded. He took a third drink. "Rachel is going to die for crimes she did not commit, because she fits someone's twisted need. And I can't save her. As much as I wish to... as much as I know she is innocent... I can't." Before he could think about it, a fourth swallow of rum had burned down his hatch. "Do you remember saying to me that she needed a champion?"

"I do."

"Well... she needs one now more than ever. Tell me this: have any other slaves but Crispin and his wife fled south? Have any tried to reach the Florida country, been caught and returned?"

Her mouth slowly opened. "My Lord, " she said softly. "You... want to know what the land's like 'tween here and there, don't ye?"

"I said nothing about that. I simply asked if any other—"

"What you asked and what you meant, " Mrs. Nettles said, "are two different horses. I'm gettin' your drift, sir, and I can't believe what I'm hearin'."

"Exactly what are you hearing, then?"

"You know That you'd be willin' ta take her out of that gaol and down ta th' Florida country."

"I said nothing of the sort! And please keep your voice lowered!"

"Did you have to speak it?" she asked pointedly. "All these questions, like ta run out my ears!" She advanced a step toward him, looking in her severe black dress like a dark-painted wall in motion. "Listen to me, young man, and I trust ye listen well. For your further warrant, it is my understandin' that the Florida country lies near a hundred and fifty miles from Fount Royal, nae two hundred... but you would nae make five miles a'fore you 'n Madam Howarth both were either et by wild animals or scalped by wild Indians!"

"You forget that the magistrate and I arrived here on foot. We walked considerably more than five miles, through mud and in a pouring rain."

"Yes sir, " she said, "and look at the magistrate now. Laid low, he is, 'cause of that walk. If you don't believe that had somethin' to do with at least wearin' him out, you're sadly mistook!" Matthew might have become angered, but Mrs. Nettles was only voicing what he already knew to be true.

"The likes of this I've never heard!" She crossed her arms over her massive bosom in a scolding posture, the silver tray gripped in her right hand. "This is a damn dangerous land! I've seen grown men—men with a mite more meat on their bones than you—chopped ta their knees by it! What would you do, then? Jus' parade her from the gaol, mount y'selves two horses and ride out th' gate? Ohhhhh, I think nae!"

Matthew finished the glass of rum and hardly felt the fire. "And even if ye did fetch her out, " the woman continued, "and did by some God-awe miracle get her down ta th' Florida country, what then? You think it's a matter of givin' her over ta th' Spanish and then comin' back? No, again you're sadly mistook! There would be no comin' back. Ever. You'd be livin' the rest of your life out with them conquista-... them con-... them squid-eaters!"

"So long as they wouldn't mix it with blood sausage, " Matthew muttered.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just... thinking aloud." He licked the goblet's rim and then held the glass out. Mrs. Nettles reverted to the role of servant and put the silver tray up to receive the empty goblet.

"Thank you for the information and the candor, " Matthew said. Instead of luffing his sails, the rum had stolen his wind. He felt light-headed but heavy at heart. He went to the window and stood beside it with his hand braced against the wall and his head drooping.

"Yes sir. Is there anythin' else?" She walked to the door, where she paused before leaving.

"One thing, " Matthew said. "If someone had taken your sister to the Florida country, after she was accused and convicted of witchcraft, she would still be alive today. Wouldn't you have wanted that?"

"Of course, sir. But I wouldn't ask a body to give up his life ta do it."

"Mrs. Nettles, my life will be given up when Rachel is burned on that stake Monday morning. Knowing what I do... and unable to save her through the proper legal channels... it's going to be more than I can bear. And I fear also that this is a burden that will never disappear, but only grow heavier with the passage of time."

"If that's the case, I regret ever askin' you ta take an interest in her."

"It is the case, " he replied, with some heat in it. "And you did ask me to take an interest, and I have... and here we are."

"Oh, my, " Mrs. Nettles said quietly, her eyes widening.

"Oh..... my."

"Is there a meaning behind that? If so, I'd like to hear it."

"You... have a feelin' for her, do you nae?"

"A feeling? Yes, I care whether she lives or dies!"

"Nae only that, " Mrs. Nettles said. "You know of what I'm speakin'. Oh, my. Who'd ha' thought such a thing?"

"You may go now." He turned his back to her, directing his attention out the window at some passing figment.

"Does she know? She ought ta. It mi' ease her—"

"Please go, " he said, through clenched teeth.

"Yes sir, " she answered, rather meekly, and she closed the door behind her.

Matthew eased himself down in the chair again and put his hands to his face. What had he ever done to deserve such torment as this? Of course it was nothing compared to the anguish Rachel would be subjected to in less than seventy-two hours.

He couldn't bear it. He couldn't. For he knew that wherever he ran on Monday morning... wherever he hid... he would hear Rachel's screams and smell her flesh burning.

He was near drunk from the goblet of fiery rum, but in truth he could have easily swallowed down the bottle. He had come to the end of the road. There was nothing more he could do, say, or discover. Linch had won. When Bidwell was found murdered a week or so hence—after Matthew and the magistrate had left, of course—the tales of Satan's vengeance would spread through Fount Royal and in one month, if that long, the town would be deserted. Linch might even move into the mansion and lord over an estate of ghosts while he plundered the fount.

Matthew's mind was beleaguered. The room's walls had begun to slowly spin, and if he hadn't put down the Sir Richard he might have feared Linch was still trampling through his head.

There were details... details that did not fit.

