Speaks the Nightbird

"Sir," Matthew said, "you don't have to—"

Woodward lifted a hand. "Please hear me out. Thomas lived for ten days after he was afflicted. No, lived is not the correct word. Survived. The days and nights were of indistinguishable damnation for us all. He vomited torrents of blood. His eyes were swollen closed from crying, and he lay in filth because we had no help and ... we could not wash the sheets fast enough. On the last day ... he was seized by uncontrollable fits. So strong he grasped hold of the iron bedstead, and the bowing of his body . . . made the entire bed jump up and down . . . like some demonic toy. I remember his face, in that final hour. His face." Woodward squeezed his eyes shut, sweat glistening on his cheeks, and Matthew could barely look at him, so awful was the sight of his soul-caged grief.

"Oh, my God, his face," the magistrate rasped. His eyes opened, and Matthew saw they had gone red with the memory of such torment. "The pox . . . had consumed most of his face. At the end, he . . . hardly appeared human. As he was dying . . . being racked by those fits ... he gripped the bedstead with all his remaining strength. I saw his fingers tighten . . . tighten . . . and he looked at me." Woodward nodded, marking the moment. "He couldn't speak, but I saw him ask a question of me, as if I had been God Almighty. He asked me: Why? And to that question— that unknown, unfathomable question—I was mute. Hardly ten minutes later ... he let loose a groan, and at last he left us. I had such plans for him. Such plans. And I loved him, more than I had even known.

"His death . . . the way he died . . . could not help but taint the rest of our days," Woodward said. "Ann had always been fragile .. . now her mind was blighted. Her spirit grew dark, as did mine. She turned against me. She could no longer bear to live in that house, and she began to suffer violent rages. I think . . . she was so frustrated ... so angry against God . . . that she was reduced to the impulses of an animal." He paused and swallowed. "Took to drink. Took to being seen in unsavory places . . . with unsavory people. I reached out for her, tried to get her into church, but that made things worse. I believe . . . she needed someone to hate on this earth as much as she hated the Lord. Finally, she left the house. I was told that Ann had been seen drunk in a certain neighborhood, in the company of a man of ill repute. My career began to suffer. It was rumored that I was a drunk as well—which was sometimes true—and that I was open to bribes. Which was never true. A convenient lie for some persons who wished me harm. My debts came due, as debts will when a man is down. I sold most of what I owned. The house . . . the garden, the fountain, the bed upon which Thomas had died ... all of it was repugnant to me, anyway."

"But you kept the waistcoat," Matthew said.

"Yes. Because ... I don't know why. Or perhaps I do. It was one item of my past. . . that remained clean and unblemished. It was ... a breath of yesterday, when all the world was fragrant."

"I'm sorry," Matthew said. "I had no idea."

"Well, why would you? Over time . . . the cases I heard grew fewer. I must say much of my disgrace was my fault, as I allowed Brother Rum to accompany me to the bench. I decided ... as my future appeared to be dim in London, I might try my torch in the colonies. But before I left ... I tried to find Ann. I heard she'd fallen in with other women of her class who had . . . experienced the deaths of their husbands by the plague, and who had become . . . rumpots and flesh merchants by necessity. By this time, she was completely gone to me. Gone to herself, as well." He gave a labored sigh. "I think that's what she wished. To lose her identity, and thus the past." He stared past Matthew, into the incalculable distance. "I believe I saw her. In a crowd at the harbor. I wasn't sure. I didn't care to be sure. I walked away Later I boarded a ship . . . and hence to a new world."

Woodward lay his head back and closed his eyes again. He swallowed pus and tried to clear his throat, to no avail. His voice was all but gone now, yet he forced himself on because he feared so for Matthew's soul and wished him to understand these things. "Imagine my surprise ... to find that Manhattan was not paved with gold. I found that the New World ... is no different from the Old. There are the same passions and crimes. The same sins and scoundrels. Only here . . . there's so much more opportunity to sin . . . and so much more space in which to do it. God only knows what the next century will bring."

"I spoke with Goode about that," Matthew said, offering a trace of a smile. "His wife believes the world will be destroyed by fire, while he believes it might be—as he put it—a 'century of wonders.'"

Woodward opened his bloodshot eyes. "I don't know . . . but I do believe it will be a wonder if Fount Royal reaches the new century. This town will surely die if Rachel Howarth is not executed."

Matthew's smile vanished. "Is the future of this settlement your basis for putting a woman to death, sir?"

"Of course not. Not entirely, I mean. But the evidence is there . . . the witnesses . . . the poppets . . . her own blasphemous demeanor. Not to mention her grip on you."

"What grip? I fail to see how my interest in the truth can be construed as—"

"Cease and desist," Woodward said. "Please. The more you go on, the less you convince anyone . . . least of all me. I daresay it is not only Jerusalem who has designs on the woman . . . though I believe it's actually she who has designs on you."

Matthew shook his head. "You're absolutely wrong."

"I have heard enough cases. To know how blinding is the fire of temptation. And how hot it burns." Woodward massaged his throat once more. "My voice is near its end, but this I have to tell you," he whispered. "There was once a merchant. An eager, industrious young man. His business . . . required him to rise early and thus to bed early. But one evening ... he stayed awake past his usual hour . . . and in so doing he heard the wondrous singing of something he'd never heard before: a nightbird. The next night, he managed to stay awake later ... to hear more of the bird's song. And the following night. He became so ... so intoxicated with the nightbird's voice that he thought only of it during the day. Came the time when he spent all the night listening to that song. Could not carry out his business during the sunlit hours. Soon he turned his back altogether on the day, and gave himself over to the nightbird's beautiful voice . . . much to the sad end of his career, his health . . . eventually his life."

"A fine parable," Matthew said curtly. "Is there a point to it?"

"You know its point. A parable, yes, but there's great truth and warning in it." He gave Matthew a piercing stare. "It is not enough to love the nightbird's song. One must also love the nightbird. And . . . one must eventually fall in love with the night itself."

"You mistake my motives. I am simply interested in—"

"Helping her," Woodward interrupted. "Finding the truth. Being of service. However you choose to phrase it . . . Rachel Howarth is your nightbird, Matthew. I'd be no guardian if I saw you in danger of being consumed by the darkness and failed to warn you."

"Consumed by the darkness?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "I think that's an overstatement, sir."

"I think it's an understatement." Woodward gazed up at the ceiling, his strength almost expired. He felt as if his body were a cumbersome clay jar being baked over a fire, his true self trapped within it and yearning for a breath of clean, cool air. "That woman has entranced you, for her own purposes. She wants nothing more of you . . . than to help her escape the stake . . . which would be a sin that would forever mark you in the eyes of God."

Matthew stood up, unwilling to listen to such nonsense. It occurred to him to stalk out of the room, but he did not because he knew the magistrate was sincere and also that he would regret such rashness. "Sir? May I ask you a question, and request that you think hard on it before you answer?"

A nod gave him permission.

"Do you honestly—with all your heart and soul—believe that Rachel is a witch?"

"Your question ... is weighted on the side of emotion," Woodward answered. "I have responsibility to uphold and carry out the law. The evidence tells me she is a witch . . . therefore I must apply the law in its strictest measure."

"Put aside the robe for one moment, and then reply."

"I am satisfied," came the firm response. "Yes, there are missing details. Yes, there are questions I would have answered, and more witnesses interviewed. But ... I must proceed on what I have. And what I have . . . obvious to both of us ... is testimony and physical evidence any judge would rule sufficient to burn her. She knows it. She must find a way to escape . . . and that involves you."

"I'd think Satan would free her, if she were really his servant."

"Servants are cheap," Woodward said. "I think ... it suits Satan's purpose to stand aside and let his nightbird speak."

Matthew started to parry the thrust, but he realized it was no use. They had come to an impasse, and beyond it they could not travel together.

"I will continue to read through the documents," the magistrate offered. "I would not wish to present my decree with any undue haste."

"May I read what you've already gone through?"

"As you wish." Woodward picked up the sheaf of papers and put them into his clerk's hands. "Beware, though ... no further words on this matter. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," Matthew said, though the agreement had a bitter taste.

"And you'll not return to see Madam Howarth?"

This was a more difficult point. Matthew didn't have to ponder it. "I'm sorry, but I can't promise that."

The magistrate pursed his lips and released a forlorn exhalation. He too, however, had realized the limits of Matthew's obedience. "Your choice," he whispered. "I pray to God it is a wise one." Then he motioned toward the door. "Go. I need my rest."

"Yes, sir." Matthew stared at Woodward for a moment, studying the angles and planes of the man's face.

"What is it?" Woodward asked.

"I have to ask this, sir. Did you come to the almshouse in search of a clerk, or a replacement for your son?"

"My son . . . could never be replaced."

"I'm aware of that. But you and I both know you might have secured an experienced clerk through a legal office. I had to ask, that's all." He turned and went to the door.

"Matthew?" Woodward pushed himself up on his pillows, his face bleached with pain. "I don't know ... if I came looking for a son or not. Perhaps I did. But I do know I wanted to shape someone. I wanted to . . . protect someone ... to keep him clean, from this filthy world. Do you understand?"

"I do," Matthew replied. "And I wish to thank you for your concern on my behalf. If you hadn't removed me from that place, I dread to think what might have become of me."

Woodward eased himself back down. "The whole world is before you. You have a bright future. Please . . . beware those who would destroy it, I beg you."

Matthew left the room with the sheaf of papers under his arm, and in his own room he lit a candle, washed his face with cool water, and then opened the shutters. The light was almost gone, but he looked out across the slaves' quarters toward the watchman's tower and the swamp beyond. It seemed to him now that one might wander into a morass at any time, anywhere, without warning. There were no easy answers to any question in this world, and it seemed that year after year the questions grew more complicated.

He did believe that the magistrate had entered the almshouse searching for a son. How it must agonize Woodward now, to think he might lose another one to the corruption of circumstance. But as much as Matthew felt for the magistrate, he would not—could not-—turn away from Rachel. He might be a substitute for a son, yes . . . but he was also a man, and he must do what he thought to be the correct thing.

Which meant fighting to prove her innocence, right up to the moment of her execution.

Nightbird or not, she had indeed spoken to him. He heard her even now, suffering in the darkness of her cage. What was he going to do tomorrow, when the magistrate asked him to prepare the decree of death and sign it as a witness beneath Woodward's seal?

He set the candle down and reclined on his bed—carefully, as the stripes on his back were hot. Then he began reading the court documents in the hope that something in them would lead him to a fact that had been overlooked, and that single fact might be the key to Rachel's freedom.

But he feared it would not be there.

Time was very short now. If Satan indeed dwelled in Fount Royal, Matthew presumed he must be grinning. Or if not Satan...then the grin belonged to someone else. A true fox, as Mrs. Nettles had said.

But even the most crafty fox left a trace of its passage, Matthew believed. It was up to him to find it, with all the bloodhound instincts in his possession. If they failed him, Rachel was lost, and he himself was damned to a fate he considered worse than the flames of Hell: the struggle with unanswerable questions that would haunt him to his grave.

twenty-three

SATAN SAID, "I have a gift for thee." Matthew could not speak or move; his mouth was frozen shut, his body rigid. He saw, however, in the leaping crimson firelight that Satan indeed wore a black cloak with six gold buttons arranged three by three. A hood covered the fiend's head, and where his face should have been was only deeper darkness.

"A gift," Satan repeated, in a voice that sounded much like that of Exodus Jerusalem. He opened his cloak with long-fingered, bloodless hands, exposing the gold-striped waistcoat he wore beneath it. Then from the confines of his waistcoat he produced a wet and dripping turtle, squirming in its dark green shell, which he held out toward Matthew.

Satan's hands gripped opposite edges of the shell and with no apparent effort tore the reptile open. The carapace cracked like a musket shot. The slow and horrid twisting of those infernal hands ripped the turtle's exposed body in two, and Matthew saw the creature's mouth gape wide with agony. Then its gory internals oozed and slithered out, their colors the red, white, and blue of the British flag.

Gold and silver coins began to fall from the mass of ruined vitals, like money spilling from the bottom of a razor-sliced purse. Satan winnowed his left hand into the guts and showed Matthew his bloody palm: in it was a single gold piece, fouled with carnage.

"This one belongs to thee, " Satan said. He drifted forward, his left arm outstretched and the coin between forefinger and thumb. Matthew was unable to retreat, as if his legs and arms were bound. Then Satan was upon him like a dark bird of prey, and placed the coin's edge against Matthew's lips.

Slowly, inexorably, the gold piece was pushed into Matthew's mouth. He felt his eyes widen and tasted bitter blood. It was then that he saw what was aflame, just behind the master of Pandemonium: a burning stake, and lashed to it was a fire-consumed figure that writhed in untold damnations of the flesh.

Matthew heard himself moan. The coin was in his throat. He was choking on it. And then from within the hood Satan's face began to emerge, within inches of Matthew's own. Bared fangs came out, set in a jaw of exposed bone. A skeletal muzzle followed, and empty canine eyesockets. The dog's skull pressed against Matthew's face and exhaled a hot breath that carried all the mephitic abomination of the charnel house.

He awakened with a further moan. A few heartbeats passed before he realized where he was, and that his audience with the Devil had been an exceptionally vivid dream. He thought he could still taste the blood, but then he recognized it as the strongly peppered sausage Bidwell had offered him at dinner. In fact, the sausage was most likely responsible for the entire production. His heartbeat was still rapid, and beads of sweat had collected on his face and chest. The first order of business was banishing this darkness. He found the matchholder and flint on his bedside table, struck a flame—a match never flared on the first strike when one really needed it—and lit the lantern he'd extinguished upon retiring. Then he got out of bed and went to the dresser, where he poured himself a cup from the water pitcher and drank it down, followed by a second.

"Whew!" Matthew said, in an exclamation of relief. Still, he felt his senses were yet affected by the nightmare, as the walls of his room seemed to be closing in on him. He crossed to the window, opened the shutters wide, and drew a long, deep breath to clear his head of the confusion.

But for the distant barking of a single dog, the night was quiet. No lanterns burned in the slave quarters. Matthew saw a flash of lightning over the sea, though the storm looked to be very far away. And then he saw something that gladdened his soul: a glimpse of stars through the slow-moving clouds. Dare he hope that the grim weather was taking its leave? This strange May with its chills and swelters had been enough to drain the energy of the strongest man, and perhaps with the coming of sustained sunlight June might be a kinder month for Fount Royal.

Then again, what did it matter to him? He and the magistrate would very soon be departing this town, never to return. And good riddance to it and Bidwell, Matthew thought. At dinner, the man had been contentious in his remarks concerning Rachel, such as—between bites of that hellish sausage—"Clerk, if you're growing so fond of the witch, I'm sure it might be arranged for you to hold her hand while she burns!"