The surveyor, for instance. Who had he been? Perhaps just a surveyor, after all? The gold coin possessed by Shawcombe. From where had the Indian gotten it? The disappearance of Shawcombe and that nasty brood. Where had they gone, leaving their valuables behind?

And the murder of Reverend Grove.

He could understand why Linch had killed Daniel Howarth. But why the reverend? To emphasize that the Devil had no use for a man of God? To remove what the citizens would feel was a source of protection from evil? Or was it another reason altogether, something that Matthew was missing?

He couldn't think anymore. The walls were spinning too fast. He was going to have to stand up and try to reach the bed, if he could. Ready... one... two... three!

He staggered to the bed, barely reaching it before the room's rotation lamed him. Then he lay down on his back, his arms out-flung on either side, and with a heaving sigh he gave himself up from this world of tribulations.

thirty-three

AT HALF-PAST SEVEN, Van Gundy's tavern was doing a brisk business. On any given Friday night the lamplit, smoky emporium of potables and edibles would have a half-dozen customers, mostly farmers who wished to socialize with their brethren away from the ears of wives and children. On this Friday night, with its celebratory air due to the fine weather and the imminent end of Rachel Howarth, fifteen men had assembled to talk, or holler as the case might be, to chew on the tavern's salted beef and drink draught after draught of wine, turn, and apple beer. For the truly adventurous there was available a tavern-brewed corn liquor guaranteed to elevate the earth to the level of one's nose.

Van Gundy—a husky, florid-faced man with a trimmed gray goatee and a few sprouts of peppery hair that stood upright on his scalp—was inspired by this activity to perform. Taking up his git-tern, he planted himself amid the revelers and began to howl bawdy songs that involved succulent young wives, chastity belts, duplicate keys, and travelling merchants. This cattawago proved so ennobling to the crowd that more orders for strong drink thundered forth and the thin, rather sour-looking woman who tended to the serving was gazed upon by bleary eyes as if she were a veritable Helen of Troy.

"Here is a song!" Van Gundy bellowed, his wind puffing the blue pipe smoke that wafted about him. "I made this up myself, just today!" He struck a chord that would've made a cat swoon and began:

"Hihi ho, here's a tale I know,'tisa sad sad tale I am sure,Concernsthe witch of Fount Royal,andher devilish crew,Tocall her vile is calling shit mannnnure!

Much laughter and tankard-lifting greeted this, of course, but Van Gundy was a fool for music.

"Hihi ho, here's a tale I know, 'tis a sorry sorry tale I know well, For when the witch of Fount Royal, has been burnt to cold gray ash,She'llstill be suckin' Satan's cock way down in Helllllll!"

Matthew thought the roof might be hurled off the tavern by the hurricane of noise generated by this ode. He had chosen his table wisely, sitting at the back of the room as far as possible from the center of activity, but not even the two cups of wine and the cup of apple beer he'd consumed could dull the sickened pain produced by Van Gundy's rape of the ear. These fools were insufferable! Their laughing and gruesome attempts at jokes turned Matthew's stomach. He had the feeling that if he remained much longer in this town he would become an accomplished drunkard and sink to a nadir known only by the worms that thrived in dog dates.

Now Van Gundy turned his talents to tunes concocted on the spot. He pointed at a gent nearby and then walloped a chord:

"Letme sing 'bout old Dick Cushing, Wore out his wife from his constant pushin'Shecalled for an ointment to ease her down there, But all the stuff did was burn off her hair'."

Laughter, hilarity, drinking, and rousting aplenty followed. Another customer was singled out:

"Woeto all who cross Hiram Abercrombie,Forhe's got a temper would sting a bee,Hecan drink any ten men under a table,Andplow their wives' furrows when they are unable!"

Oh, this was torture! Matthew pushed aside the plate of chicken and beans that had served as a not very appetizing dinner. His appetite had been further killed by that unfortunate filth flung at Rachel, who might have silenced this haven of jesters with a single regal glance.

He finished the last swallow of the apple beer and stood up from his bench. At that moment Van Gundy launched into a new tuneless tune:

"Allowus to welcome fine Solomon Stiles, Whosetalent in life lies in walking for miles, ThroughIndian woods and beast-haunted glen, Searchin'for a squaw to put his prick in!"

Matthew looked toward the door and saw that a man had just entered. As a reply to the laughter and shouts directed at him, this new arrival took off his leather tricorn and gave a mocking bow to the assembled idiots. Then he proceeded to a table and sat down as Van Gundy turned his graceless wit upon the next grinning victim, by name Jethro Sudrucker.

Matthew again seated himself. He'd realized that an interesting opportunity lay before him, if he handled it correctly. Was not this the Solomon Stiles who Bidwell had told him was a hunter, and who had gone out with a party of men in search of the escaped slaves? He watched as Stiles-—a lean, rawboned man of perhaps fifty years—summoned the serving-woman over, and then he stood up and went to the table.

Just before Matthew was about to make his introduction, Van Gundy strummed his gittern and bellowed forth:

"We should all feel pity for young Matthew Corbett,

I heard beside the spring he was savagely bit.

By that venomous serpent whose passion is pies,

And whose daughter bakes loaves between her hot thighs!"

Matthew blushed red even before the wave of laughter struck him, and redder yet after it had rolled past. He saw that Solomon Stiles was offering only a bemused smile, the man's square-jawed face weathered and sharp-chiselled as tombstone granite. Stiles had closely trimmed black hair, gray at the temples. From his left eyebrow up across his forehead was the jagged scar of a dagger or rapier slash. His nose was the shape of an Indian tomahawk, his eyes dark brown and meticulous in their inspection of the young man who stood before him. Stiles was dressed simply, in black breeches and a plain white shirt.