Matthew had answered that and other goads with silence, and after a while Bidwell had ceased his needling and concentrated on stuffing his face. Matthew would rather have taken his dinner upstairs with the magistrate, who forced down his distressed throat a bowlful of pap and some hot tea. Then Dr. Shields had arrived again, and the lancet and bleeding bowl had seen more work. Matthew had left Woodward's room halfway through the grisly procedure, his stomach in knots, and he reckoned that sight of the dripping crimson fluid had also counted toward his nightmare.

He watched the stars disappear and then reappear again, as the clouds continued their advance. He had read Buckner's testimony in the documents Woodward had already finished, but had found nothing there that might lead him toward his fox; tomorrow he would read the testimonies of Garrick and Violet Adams after the magistrate was done, but by then Woodward would be close to dictating his decree.

The particulars of his nightmare haunted him: Satan in the black cloak with six gold buttons... nothing but darkness where the face should have been... the fresh-caught turtle... the sinewy hands breaking open the green shell, and bloody coins spilling out...

The coins, Matthew thought. Gold and silver pieces. He saw in his mind's eye the contents of the turtle bellies that Goode had shown him. Spanish coins swallowed by turtles. Where had they come from? How was it that an Indian and turtles shared possession of such lucre?

His theory about the Spanish spy was still alive, even though it had been severely wounded by Paine's revelations. However, the fact remained that Shawcombe had gotten the gold piece from a redskin, and that the Indian must've received it from a Spaniard. But what Spaniard had fed gold and silver coins to turtles?

Matthew had taken his fill of the night air, though he was in no hurry to return to bed. He watched the dance of the stars for a moment longer, and then he grasped hold of one of the shutters in preparation of closing it.

Before he did, he saw an orange glare of light that reminded him much too uncomfortably of the burning stake in his dream. It was not a light whose source was visible, but rather the reflection of light originating from a westerly direction. Perhaps ten seconds passed, and then there came a man's distant shout affirming what Matthew had already suspected: "Fire! Fire!"

The call was picked up and echoed by a second man. Directly Matthew heard a door slam open and knew it must be Bidwell, roused from sleep. The alarm bells began to ring, more people were shouting, and the dogs of Fount Royal were barking up a fury. Matthew hurriedly dressed in the clothes he'd worn yesterday, took the lantern to illume his way down the stairs, and went outside. There he saw the red and orange flames attacking a structure on Truth Street, terribly near to the gaol.

In fact, the fire was so close to the gaol that Matthew was struck with dread like a blow to the belly. If the gaol was aflame, and Rachel was trapped in her cell...

He started running toward Truth Street, his face tight with fear. He passed the spring, where one horse-drawn wagon was pulling away with a load of water barrels while a second had just arrived. "What's burnin?" a woman yelled at him as he went by a house, but he dared not answer. A score of citizens were converging onto the scene, some of them still wearing their night-clothes. He beat the water-wagon to its destination, and was keenly gratified to find that the fire was not burning down the gaol but was instead destroying the schoolhouse.

It was a hot conflagration and was working with great speed. There was Bidwell, wearing a powdered wig but clad in a blue silk night-robe and slippers, hollering at the onlookers to make way for the approaching wagon. The horses got through, and the six firemen aboard the wagon jumped down and began to haul the barrels off. One of them scooped a bucket into the water and ran forward to dash the flames, but—as in the case of the previous fire Matthew had witnessed—it was clear to all that the schoolhouse was doomed.

"Get that fire out! Hurry, all of you!" came a shout that was part command and part plea. Matthew saw the schoolmaster, bareheaded and wearing a long dark green robe with yellow trim. Johnstone was standing perilously close to the roaring blaze, leaning on his cane with one hand and motioning the firemen on with the other, sparks flying around him like red wasps and his face contorted with urgency. "Hurry, I beg of you, hurry!"

"Alan, stand back!" Bidwell told him. "You're in danger there!" A man grasped Johnstone's arm and attempted to pull him away from the flames, but the schoolmaster's mouth twisted with anger and he wrenched his arm free.

"Damn it!" Johnstone bellowed at the firemen, who were obviously doing their best to throw their buckets of water but were being hindered by the sheer cruelty of the heat. "Put that fire out, you idiots! Can't you move any quicker?"

Unfortunately they could not, and all but the schoolmaster seemed to realize the futility of the battle. Even Bidwell simply stood with his hands on his hips and made no effort to bully the firefighters to a frenzied pace.

As the schoolhouse was a small structure and the fire was so eager, Matthew doubted that sixty firemen with sixty buckets could have saved it. The second wagon arrived, bringing three additional men. Several more stalwarts from the crowd stepped forward to help, but it was a matter not of enough hands and hearts but of enough buckets and time.

"Damn it!" Johnstone had ceased his pleading now, and had become visibly enraged. He hobbled back and forth, occasionally aiming a shout of disgust or derision at the ineffective firemen, then cursing the blaze itself. Fire had begun to chew through the schoolhouse's roof. In another few moments Johnstone's raving stopped; he seemed to accept that the fight was truly lost—lost, even, before it had begun—and so he retreated from the flames and smoke. The firemen continued to work, but at this point it was more to justify their presence than anything else. Matthew watched Johnstone, who in turn watched the fire with glazed eyes, his shoulders slumped in an attitude of defeat.

And then Matthew happened to turn his head a few more degrees to the right and his heart rose to his throat. There not ten feet away stood Seth Hazelton. The blacksmith, who still wore a bandage bound to his injured face, was attentive to the spectacle of the flames and thus hadn't seen his antagonist. Matthew doubted if Hazelton was aware of very much anyway, as the man held a brown clay jug at his side and took a long swig from it as Matthew observed him. Hazelton's slow blink and slack-jawed countenance spoke as to the contents of that jug, and his dirty shirt and breeches proclaimed that Hazelton was definitely more interested in wine than water.

Matthew carefully stepped backward a few paces, putting two other onlookers between them just in case the blacksmith might glance around. The thought—an evil thought, but compelling just the same—came to him that now would be an excellent time to search Hazelton's barn. What with the man here at the fire, and weak from strong drink as well...

No, no! Matthew told himself. That barn—and whatever was hidden in it—had caused him trouble enough! Hang it, and let it go!

But Matthew knew his own nature. He knew he might present every reason in the world not to go to the blacksmith's barn and search for the elusive burlap sack, up to and including further lashings. However, his single-minded desire to know—the quality that made him, in the magistrate's opinion, "drunk beyond all reason"—was already at work in him. He had a lamp and the opportunity. If ever he was to find that well-guarded bag, now was the moment. Dare he try it? Or should he listen to that small voice of warning and chalk his back-stripes up as a lesson learned?

Matthew turned and walked briskly away from the fire. One backward glance showed him that Hazelton had never noted his presence, but was again indulging in a taste from the jug. Matthew's jury was still in deliberation concerning his future actions. He knew what Woodward would say, and he knew what Bidwell would say. Then again, neither of them doubted Rachel's guilt. If whatever Hazelton was hiding had something to do with her case...

He was aware that this was the same reasoning that had lured him into trying to open the grainsack to begin with. Yet it was a valid reasoning, in light of the circumstances. So what was the decision to be?

As he reached the conjunction of streets, his scale swung in the direction that Matthew had known it would. He looked over his shoulder, making sure that the blacksmith was not coming up from behind, and then he held the lantern before him and broke into a run toward Hazelton's barn.

When Matthew reached the barn, he lifted the locking timber and pulled the door open just enough for him to squeeze through. The two horses within rumbled uneasily at his presence as he followed the glow of his lantern. He went directly to the area where he remembered finding the sack, put the lamp down on the ground, and then started searching through the straw. Nothing there but straw and more straw. Of course Hazelton had moved the sack, had dragged it to some other location either inside the barn or perhaps inside his house. Matthew stood up, went to another pile of straw on his right, and searched there, but again there was nothing. He continued his explorations to the very back of the barn, where the straw was piled up in copious mounds along with an ample supply of horse apples. Matthew thrust his hands into the malodorous piles, his fingers questing for the rough burlap without success.

At last he realized it was time to go, as he'd already been here longer than was sensible. The sack, if indeed it remained in the straw, was not to be found this night. So much for his opportunity of discovery!

He stood up from his knees, picked up the lantern, and started for the door. As he reached it, something—an instinct of caution perhaps, or a stirring of the hairs on the back of his neck—made him pause to blow down the lantern's chimney and extinguish the candle since he no longer needed the incriminating light.

Which turned out to be a blessing of fortune, because as Matthew prepared to leave the barn he saw a staggering figure approaching, so close he feared Hazelton would see him, roar with rage, and attack him with the jug. Matthew hung in the doorway, not knowing whether to run for it or retreat. He had only a few seconds to make his decision. Hazelton was coming right at him, the blacksmith's head lowered and his legs loose at the knees.

Matthew retreated. He went all the way to the rear of the barn, where he sprawled flat and frantically dug both himself and the lantern into a mound of straw. But before he could do half a good job, the door was pulled open wider and there entered Hazelton's hulking dark figure.

"Who's in here?" Hazelton growled drunkenly. "Damn your eyes, I'll kill you!" Matthew stopped his digging and lay very still, the breath catching in his lungs. "I know you're in here! I closed that damn door!" Matthew dared not move, though a piece of straw was fiercely tickling his upper lip.

"I closed it!" Hazelton said. "I know I did!" He lifted the jug and Matthew heard him gulp a swallow. Then he wiped his mouth with his sleeve and said, "I did close it, didn't I, Lucy?"

Matthew realized he was addressing one of the horses. "I think I did. John Shitass, I think I'm drunk too!" He gave a harsh laugh. "Drunk as a damned lord, that's what I am! What d'ya think of that, Lucy?" He staggered toward one of the horses in the dark, and Matthew heard him patting the animal's hindquarters.

"My sweet girl. Love you, yes I do."

The noise of Hazelton's hand on horseflesh ceased. The blacksmith was silent, possibly listening for any sound of an intruder hiding in the bam. "Anybody in here?" he asked, but the tone of his voice was uncertain. "If you're here, you'd best get out 'fore I take a fuckin' axe to you!" Hazelton staggered back into Matthew's field of vision and stood at the center of the barn, his head cocked to one side and the jug hanging loosely. "I'll let you go!" he announced. "Go on, get out!"

Matthew was tempted, but he feared that even drunk and unsteady the blacksmith would seize him before he reached the door. Better to just lie right here and wait for the man to leave.

Hazelton said nothing and did not move for what seemed a full minute. Finally the blacksmith lifted the jug to his lips and drank, and then upon reaching the bottom he reared back and flung the jug against the wall nearly square above Matthew's head. The jug whacked into the boards and fell, broken into five or six pieces, and the startled horses whinnied and jumped in their stalls.

"The hell with it!" Hazelton shouted. He turned around and made his way out of the barn, leaving the door open.

Now Matthew was faced with a dangerous choice: should he get out while he could, risking the fact that Hazelton might be waiting for him out there just beyond the doorway, or should he lie just as he was? He decided it was best to remain in his prone position for a while longer, and indeed he took the opportunity to bury himself more completely in the straw.

Within a minute or two, Hazelton returned carrying a lighted lantern, though the glass was so dirty it hardly counted as illumination. The lantern was not so fearsome to Matthew as the short-handled hatchet Hazelton gripped in his right hand.

Matthew took a deep breath and let it out, trying to flatten himself even further under his covering of straw and horse apples. Hazelton started staggering around the barn, probing with the dim light, the hatchet held ready for a brain-cleaving blow. He gave the nearest strawpile a kick that might have broken Matthew's ribs. Then, muttering and cursing, Hazelton stomped the straw for good measure. He paused and lifted the lantern. Through the mask of hay that covered his face, Matthew saw the blacksmith's eyes glitter in the foul light and knew Hazelton was looking directly at his hiding place.

Don't move! Matthew cautioned himself. For God's sake, be still!

And the sake of his own skull, he might have added.

Hazelton came toward Matthew's refuge, his heavy boots crushing down. Matthew realized with a start of terror that the man was going to step on him momentarily, and he braced himself to burst out of the straw. If he came up hollering and shrieking, he reasoned he might scare Hazelton into a retreat or at least might cause him to miss with the first swing of the hatchet.

He was ready. Two more steps, and the blacksmith would be upon him.

Then: crack!

Hazelton stopped his advance, the straw up around his knees. He reached down with his free hand, searching. Matthew knew what the noise had been. The lantern's glass had broken, the lantern lying perhaps eight inches from the fingertips of Matthew's right hand. Reflexively, Matthew closed his hand into a fist.

The blacksmith discovered what he'd stepped on. He held the lamp by its handle, lifting it up for inspection. There was a long, dreadful silence. Matthew clenched his teeth and waited, his endurance stretched to its boundary.

At last Hazelton grunted. "Lucy, I found that damn lantern!" he said. "Was a good one, too! Hell's sufferin' bells!" He tossed it aside with a contemptuous gesture, and Matthew realized the man thought in his tipsied state that it was a lamp he had previously misplaced. If he'd been coherent enough to touch the pieces of broken glass, Hazelton might have found they were still warm. But the blacksmith thereafter turned and crunched back through the straw to the barn's bare earth, leaving Matthew to contemplate how near he'd come to disaster.

But—as was said—a miss was as good as a mile. Matthew began breathing easier, though he would not take a full breath until Hazelton had gone. Then another thought struck him, and it might well have been a hatchet to the head: if Hazelton went out and locked the door, he'd be trapped in here. It might be sunrise or later before Hazelton came to the barn again, and then Matthew would be forced to face him anyway! Better run for it while he was able, Matthew decided. But there was the problem of the straw. That which protected him would also hinder his flight.

Now, however, his attention was drawn to the blacksmith once more. Hazelton had hung the lantern up on a wallpeg beside the far stall, and he was speaking to the horse he seemed to favor. "My fine Lucy!" he said, his voice slurred. "My fine, beautiful girl! You love me, don't you? Yes, I know you do!" The blacksmith began to murmur and whisper to his horse, and though Matthew couldn't hear the words he was beginning to think this affection was rather more than that of a man for his mount.

Hazelton came back into sight. He thunked the hatchet's blade into the wall next to the door, and then he pulled the door shut. When he turned again, moisture glistened on his face; and his eyes—directed toward Lucy—seemed to have sunken into dark purple hollows.

"My good lady, " Hazelton said, with a smile that could only be described as lecherous. A cold chill crept up Matthew's spine. He had an inkling now of what the blacksmith intended to do.