"Mr. Stiles?" Matthew said, his face still flushed. Van Gundy had gone on to skewer another citizen on his gittern spike. "My name is—"

"I'm aware of your name, Mr. Corbett. You are famous."

"Oh. Yes. Well... that incident today was regrettable."

"I meant your scuffle with Seth Hazelton. I attended your whipping."

"I see." He paused, but Stiles did not offer him a seat. "May I join you?"

Stiles motioned toward the opposite bench, and Matthew sat down. "How's the magistrate's health?" Stiles asked. "Still poorly?"

"No, actually he's much improved. I have hopes he'll be on his feet soon."

"In time for the execution, possibly?"

"Possibly, " Matthew said.

"It seems only fitting he should witness it and have the satisfaction of seeing justice done. You know, I selected the tree from which the stake was cut."

"Oh." Matthew busied himself by flicking some imaginary dust from his sleeve. "No, I didn't know that."

"Hannibal Green, I, and two others hauled it and planted it. Have you been out to take a look?"

"I've seen it, yes."

"What do you think? Does it look sufficient for the purpose?"

"I believe it does."

Stiles took a tobacco pouch, a small ebony pipe, and an ivory matchbox from his pocket. He set about filling the pipe. "I inherited the task from Nicholas. That rascal must have gotten down on bended knee to Bidwell."

"Sir?"

"Nicholas Paine. Winston told me that Bidwell sent him to Charles Town this morning. A supply trip, up the coast to Virginia. What that rascal will do to avoid a little honest labor!" He fired a match with the flame of the table's lantern and then set his tobacco alight.

Matthew assumed Winston had performed trickery upon the morning watchman to advance this fiction of Paine's departure. Obviously an agreement had been reached that would benefit Winston's pockets and status.

Stiles blew out a whorl of smoke. "He's dead."

Matthew's throat clutched. "Sir?"

"Dead, " Stiles repeated. "In my book, at least. The times I've helped him when he asked me, and then he runs when there's sweating to be done! Well, he's a proper fool to go out on that road alone, I'll tell you. He knows better than that. Bidwell must have some intrigue in the works, as usual." Stiles cocked his head to one side, smoke leaking between his teeth. "You don't know what it might be, do you?"

Matthew folded his hands together. He spent a few seconds in thought. "Well, " he said. "I might. It is interesting what one overhears in that house. Not necessarily meaning to, of course."

"Of course."

"I'm sure both Mr. Bidwell and Mr. Winston would deny it, " Matthew said, leaning his head forward in a conspiratorial gesture, "but I might have... or might not have, you understand... overheard the mention of muskets."

"Muskets, " Stiles repeated. He took another draw from his pipe.

"Yes sir. Could it be a shipment of muskets? And that might be what Mr. Paine has gone to negotiate?"

Stiles grunted and puffed his pipe. The serving-woman came with a steaming bowl of chicken stew, a spoon, and a rum cup. Matthew asked for another cup of apple beer.

"I was wondering, " Matthew said after a space of time during which Stiles put aside his pipe and began eating the stew, "if Mr. Bidwell might fear an Indian attack."

"No, not that. He would have told me if he feared the redskins were wearing paint."

"There are Indians near Fount Royal, I presume?"

"Near. Far. Somewhere out there. I've seen their signs, but I've never seen a redskin."

"They're not of a warlike nature, then?"

"Hard to say what kind of nature they are." Stiles paused to take a drink of rum. "If you mean, do I think they'd attack us? No. If you mean, would I go in with a band of men and attack them? No. Not even if I knew where they were, which I don't."

"But they do know where we are?"

Stiles laughed. "Ha! That's a good one, young man! As I said, I've never seen a redskin in these woods, but I have seen them before, further north. They walk on leaves as birds fly on air. They disappear into the earth while you're looking in their direction, and come up again at your back. Oh yes. They know everything about us. They watch us with great interest, I'm sure, but we would never see them unless they wanted to be seen. And they definitely do not."

"Then in your opinion a traveller, say, need not fear being scalped by them?"

"I myself don't fear it, " Stiles said. He spooned stew into his mouth. "Then again, I always carry a musket and a knife and I always know what direction to run. Neither would I go out there alone. It's not the redskins I would fear most, but the wild beasts."

Matthew's apple beer was delivered. He drank some and waited a time before he made his next move. "If not Indians, then, " he said thoughtfully, "there might be another reason for a possible shipment of muskets."

"And what would that be?"

"Well... Mrs. Nettles and I were engaged in conversation, and she made mention of a slave who escaped last year. He and his woman. Morganthus Crispin, I think the name was."

"Yes. Crispin. I recall that incident."

"They tried to reach the Florida country, I understand?"

"Yes. And were killed and half-eaten before they got two leagues from town."

"Hm, " Matthew said. So it was true, after all. "Well, " he went on, "I wonder if possibly... just possibly, mind you... Mr. Bid-well might be concerned that other slaves could follow Crispin's example, and that he wishes the muskets as a show of... shall we say... keeping his valuables in their place. Especially when he brings in younger and stronger slaves to drain the swamp." He took a stiff drink and then set the cup down. "I'm curious about this, Mr. Stiles. In your opinion, could anyone... a slave, I mean... actually reach the Florida country?"

"Two of them almost did, " Stiles answered, and Matthew sat very still. "It was during Fount Royal's first year. Two slaves—a brother and sister—escaped, and I was sent after them with three other men. We tracked them to near a half-dozen leagues of the Spanish territory. I suppose the only reason we found them is that they lit a signal fire. The brother had fallen in a gully and broken his ankle."

"And they were brought back here?"

"Yes. Bidwell held them in irons and immediately arranged lor them to be shipped north and sold. It wouldn't do for any slave to be able to describe the territory or draw a map." Stiles relit his pipe with a second match from the ivory matchbox. "Tell me this, if you are able, " he said as he drew flame into the pipe's bowl. "When Mrs. Nettles mentioned this to you, in what context was it? I mean to ask, have you seen any indication that Bid-well is concerned about the slaves?"

Matthew again took a few seconds to formulate a reply. "Mr. Bidwell did express some concern that I not go down into the quarters. The impression I got was that he felt it might be... uh... detrimental to my health."

"I wouldn't care to go down there in any case, " Stiles said, his eyes narrowing. "But it seems to me he might be in fear of an uprising. Such a thing has happened before, in other towns. Little wonder he'd wish to keep such fears a secret! Coming on the heels of the witch, an uprising would surely destroy Fount Royal!"

"My thoughts exactly, " Matthew agreed. "Which is why it's best not spoken to anyone."

"Of course not! I wouldn't care to be blamed for starting a panic."

"And neither would I. My curiosity again, sir... and pardon me for not knowing these things an experienced hunter as yourself knows... but I would think you might lose your way on such a long journey as from here to the Florida country. How far exactly is it?"

"I judge it to be a hundred and forty-seven miles, by the most direct route."

"The most direct route?" Matthew asked. He took another drink. "I am still amazed, though, sir. You must have an uncanny sense of direction."

"I pride myself on my woods craft." Stiles pulled from the pipe, leaned his head slightly back, and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "But I must admit I did have the benefit of a map."

"Oh, " Matthew said. "Your map."

"Not my map. Bidwell's. He bought it from a dealer in Charles Town. It's marked in French by the original explorer—that's how old it is—-but I've found it to be accurate."

"It so happens I read and speak French. If you have need of a translation, I'd be glad to be of service."

"You might ask Bidwell. He has the map."

"Ah, " Matthew said.

"Van Gundy, you old goat!" Stiles shouted toward the tavern-keeper, not without affection. "Let's have some more rum over here! A cup for the young man, too!"

"Oh, not for me, thank you. I think I've had my fill." Matthew stood up. "I must be on my way."

"Nonsense! Stay and enjoy the evening. Van Gundy's going to be playing his gittern again shortly."

"I hate to miss such an experience, but I have some reading to be done."

"That's what's wrong with you legalists!" Stiles said, but he was smiling. "You think too much!"

Matthew returned the smile. "Thank you for the company. I hope to see you again."

"My pleasure, sir. Oh... and thank you for the information. You can be sure I'll keep it to myself."

"I have no doubt, " Matthew said, and he made his way out of the smoke-filled place before that deadly gittern could be again unsheathed.

On his walk back to the mansion, Matthew sifted what he'd learned like a handful of rough diamonds. Indeed, with luck and fortitude, it was possible to reach the Florida country. Planning the trip—taking along enough food, matches, and the like— would be essential, and so too would be finding and studying that map. He doubted it would be in the library. Most likely Bidwell kept the map somewhere in his upstairs study.

But what was he considering? Giving up his rights as an Englishman? Venturing off to live in a foreign land? He might know French and Latin, but Spanish was not a point of strength. Even if be got Rachel out of the gaol—the first problem—and out of the i own—the second problem—and down to the Florida country— i lie third and most mind-boggling problem—then was he truly prepared never to set foot again on English earth?

Or never to see the magistrate again?

Now here was another obstacle. If indeed he surmounted the first two problems and set off with Rachel, then the realization of what Matthew had done could well lay the magistrate in his grave. He might be setting his nightbird free at the cost of killing the man who had opened his own cage from a life of grim despair.

That's what's wrong with you legalists. You think too much.

Candles and lamps were ablaze at the mansion. Obviously the festivity was still under way. Matthew entered the house and heard voices from the parlor. He was intent on unobtrusively walking past the room on his way to the stairs when someone said, "Mr. Corbett! Please join us!"

Alan Johnstone had just emerged on his cane from the dining room, along with the gray-bearded man that Matthew had assumed was the acting troupe's leader. Both men were well dressed—Johnstone certainly more so than the masker—and held goblets of wine. The schoolmaster had adorned his face with a dusting of white powder, just as he'd done the night of Matthew's and the magistrate's arrival. The men appeared fed and satisfied, indicating that dinner had just recently adjourned.

"This young man is Matthew Corbett, the magistrate's clerk, " Johnstone explained to his companion. "Mr. Corbett, this is Mr. Phillip Brightman, the founder and principal actor of the Red Bull Players."

"A pleasure!" Brightman boomed, displaying a basso voice powerful enough to wake cemetery sleepers. He shook Matthew's hand with a grip that might have tested the blacksmith's strength, but he was in fact a slim and rather unassuming-looking fellow though he did have that commanding, theatrical air about him.

"Very good to meet you." Matthew withdrew his hand, thinking that Brightman's power had been seasoned by a life of turning a gruelling wheel between the poles of the maskers' art and the necessity of food on the table. "I understand your troupe has arrived somewhat early."