Hazelton went into Lucy's stall. "Good Lucy, " he said. "My good and lovely Lucy. Come on! Easy, easy!"

Carefully, Matthew lifted his head to follow the blacksmith's movements. The light was dim and his view was restricted, but he could make out Hazelton turning the horse around in her stall so her hindquarters faced the door. Then Hazelton, still speaking " quietly though drunkenly to Lucy, eased her forward and guided her head and neck into a wooden collar-like apparatus that was meant to hold horses still as they were being shod. He latched the collar shut, and thus the horse was securely held. "Good girl, " he said. "That's my lovely lady!" He went to a corner of the stall and began to dig into a pile of hay provided for Lucy to eat. Matthew saw him reach down for something and pull it out. Whether it was the grainsack or not, Matthew couldn't tell, but he presumed it was at least what might have been secreted inside the sack.

Hazelton came out of the stall carrying what appeared to be an elaborate harness made out of smoothed cow's hide. The blacksmith staggered and almost fell under its bulk, but it seemed that his fevered intent had given him strength. The harness had iron rings attached to both ends: the two circles Matthew had felt through the burlap. Hazelton fixed one of the rings around a peg on the wall, and the second ring was fixed to a peg on a nearby beam so that the harness was stretched to its full width at the entrance to Lucy's stall.

Matthew realized what Hazelton had devised. He recalled Gwinett Linch saying about the smithy: He's an inventor, once he puts his mind to a task. It was not Hazelton's mind, however, that was about to be put to work.

At the center of the harness-like creation was a seat formed of leather lattice. The pegs had been placed so the iron rings could stretch the harness and lift the seat up until whoever sat in it would be several feet off the ground and positioned just under Lucy's tail.

"Good Lucy, " Hazelton crooned, as he dropped his breeches and pulled them off over his boots. "My good and beautiful girl." His bum naked and his spike raised, Hazelton brought over a small barrel that appeared to be empty, from the ease with which he handled it. He stepped up onto the barrel, swung his behind into the leather seat and lifted the horse's tail, which had begun flopping back and forth in what might have been eager anticipation.

"Ahhhhh!" Hazelton had eased his member into Lucy's channel. "There's a sweet girl!" His fleshy hips began to buck back and forth, his eyes closed and his face florid.

Matthew remembered something Mrs. Nettles had said, concerning the blacksmith's deceased wife: I happ'n to know that he treated Sophie like a three-legged horse 'fore she died. It was very clear, from the noises of passion he was making, that Hazelton much preferred horses of the four-legged variety.

Matthew also knew now why Hazelton had so desired this apparatus of strange pleasure not to be discovered. In most of the colonies the sodomizing of animals was punishable by hanging; in a few, it was punishable by being drawn and quartered. It was a rare crime, but quite morally heinous. In fact, two years ago Woodward had sentenced to hanging a laborer who had committed buggery with a chicken, a pig, and a mare. By law, the animals were also put to death and buried in the same grave with their human offender.

Matthew ceased watching this loathsome spectacle and stared instead at the ground beneath him. He could not, however, voluntarily cease from hearing Hazelton's exhortations of passion for his equine paramour.

At last—an interminable time—the barnyard lothario groaned and shuddered, indicating the climax of his copulation. Lucy, too, gave a snort but hers seemed to be more relief that her stud was done. Hazelton lay forward against the horse's hind and began to speak to Lucy with such lover's familiarity that Matthew blushed to the roots of his hair. Such speech would be indecent between a man and his maid, but was absolutely shameless between a man and his mare. Obviously, the blacksmith had banged one too many horseshoes over a red-hot forge.

Hazelton didn't try to remove himself from the harness. His voice was becoming quieter and more slurred. Shortly thereafter, he stopped speaking entirely and began to offer a snore and whistle to his object of affection.

Just as Matthew had recognized an opportunity to enter the barn, now he recognized an opportunity to depart it. He began to slowly push himself out of the straw, mindful that he not suffer a cut from the lantern's broken glass. Hazelton's snoring continued at its regularity and volume, and Lucy seemed content to stand there with her master in repose against her hindquarters. Matthew eased up to a crouch, and then to a standing position. It occurred to him that even if Hazelton awakened and saw him, he couldn't free himself at once from the harness and would be quite reluctant to give chase. But Matthew wasn't above giving Hazelton something to think about, so he picked up the man's dirty breeches and took them with him when he walked unhurriedly to the door, pushed it open, and left the site of such immoral crime. In this case, he pitied not Hazelton but poor Lucy.

Matthew saw that the flames over on Truth Street had died down. He reckoned he'd entered the barn an hour or so ago, and thus most of the schoolhouse had by now been consumed. There would be much conjecture tomorrow about Satan's fiery hand. Matthew didn't doubt that daylight would see another wagon or two leaving Fount Royal.

He laid Hazelton's breeches out in the middle of Industry Street, after which he was glad to rinse his hands in a nearby horse trough. Then he set off on the walk to Bidwell's mansion, his curiosity concerning the hidden grainsack well and truly quenched.

As the hour was so late and the excitement of the fire worn off, the streets were deserted. Matthew saw a couple of houses where the lanterns were still lit—probably illuminating talk between husband and wife of when to quit the Satan-burnt town— but otherwise Fount Royal had settled again to sleep. He saw one elderly man sitting on a doorstep smoking a long clay pipe, a white dog sprawled beside him, and as Matthew neared him the old man said simply, "Weather's breakin'."

"Yes, sir, " Matthew answered, keeping his stride. He looked up at the vast expanse of sky and saw now that the clouds had further dwindled, exposing a multitude of sparkling stars. The scythe of a pumpkin-colored moon had appeared. The air was still damp and cool, but the soft breeze carried the odor of pinewoods rather than stagnant swamp. Matthew thought that if the weather broke and held, the magistrate's health would surely benefit.

He'd decided not to inform Woodward of the blacksmith's activities. It might be his duty to report such a crime—which would surely lead to Hazelton's dance on the gallows—but the magistrate didn't need any further complications. Besides, the loss of a blacksmith would be a hard blow to Fount Royal. Matthew thought that sooner or later someone might discover Hazelton's bizarre interest and make an issue of it, but for his part he would keep his mouth shut.

Before he proceeded to the mansion and therefore to bed, Matthew approached the spring and stood beside an oak tree on its grassy bank. A chorus of frogs thrummed in the darkness, and a number of somethings—turtles, he presumed—plopped into the water off to his right. He saw the reflection of stars and moon on the surface, over which spread slow ripples.

How was it that turtles had Spanish gold and silver coins—as well as silverware and pottery shards—in their bellies? Matthew sat down on his haunches, plucked up some grass, and stared out across the ebon pond.

/ have a gift for thee, Satan had said in his dream.

He thought of the coins spilling from the turtle's guts. He thought of Goode showing him what he'd found, and saying, It's a thing needs answerin'.

It surely is, Matthew told himself. From where might the turtles have gotten such coins? They'd swallowed them, of course. Most likely the limit of their world was this spring, and so...

Oh, Matthew thought. Oh!

The suspicion went off like a cannon blast inside his head. He realized he should have heard such a blast as soon as Goode had shown him the coins, but there had been too many other questions crowding his mind. Now, though, here in the quiet dark, the idea was thunderous in its impact.

Goode had found Spanish gold and silver coins within the bellies of turtles that lived in the spring... because there were Spanish gold and silver coins within the spring.