"Early, yes. Our standing engagements in two other communities were... urn... unfortunately cancelled. But now we're glad to be here among such treasured friends!"

"Mr. Corbett!" Winston strolled out of the parlor, wineglass in hand. He was clean, close-shaven, relaxed and smiling, and dressed in a spotless dark blue suit. "Do join us and meet Mr. Smythe!"

Bidwell suddenly appeared behind Winston to toss in his two pence. "I'm sure Mr. Corbett has matters to attend to upstairs. We shouldn't keep him. Isn't that right, Mr. Corbett?"

"Oh, I believe he should at least step in and say hello, " Winston insisted. "Perhaps have a glass of wine."

Bidwell glowered at Matthew, but he said with no trace of rancor, "As you please, Edward, " and returned to the parlor.

"Come along, " Johnstone urged, as he limped on his cane past Matthew. "A glass of wine for your digestion."

"I'm full up with apple beer. But may I ask who Mr. Smythe is?"

"The Red Bull's new stage manager, " Brightman supplied. "Newly arrived from England, where he performed excellent service to the Saturn Cross Company and before that to James Prue's Players. I wish to hear firsthand about the witch, too. Come, come!" Before Matthew could make an excuse to leave— since he did have a matter to attend to upstairs concerning a certain French-drawn map—Brightman grasped him by the upper arm and guided him into the parlor.

"Mr. David Smythe, Mr. Matthew Corbett, " Winston said, with a gesture toward each individual in turn. "The magistrate's clerk, Mr. Smythe. He delivered the guilty decree to the witch."

"Really? Fascinating. And rather fearful too, was it not?" Smythe was the young blond-haired man Matthew had seen sitting beside Brightman on the driver's plank of the lead wagon. He had an open, friendly face, his smile revealing that he'd been blessed with a mouthful of sturdy white teeth. Matthew judged him to be around twenty-five.

"Not so fearful, " Matthew replied. "I did have the benefit of iron bars between us. And Mr. Bidwell was at my side."

"Fat lot of good I might have done!" Bidwell said mirthfully, also in an effort to take control of this conversation. "One snap from that damned woman and I would've left my boots standing empty!"

Brightman boomed a laugh. Smythe laughed also, and so did Bidwell at his own wit, but Winston and the schoolmaster merely offered polite smiles.

Matthew was stone-faced. "Gentlemen, I remain unconvinced that—" He felt a tension suddenly rise in the room, and Bidwell's laugh abruptly ended. "—that Mr. Bidwell would have been anything less than courageous, " Matthew finished, and the sigh of relief from the master of Fount Royal was almost audible.

"I neither recall meeting the woman nor her husband last year, " Brightman said. "Did they not attend our play, I wonder?"

"Likely not." Bidwell crossed the parlor to a decanter of wine and filled his own glass. "He was a rather quiet... one might say reclusive... sort, and she was surely busy fashioning her own acting skills. Uh... not to infer that your craft has anything whatsoever to do with the infernal realm."

Brightman laughed again, though not nearly so heartily. "Some would disagree with you, Mr. Bidwell! Particularly a reverend hereabouts. You know we had occasion to oust a certain Bible-thumper from our camp this afternoon."

"Yes, I heard. Reverend Jerusalem possesses a fire that unfortunately sears the righteous as well as the wicked. Not to fear, though: as soon as he applies the rite of sanctimonity to the witch's ashes, he'll be booted out of our Garden of Eden."

Oh, the wit overflowed tonight! Matthew thought. "The rite of sanctimonity?" He recalled hearing Jerusalem use that phrase when the preacher had first come to the gaol to confront his "enemy mine."

"What kind of nonsense is that?"

"Nothing you would understand, " Bidwell said, with a warning glance.

"I'm sure he would, " Johnstone countered. "The preacher plans to administer some kind of ridiculous rite over Madam Howarth's ashes to keep her spirit, phantasm, or whatever from returning to haunt Fount Royal. If you ask me, I think Jerusalem has studied Marlowe and Shakespeare at least as much as he's studied Adam and Moses!"

"Oh, you speak the names of our gods, sir!" Brightman said, with a huge smile. His smile, however, quickly faded as a more serious subject came to mind. "I do heavily regret the passing of another reverend, though. Reverend Grove was a man who saw a noble place for theatrical endeavors. I do miss seeing him this trip. David, you would have liked the man. He was of good humor, good faith, and certainly good reason. Mr. Bidwell, I'm sure your community is diminished by his absence."

"It most certainly is. But after the witch is dead—and thank God it will be soon—and our town back on an even keel, we shall endeavor to find a man of similar sterling qualities."

"I doubt you shall find a reverend who was a better player at chess!" Brightman said, smiling again. "Grove trounced me soundly on two occasions!"

"He trounced us all, " Johnstone said, with a sip of his wine. "It got to the point I refused to play him."

"He once beat me in a game that took all of five minutes, " Winston added. "Of course, with him calling out all his moves in Latin and me being a dunce at that language, I was befuddled from the opening pawn."

"Well, " Brightman said, and he lifted his wineglass. "Let me propose a toast to the memory of Reverend Grove. And also the memory of so many others who have departed your town, whether by choice or circumstance."

All but Matthew, who had no glass, participated in the toast. "I do miss seeing others I recall, " Brightman continued, sadness in his voice. "A stroll around town told me how much the witch has hurt you. There weren't nearly so many empty houses, were there? Or burned ones?"