Abruptly, Matthew stood up. He placed a hand on the trunk of the oak tree beside him, if only to steady his thoughts. This suspicion—like the tearing open of a turtle in his dream—was full of glittering possibilities.

One gold and one silver piece, one pottery shard, and one silver spoon did not make a treasure hoard... but who might say what was lying down in the mud at the very bottom of Fount Royal's center of existence?

He recalled with a jolt of the senses something that Nicholas Paine had said, back at Shawcombe's tavern, upon viewing the original gold piece: No black-flagger in his right mind would bury his loot in redskin wilderness. They hide their gold where they can easily get to it, but it would be a poor pirate whose winnings could be found and unearthed by savages.

Unearthed? But what about sunken to the bottom of a freshwater spring?

His brain had caught fire. Bidwell had decided to build Fount Royal around the spring, as it would be—among other considerations—convenient as a source of fresh water for merchant ships arriving from the Indies.

But what was fresh water for merchants was also fresh water for those flying a blacker flag, was it not? And was it not possible that the spring had been discovered and used for such a purpose long before Bidwell had even set eyes on it? If that were true, the spring would make an excellent vault in which to deposit—as Paine had put it—"winnings."

This was all, however, the wildest possible conjecture. Still... how else to explain the coins in the turtles' bellies? The turtles, searching for food down at the bottom of the spring, may have scooped up the coins from the mud or else been attracted by their shine. The same might be true of the spoon and the pottery shard. The question remained: what else could be down there, secreted away for safekeeping?

But how to explain an Indian's possession of Spanish gold? If indeed there had been pirate treasure in the spring, had the Indians found and raised it before Fount Royal was born? If so, they'd missed a few trinkets. He would have to sleep on these questions, and pursue them—quietly—in the morning. Bidwell might know something, but he would have to be carefully approached.

Matthew paused a little longer, staring out at the pond that seemed now to contain a further enigma. Nothing could be answered tonight, so it was time to get to bed though sleep might be nigh impossible.

He continued on his way along Peace Street toward the mansion, which was dark. He had no idea what the hour was, though it must be long past midnight. And with the next step he took he suddenly stopped and froze, looking straight ahead.

A figure in a tricorn hat and dark cloak was striding briskly past the mansion, in the direction of the slaves' quarters. It took no more than five or six seconds for the figure to disappear from view. Matthew hadn't seen if the man was carrying an unlit lantern or not, but he knew who it was. The fox was on the prowl, he thought. Going to what destination, and for what purpose?

This indeed was a night of opportunities, though this one Matthew realized might be far more treacherous than the blacksmith's hatchet.

His mouth was dry, his blood racing. He looked around but saw no other person out on the street. The embers of the school house still glowed a faint red, and the breeze blew a whirl of sparks into the sky.

He would have to go. He knew it. But he would have to hurry, to find the fox before he got away into the swamp. The fox would be wary around the watchman's tower, and so too would Matthew have to be because he couldn't depend on the fact that the watchman was asleep.

A little dagger of fear stabbed Matthew in the chest. Whoever that midnight prowler was, he was likely to be dangerous if he realized he was being followed. There was the chance that, out in the swamp, anything could happen, and all of it bad.

But there was no time for dawdling. Fear would have to be conquered. The fox was moving fast, and so must Matthew.

twenty-four

MATTHEW COULD HEAR the tempestuous sound of the sea. Breakers were hitting islands or exposed sandbars some distance away from the swamp that he was now negotiating with great difficulty. Ahead of him and almost at the limit of his perception was the midnight traveller—a dark, moving blotch within further darkness—who would have been totally lost to him had it not been for the faint orange moonlight, and even that meager illumination was jealously guarded by the streams of moving clouds.

The man had come this way before, that was a certainty. And more than once. His pace was swift and sure-footed, even without benefit of a lantern. Matthew was up to the task of following through the waist-high grasses and across the muck that pulled at his shoes, but it was a tough and laborious journey.

They had left Fount Royal far behind. Matthew estimated the distance at least a quarter mile from the watchman's tower, which had been easily circumvented by cutting through the pinewoods. If the watchman had been awake—and this Matthew seriously doubted—he'd been looking out to sea. Who would expect anyone in their right mind to venture out into this morass in the dead of night?

The midnight traveller had a definite purpose, one that gave speed to his step. Matthew heard something rustle off in the grass to his right; it sounded large and quite sinister, therefore he found a little extra speed himself. He discovered in the next moment, however, that his worst enemy was the swamp itself, as he walked into a shallow pond that closed about his knees and almost sent him sprawling. The mud at the pond's bottom seized his shoes and it was only with extreme tenacity that Matthew worked his way to freedom. Once out of the water he realized he could no longer detect his quarry's movement. He scanned from right to left and back again, but the darkness had truly dropped its curtain.

Still, he knew the man must be going in this general direction. He started off again, more mindful of where he was stepping. The swamp was indeed a treacherous place. The midnight traveller must surely have come out here many times to be able to navigate these dangers. Indeed, Matthew thought the man may have made a map of his route and consigned it to memory.

After three or four minutes, Matthew was yet unable to spy any movement in the darkness. He glanced back and saw that his course had taken him around a headland. A black line of pines and swamp oaks stood between his current position and the watchman's tower, which was probably the greater part of a mile behind. Beyond him was only more swamp. He debated whether to turn back or forge on. Everything out here was only greater and lesser shades of dark, so what was the point? He did continue on a few paces, though, and again paused to scan the horizon. Mosquitoes hummed about his ears, hungry for blood. Frogs croaked in the rushes. Of another human, however, there was not a sign.

What was there to bring a person out here? This was wild desolation, hardly a civilized soul standing between his footprints and the city of Charles Town. So what did the midnight traveller seek to accomplish?

Matthew looked up at the banners of stars. The sky was so huge and the horizon so wide that it was fearsome. The sea, too, was a dark continent. Standing on this coast with the unknown world at his back, he felt more than a little distress, as if his equilibrium and very place on earth were challenged by such immensity. He understood at that moment the need for men to build towns and cities and surround them with walls—not only to keep out the threat of Indians and wild beasts, but to maintain the illusion of control in a world that was too large to be tamed.

His contemplation was suddenly broken. Out at sea, two lights blinked in quick succession.

Matthew had been about to turn his face toward Fount Royal again, but now he stood motionless. A few seconds went by. Then, once again, the two lights blinked.

What followed next gave his heart a jolt. Not fifty yards from where Matthew was standing, a lighted lantern appeared and was uplifted. The lantern swung back and forth, and then disappeared-—concealed, Matthew suspected, by the midnight traveller's cloak. The man must have either crouched down to strike a match and flame the candle, or done it within the cloak's folds. Whatever and however, a signal had been answered.

Matthew lowered himself into the protection of the marsh grass, so that just his eyes were above it. He desired a closer view, and began to move quietly and carefully toward where the lantern had been revealed. It came to mind that if he stepped on a venomous reptile in his present posture, its fangs would strike a most valuable area. He got to within thirty feet of the dark-cloaked man and was forced to stop when the cover of the high grass ended. The man was standing on a stretch of hard-packed sand, just a few yards short of the Atlantic's foamy waves. He was waiting, his face aimed toward the ocean and his lantern hidden in the cloak.

Matthew also waited. Presently, after the passage of perhaps ten minutes during which the man paced back and forth but never left his station, Matthew was aware of a shape emerging from the darkness of the sea. Only when it was about to make landfall did Matthew make out an oarboat, painted either black or dark blue. There were three men aboard, all of whom also wore night-hued clothing. Two of the men jumped out into the surf and pulled the oarboat to shore.