"No, there were not, " Winston said, with either admirable pluck or stunning gall.

"Demonic doings, I gather?" Brightman asked Bidwell, who nodded. Then the thespian turned his attention to Johnstone. "And the schoolhouse burned too?"

"Yes." The schoolmaster's voice held an angry edge. "Burned to the ground before my eyes. The sorriest sight of my life. If our fire fighters had been at all trained and a great deal less lazy, the schoolhouse might have been saved."

"Let us not delve into that again, Alan." It was obvious to Matthew that Bidwell was trying to soothe a terribly sore point. "We must let it go."

"I'll not let it go!" Johnstone snapped, his eyes darting toward Bidwell. "It was a damned crime that those so-called firemen stood there and allowed that schoolhouse—my schoolhouse—to burn! After all that work put into it!"

"Yes, Alan, it was a crime, " Bidwell agreed. He stared into his glass. "But all the work was done by others, so why should you be so angry? The schoolhouse can be—and shall be—rebuilt." Brightman nervously cleared his throat, because again a tension had entered the room.

"What you mean to say, Robert, is that due to my deformity I simply stood aside while others did the labor?" Johnstone's anger was turning colder. "Is that your meaning?"

"I said... and meant... nothing of the sort."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen!" Brightman's smile was intended to return warmth to the gathering. "Let us not forget that Fount Royal faces the morning of a wondrous new day! I have no doubt the schoolhouse and all the rest of the structures shall be returned to their former glory, and that those houses vacated by past friends shall be soon inhabited by new ones." Still the chilly air lingered between Bidwell and Johnstone. Brightman looked to Smythe. "David, what was that you were telling me this afternoon? You recall, before that preacher stormed in? Mr. Bidwell, you might find this of interest!"

"Yes?" Bidwell raised his eyebrows, while Johnstone hobbled away to refill his glass.

"Oh... about the man, " Smythe said. "Yes, this was peculiar.

A man came to the camp today. He was looking about. I know it sounds very odd, but... I found something familiar about him. His walk... his bearing... something."

"And you know who it was?" Brightman asked Bidwell. "Of all people, your ratcatcher!" At the mere mention of the man, Matthew's throat seemed to clutch.

"Linch?" Bidwell frowned. "Was he over there bothering you?"

"No, not that, " Smythe said. "He seemed to be just... inspecting us, I suppose. We'd had several visitors who just strolled around the camp. But this man... well, it does sound very strange, but... I watched him for a moment or two, and then I approached him from behind. He had picked up a blue glass lantern that is used in one of our morality scenes. The way his fingers moved over the glass... the way he turned the lantern this way and that... I thought I had seen such movements before. And I also thought I knew who the man was, yet... he was dressed in filthy clothes, and he was so very changed from the last time I'd seen him, when I was perhaps... oh... sixteen or seventeen years old."

"Pardon me, " Matthew said, his throat still tight. "But who did you think Mr. Linch might have been?"

"Well, I spoke the name. I'm sure I sounded incredulous. I said: 'Mr. Lancaster?' and he turned around." Smythe put a finger to his mouth, as if determining whether to continue this tale or not.

"Yes?" Matthew prodded. "What then?"

"I... know this is absolutely ridiculous... but then again, Mr. Lancaster did have an act in the circus that involved trained rats, so when Mr. Brightman explained to me that the man was Fount Royal's ratcatcher, then... it's all very puzzling."

"Puzzling?" Johnstone had returned with his fresh glass of wine. "How so?"

"I could swear the man was Jonathan Lancaster, " Smythe said. "In fact, I would swear it. He turned toward me and looked me right in the face... and I saw his eyes. Such eyes... pale as ice... and piercing to the soul. I have seen them before. The man is Jonathan Lancaster, but..." He shook his head, his blond brows knit. "I... had not planned on mentioning this to anyone but Mr. Brightman. I intended first to locate Mr. Lancaster— your ratcatcher, I mean—and find out for myself, in private, why he has... um... sunken to such a low profession."

"My pardon, please!" Brightman said. "I didn't realize this was a personal matter!"

"Oh, that's all right." He gave Brightman a rather vexed glance. "Once a cat is out of a bag, sir, it is very difficult to put it back in again."

"The same might be said of a fox, " Matthew offered. "But tell me: did Linch—or Lancaster—speak to you? Did he seem to recognize you as well?"

"No, I saw no recognition on his part. As soon as I spoke his name, he hurried away. I was going to follow him, but... I decided he might be ashamed to be seen dressed in rags. I wished not to intrude on his privacy until I had considered if I was mistaken or not."

"Gwinett Linch has always been Gwinett Linch, from what I know, " Bidwell contended. "Who is this Jonathan Lancaster?"

"Mr. Lancaster was employed at the circus at the same time my father was its manager, " Smythe said. "I had the run of the place, and I helped where my father directed me. As I said, Mr. Lancaster had an act that involved trained rats, but he also—"

The door's bell rang with such ferocity that it must have been near pulled off its hinge. Before two seconds had passed, the door burst open and the visitor announced himself with a soul-withering shout: "How dare ye! How dare ye do me such an injury!"

"Oh my Lord!" Brightman said, his eyes wide. "The storm returns!"

Indeed the black-clad, black-tricorned whirlwind entered the room, his gaunt and wrinkled face florid with rage and the cords standing out in his neck. "I demand to know!" Exodus Jerusalem hollered, aiming his mouth at Bidwell. "Why was I not invited to thy preparations?"

"What preparations?" Bidwell fired back, his own temper in danger of explosion. "And how dare you enter my house with such rudeness!"

"If thee wisheth to speak of rudeness, we might speak of the rudeness thou hast not only shown to me, but also shown to thy God Almighty!" The last two words had been brayed so loudly the walls seemed to tremble. "It was not enough for thee to allow such sinful filth as play-actors into thy town, but then thou forceth me to abide within nostril's reach of them on the same street! God warrant it, I should have given thy town up as lost to Hell's fires that very instant! And I still wouldst, if not for the rite of just lay-ment!"

"The rite of just layment?" Bidwell now exhibited a suspicious scowl. "Hold a moment, preacher! I thought you said it was the rite of sanctimonity!"

"Oh... yes, it is also called such!" Jerusalem's voice had faltered, but already it was gathering hot wind again for another bellow. "Wouldst thou believe that so important a rite wouldst only have one name? Even God Himself is also called Jehovah! Lord above, deliver thy servant from such blind pride as we vieweth aplenty in this room!"

Matthew was not so blind as to fail to realize that Jerusalem, as was his nature, had taken center stage in the prideful parlor. Brightman and Smythe had retreated for the safety of their ears, Bidwell had backed up several paces, and even the stalwart schoolmaster had staggered back, the knuckles of his cane-gripping hand white with pressure.

Winston, however, had stood his ground. "What's the meaning of bursting in on Mr. Bidwell's private affairs?"

"Sir, in God's great kingdom there are no private affairs!" Jerusalem snapped. "It is only Satan who craveth secrecy! That is why I am so amazed and confounded by the fact that thou wouldst hide this meeting with the play-actors from mine eyes!"

"I did not hide anything from you!" Bidwell said. "Anyway, how the hell... I mean... how on earth did you find out the actors were even here?"

"I wouldst have remained unenlightened had I not ventured to the play-actors' camp—as a man who loveth peace and brotherhood—to speak with their leader. And then I learneth from some fat thespian whose saint must surely be gluttony that Mr. Brightman is here with thee! And I kneweth exactly what must be transpiring!"

"And exactly what is transpiring?" Winston asked.

"The planning, as thou well knoweth!" It was spoken with dripping sarcasm. "To cut me out of the execution day!"

"What?" Bidwell saw that Mrs. Nettles and two serving-girls had come to peer into the room, perhaps fearing violence from the wall-shaking volume. He waved them away. "Preacher, I fail to understand what you're—"

"I went to see thee, brother Brightman, " Jerusalem interrupted, addressing the other man, "for the purpose of creating an agreement. I understand that thou planneth a play after the witch hath been burned. That evening, as I hear. I mineself have intentions that very eve to deliver a message to the citizens upon the burning battleground. As an observer of debased human nature, I fully realize there are more misguided sinners who wouldst attend a pig-and-bear show than hear the word of God Almighty, no matter how compelling the speaker. Therefore I wished—as a peaceful, brotherly man—to offer up mine services to enricheth your performance. Say... a message delivered to the crowd between each scene, building to a finale that will hopefully enricheth us all?"

A stunned quiet reigned. Brightman broke it, with thunder. "This is outrageous! I don't know from where you hear your faulty information, but we're planning no play on the night of the witch's burning! Our plans are to exhibit morality scenes several nights afterward!"

"And from where do you get this information, preacher?" Winston challenged.

"From a fine woman of thy town. Madam Lucretia Vaughan came to speak with me earlier this evening. She wisheth to afford the crowd with her breads and pies, a sample of which she was most delighted to give." Matthew had to wonder if that was the only sample the woman had given the lecherous rogue.

"In fact, " Jerusalem went on, "Madam Vaughan hath created a special bread to be offered at the burning. She calleth it 'Witch Riddance Loaf. '"

"For God's justice!" Matthew said, unable to hold his silence an instant longer. "Get this fool out of here!"

"Spoken as a true demon in training!" Jerusalem retorted, with a sneering grin. "If thy magistrate knew anything of God's justice, he would have a second stake prepared for thee!"

"His magistrate... does know God's justice, sir, " came a weak but determined voice from the parlor's doorway.

Every man turned toward the sound.

And there—miraculously!—stood Isaac Temple Woodward, returned from the land of the near-dead.

"Magistrate!" Matthew exclaimed. "You shouldn't be out of bed!" He rushed to his side to offer him support, but Woodward held out a hand to ward him off while he gripped the wall with his other.

"I am sufficiently able... to be out, up, and about. Please... allow me room in which to draw a breath."

Not only had Woodward climbed out of bed and negotiated the staircase, he had also dressed in a pair of tan breeches and a fresh white shirt. His thin calves were bare, however, and he wore no shoes. His face was yet very pallid, which made the dark purple hollows beneath his eyes darker still; his scalp was also milk-pale, the age-spots upon his head a deep red in contrast. Gray grizzle covered his cheeks and chin.

"Please! Sit down, sit down!" Bidwell recovered from his shock and motioned to the chair nearest Woodward.

"Yes... I think I shall. The stairs have winded me." Woodward, with Matthew's aid, eased to the chair and sank down onto it. Matthew felt no trace of fever from the magistrate, but there was still emanating from him the sweetish-sour odor of the sickbed.

"Well, this is quite amazing!" Johnstone said. "The doctor's potion must have gotten him up!"

"I believe... you are correct, sir. A dose of that elixir... thrice a day... would surely awaken Lazarus."