Matthew realized the boat must have come from a larger vessel some distance away. His thought was:Ihave found the Spanish spy.

"Greetin's!" the man who had remained in the oarboat called, his accent as far from being Spanish as Gravesend was from Valencia. He stepped down onto the sand. "How goes it?"

The midnight traveller answered, but his voice was so low Matthew heard only a murmur.

"Seven this trip, " the oarboater said. "That oughta do you. Get 'em out!" He had delivered this command to the other two men, who began to unload what appeared to be wooden buckets. "Same place?" he asked the midnight traveller, who answered with a nod. "You're a man of habit, ain't you?"

The midnight traveller raised his lantern from the folds of his cloak and by its yellow glow Matthew saw his face in profile. "A man of good habit, " Edward Winston said sternly. "Cease this prattle, bury them, and be done with it!" He dropped the lantern, which had been used to show the other man that he was in no mood for dawdling.

"All right, all right!" The oarboater reached into the bottom of his craft and brought up two shovels, and then he walked up the beach to the edge of the high grass. His path brought him within fifteen feet of Matthew's concealment. He stopped at a thatch of spiny palmettos. "This where you want 'em?"

"It will do, " Winston said, following.

"Bring 'em on!" the man ordered his crew. "Hurry it, we ain't got all night!" The buckets, which appeared to be sealed, were carried to the designated place. The oarboater handed the two shovels to the other men, who began to dig into the sand.

"You know where a third shovel is, " Winston said. "You MIGHT employ it, Mr. Rawlings."

"I ain't no damn Injun!" Rawlings replied tartly. "I'm a thief!"

"I beg to differ. You are an Indian, and your chief is Mr. Dan-forth. I suggest you earn the coin he's paying you."

"Very little coin, sir! Very little, for this night work!"

"The faster they're buried, the sooner you may go."

"Well, why bury 'em anyway? Who the hell's comin' out here to find 'em?"

"Safe is better than sorry. Just lay one bucket aside and put the others under with no further argument."

Muttering beneath his breath, Rawlings reached carefully into the palmettos and pulled out a short-handled shovel that had been hidden there. Matthew watched as Rawlings fell to digging at rhythm with his companions. "What of the witch?" he asked Winston as he worked. "When's she gonna hang?"

"Not hang. She'll be burned at the stake. I expect it shall be within the next few days."

"You'll be cooked too then, won't you? You and Danforth both!"

"Just concern yourself with your digging, " Winston said tersely. "You needn't put them deep, but make sure they're well covered."

"All right! Work on, my lads! We don't want to tarry long in this Satan's country, do we?"

Winston grunted. "Here or there, it's all Satan's country, isn't it?" He gave the left side of his neck a sound slap, executing some bloodsucking beastie.

It took only a few moments for a hole to be opened, six buckets secreted within it, and the sand shovelled over them. Rawlings was a master at appearing to work hard, with all the necessary facial contortions and exertions of breath, but his shovel might have been a spoon, for all the sand it moved. When the buckets were laid under, Rawlings stepped back, wiped his brow with his forearm, and said, "Well done, well done!" as if he were congratulating himself. He returned the implement to its hiding place amid the palmettos and grinned broadly at Winston, who stood nearby watching in silence. "I expect this'll be the last trip, then!"

"I think we should continue one more month, " Winston said.

Rawlings's grin collapsed. "What need will you have of any more, if she's to be burned?"

"I'll make a need. Tell Mr. Danforth I shall be here at the hour."

"As you please, your majesty!" Rawlings gave Winston an exaggerated comical bow and the two other men laughed. "Any other communications to the realm?"

"Our business is concluded." Winston said coldly. He picked up by its wire handle the seventh bucket that had been laid aside, and then he abruptly turned toward Matthew—who instantly ducked down and pressed himself against the earth—and began to walk through the grass.

"I've never seen a burnin' before!" Rawlings called after him. "Make sure you take it all in, so's you can describe it to me!" Winston didn't respond, but kept on walking. His course, Matthew was relieved to see, took him along a diagonal line perhaps ten or twelve feet to Matthew's west. Then Winston had gone past, holding the lantern low under his cloak to shed some light on where he was stepping. Matthew presumed he would extinguish the candle long before he got within view of the watchman's tower.

"That tight-assed prig! I could lay him out with my little finger!" Rawlings boasted to his companions after Winston had departed.

"You could lay him out with your bloody breath!" one of the others said, and the third man guffawed.

"Right you are, at that! Come on, let's cast off this damned shingle! Thank Christ we've got a fair wind for a change tonight!"

Matthew lifted his head and watched as the men returned to their oarboat. They pushed it off the beach, Rawlings clambered over the side first and then the other men, the oars were taken up—though not by the big chief—and the vessel moved out through the lathery surf. It was quickly taken by the darkness.

Matthew knew that if he waited long enough and kept a sharp enough eye he might see some evidence of a larger craft at anchor out there—possibly the flare of a match lighting a pipe, or a stain of mooncolor on a billowing sail. He did not, however, have the time or the inclination. Suffice it to know that an oar-boat was not a vessel suitable for a sea voyage.

He looked in the direction Winston had gone, back toward Fount Royal. Satisfied that he was alone, Matthew got up from his defensive posture and immediately went on the offensive. He found the disturbed area beside the palmettos where the buckets had been buried, and—two painful palmetto-spike stabs later— gripped his hand on the concealed shovel.

As Winston had specified, the buckets were not buried very deeply. All Matthew desired was one. The bucket he chose was of common construction, its lid sealed with a coating of dried tar, and of weight Matthew estimated between seven and eight pounds. He used the shovel again to fill the cavity, then returned it to the palmettos and set off for Fount Royal with the bucket in his possession.

The way back was no less difficult than his previous journey. It came to him that he was most likely locked out of Bidwell's mansion and would have to ring the bell to gain entrance; did he wish to let anyone in the household see him with this bucket in hand? Whatever game Winston was up to, Matthew didn't want to tip the man that his table had been overturned. He trusted Mrs. Nettles to a point, but in his opinion the jury was still out on everyone in the damned town. So: what to do with the bucket?

He had an idea, but it would mean trusting one person implicitly. Two persons, if Goode's wife should be counted. He was eager to learn the bucket's contents, and most likely Goode would have an implement to force it open.

With a great degree of thankfulness Matthew put the swamp at his back, negotiated the pinewoods to avoid the watchtower, and shortly thereafter stood before John Goode's door. Upon it he rapped as quietly as he thought possible, though the sound to his ears was alarmingly loud and must have awakened every slave in the quarters. To his chagrin, he had to knock a second time—and harder—before a light blotched the window's covering of stretched oilskin cloth.

The door opened. A candle was pushed out, and above it was Goode's sleepy-eyed face. He'd been prepared to be less than courteous to whoever had come knocking at such an hour, but when he saw first the white skin and then who wore it he put himself together. "Oh... yes suh?"

"I have something that needs looking at." Matthew held up the bucket. "May I enter?"

Of course he was not to be denied. "What is it?" May asked from their pallet of a bed as Goode brought Matthew in and closed the door. "Nothin' that concerns you, woman, " he said as he lit a second candle from the first. "Go back to sleep, now." She rolled over, pulling a threadbare covering up to her neck.