"Thank God for it!" Matthew pressed his hand to Woodward's shoulder. "I would never have let you get out of bed, if I'd known you were able, but... this is wonderful!"

The magistrate put his hand on Matthew's. "My throat still pains me. My chest as well. But... any improvement is welcome." He squinted, trying to make out the faces of two men he didn't know. "I'm sorry. Have we met?" '

Bidwell made the introductions. Neither Brightman nor Smythe stepped forward to shake hands; in fact, Matthew noted, they stayed well on the other side of the room.

"Some wine, Magistrate?" Bidwell pushed a glass into Woodward's hand, whether he wanted it or not. "We are so very glad you've come out the other side of your ordeal!"

"No one more glad than I, " Woodward rasped. He sipped the wine, but couldn't taste a hint of it. Then his gaze went to the preacher, sharpening as it travelled. "In reply to your comment concerning God's justice, sir... I must say that I believe God to be the most lenient judge... in all of creation... and merciful beyond all imaginings. Because if He were not... you would have found yourself called to His courtroom on a lightning bolt by now."

Jerusalem braced himself to make some cutting reply, but he seemed to think better of it. He bowed his head. "I humbly apologize for any remark that might have caused thee distress, sir. It is not mine wish to offend the law."

"Why not?" Woodward asked, taking another tasteless drink. "You've offended... everyone else hereabouts, it seems."

"Uh... pardon, please, " Brightman spoke up, a little nervously. "David and I ought to be going. I mean no offense either, Magistrate. We both wish to hear about your experience with the witch, but... as you might well understand... the ability of a thespian to project lies in the throat. If we should... um... find difficulty, in that area, then—"

"Oh, I didn't think!" Woodward said. "Please forgive me. Of course... you don't wish to risk any health complications!"

"Exactly, sir. David, shall we go? Mr. Bidwell, thank you for a wonderful dinner and a gracious evening." Brightman was obviously in a hurry to leave, fearing that any throat affliction might doom his play-acting. Matthew was eager to know more about Linch or Lancaster or whatever his name was, but now was not the time. He decided that first thing in the morning he would seek out Smythe for the rest of the story.

"I shall join thee!" Jerusalem announced to the two men, and both of them looked further stricken. "It seems we have much to talk over and plan, does it not? Now... concerning these morality scenes. How long are they to be? I ask because I wish to keep a certain... shall we say... rhythm to the pace of my message!"

"Ahhhh, how magnificent it is... to be free from that bed!" Woodward said, as Bidwell showed his guests and the pest out. "How goes it, Mr. Winston?"

"Fine, sir. I can't tell you how gratified I am to see you doing so much better."

"Thank you. Dr. Shields should be here soon... for my third dose of the day. The stuff has... burned my tongue to a cinder, but thank God I can breathe."

"I have to say, you seemed at a dangerous point." Johnstone finished his wine and set the glass aside. "Far past a dangerous point, to be more truthful. I'm sure you had no way of knowing this, but there are some—many—who feel Madam Howarth cursed you for handing down the decree."

Bidwell entered again, and had heard the last of what Johnstone had said. "Alan, I don't think it's proper to mention such a diing!"

"No, no, it's all right." Woodward waved a reassuring hand. "I would be surprised if... people did not say such a thing. If I was cursed, it was not by the witch... but by the bad weather and my own... weak blood. But I'm going to be fine now. In a few days... I shall be as fit as I ever was."

"Hear, hear!" Winston said, and raised his glass.

"And fit to travel, too, " Woodward added. He lifted his hand and rubbed his eyes, which were still bloodshot and bleary. "This is an... incident I wish to put far behind me. What say you, Matthew?"

"The same, sir."

Johnstone cleared his throat. "I should be going myself, now. Robert, thank you for the evening. We shall... um... have to discuss the future of the schoolhouse at a later date."

"That brings something to mind!" Woodward said. "Alan... you should find this of interest. In my delirium... I had a dream of Oxford."

"Really, sir?" Johnstone wore a faint smile. "I should say many former students suffer deliriums of Oxford."

"Oh, I was there! Right there, on the sward! I was... a young man. I had places to go... and much to accomplish."

"You heard the tolling of Great Tom, I presume?"

"Certainly I did! One who hears that bell... never forgets it!" Woodward looked up at Matthew and gave him a weak smile that nevertheless had the power to rend the clerk's heart. "I shall take you to Oxford one day. I shall show you... the halls... the great rooms of learning... the wonderful smell of the place. Do you recall that, Alan?"

"The most singular aroma of my experience was that of the bitter ale at the Chequers Inn, sir. That and the dry aroma of an empty pocket, I fear."

"Yes, that too." Woodward smiled dreamily. "I smelled the grass. The chalk. The oaks... that stand along the Cherwell. I was there... I swear it. I was there as much as... any flesh and blood can be. I even found myself at the door of my social fraternity. The old door... of the Carleton Society. And there... right there before me... was the ram's head bellpull... and the brass plaque with its motto, lus omni est ius omnibus. Oh, how I recall that door... that bellpull, and the plaque." He closed his eyes for a few seconds, taking in the wondrous memory. Then he opened them again and Matthew saw that Woodward's eyes had grown moist. "Alan... your society was... what did you say it was?"

"The Ruskins, sir. An education fraternity."

"Ah. Do you recall your motto?"

"Certainly I do. It was..." He paused, gathering it from the mist. "The greatest sin is ignorance."