Goode put the two candles on the table and Matthew set the bucket down between them. "I followed a certain gentleman out to the swamp just a while ago, " Matthew explained. "I won't go into the particulars, but he has more of these buried out there. I want to see what's in it."

Goode ran his fingers around the tar-sealed lid. He picked up the bucket and turned it so its bottom was in the light. There, burnt by a brand into the wood, was the letter K and beneath that the letters CT. "Maker's mark, " he said. "From a cooper in Charles Town, 'pears to be." He looked around for a tool and put his hand on a stout knife. Then he began chipping the tar away as Matthew watched in eager anticipation. When enough of the seal had been broken, Goode slid the blade under the lid and worked it up. In another moment the lid came loose, and Goode lifted it off.

Before sight was made of what the bucket concealed, smell gave its testimony. "Whoo!" Goode said, wrinkling his nose. Matthew put the sharp odor as being of a brimstone quality, with interminglings of pine oil and freshly cooked tar. Indeed, what the bucket held looked to be thick black paint.

"Might I borrow your blade?" Matthew asked, and with it he stirred the foul-smelling concoction. As he did, yellow streaks of sulphur appeared. He was beginning to fathom what he might be confronted with, and it was not a pretty picture. "Do you have a pan we might put some of this in? A spoon, as well?"

Goode, true to his name, supplied an iron pan and a wooden ladle. Matthew put a single dip of the stuff into the pan, just enough to cover its bottom. "All right, " Matthew said. "Let us see what we have." He picked up one of the candles and lowered its flame into the pan.

As soon as the wick made contact, the substance caught fire. It was a blue-tinged flame, and burned so hot both Matthew and Goode had to draw back. There were small pops and cracklings as more flammable additives in the mixture ignited. Matthew picked up the pan and took it to the hearth so that the fumes might be drawn upward. Even with so little an amount, the heat on his hand was considerable.

"That's the Devil's own brew, ain't it?" Goode said.

"No, it's made by men, " Matthew answered. "Diabolical chemists, perhaps. It's called 'infernal fire, ' and it has a long history of being used in classical naval warfare. The Greeks made bombs from it and shot them from catapults."

"The Greeks? What're you goin' on about? Uh... beggin' your pardon, suh."

"Oh, it's all right. I think the use of this material is very clear. Our swamp-travelling gentleman has a zest for fire."

"Suh?"

"Our gentleman, " Matthew said, watching the flames continue to burn brightly in the pan, "likes to see houses alight. With this chemical, he is sure of setting fire to even damp wood. I expect he might paint it on the walls and floor with a brush. Then the stuff is touched off at several strategic places... and the firemen will inevitably be too late."

"You mean..." The truth of the matter was dawning on Goode. "The man's been usin' this to burn down houses?"

"Exactly. His last strike was against the schoolhouse." Matthew set the pan down in the fireplace's ashes. "Why he would wish to do so, I have no idea. But the fact that this bucket was fashioned in Charles Town and was brought by sea bodes ill for his loyalty."

"Brought by sea?" He stared long and hard at Matthew. "You know who the man be, don't you?"

"I do, but I'm unprepared to speak the name." Matthew returned to the table and pushed the lid down firmly on the bucket once more. "I have a request to make. Will you hold this in safekeeping for a short time?"

Goode regarded the bucket with trepidation. "It won't blow us up, will it?"

"No, it needs a flame to ignite. Just keep it closed and away from fire. You might wrap it up and treat it with the same care you treat your violin."

"Yes suh, " he said uncertainly. "Only thing be, I don't believe nobody ever got blowed up from fiddle music."

At the door, Matthew cautioned, "Not a word to anyone about this. As far as you should be concerned, I was never here."

Goode had picked up both candles to remove them from the immediate vicinity of such destructive power. "Yes suh. Uh... you'll be comin' back to get this here thing, won't you?"

"I will. I expect I'll need it very soon." But not until he determined exactly why Edward Winston was burning down his employer's town, he might have added.

"The sooner I'll like it, " Goode said, already looking for a piece of burlap with which to wrap the offensive visitor.

Matthew left Goode's house and walked to the mansion, which was a relatively short distance but a world away from the slave quarters. He knew he should get to sleep quickly, as there was much to do at daylight. But he knew also that sleep was going to be difficult in the few hours of dark that remained, be-cause his mind would twist this new revelation into every possible shape in an attempt to understand it. Banished now from his thoughts was the equine lust of Seth Hazelton; the crimes of Edward Winston loomed far larger, for the man had set those fires and willingly ascribed them—as did Bidwell and everyone else—to Rachel's pact with the Devil.

Matthew had every intention of going to the door and ringing the bell to gain entry if necessary, but between intention and deed he shifted his course a few degrees and soon found himself standing again on the grassy bank of the spring. He sat down, pulled his knees up to his chin, and stared out across the smooth water, his mind turbulent with questions of what was and what might be.

Presently he decided to stretch out, and lying on his back in the grass he looked up at the streams of stars that showed between the moving clouds. His last conscious thought before he drifted to sleep was of Rachel in the darkness of her cage; of Rachel, whose life depended on his actions in the hours that remained.

Of Rachel.

twenty-five

A CHORUS OF ROOSTERS CROWED like triumphant horns. Matthew opened his eyes to a rose-colored light. Above him, the sky was pale pink and dappled with purple-edged clouds. He sat up, drawing in the sweet air of what seemed the first true morning of May.

Someone began ringing a bell, and then a second higher-toned bell added its voice. Matthew got to his feet. He heard a man's joyous shout from further along Harmony Street, and then Matthew saw perhaps the most beautiful sight of his life: the sun, a golden fireball, was rising over the sea. This was the sun of creation, and its mere touch had the force to waken the earth. Matthew lifted his face toward the light as a third bell chimed. Two birds began to chirp in one of the oaks that stood around the spring. Tendrils of low-lying mist still clung to the ground, but they were pitiful and short-fated relatives to the massive thunderclouds that had so long held dominion. Matthew stood breathing the air as if he'd forgotten what springtime smelled like, as indeed he had: not the wet, foul stagnance of a swamp, but the clean soft breeze that brought the promise of new beginnings.

If ever there had been a morning to put Satan to flight, this was the one. Matthew stretched his arms up toward the sky to loosen the tight muscles in his back, though it could certainly be said that sleeping outdoors in the grass was preferable to grappling with Somnus in the gaol. He watched the sunlight strengthening across the roofs, yards, and fields of Fount Royal, the mist in full retreat. Of course the clear weather might only last one day before the rain returned, but he dared think nature's pendulum had swung in Bidwell's favor.

He had business this morning with the master of Fount Royal. He left the spring and walked to the mansion, the shutters of which had already been opened to the air. He found the entrance unlatched, and as he considered himself somewhat more than a visitor he opened it without ringing the bell and proceeded up the stairs to look in on the magistrate.

Woodward was still asleep, though either Mrs. Nettles or one of the other servants had already entered to crack the shutters of his room. Matthew approached the bed and stood beside it, looking at the magistrate. Woodward's mouth was partway open, the sound of his breathing like the faint scraping together of rusted iron wheels in a mechanism that was near failure. Brown bloodstains on the pillow behind his head marked the administrations of Dr. Shields's lancet last night, a task that was becoming a nocturnal ritual. A plaster medicated with some kind of nose-searing ointment bad been pressed upon Woodward's bare chest, and grease glistened on the magistrate's upper lip and around his green-crusted nostrils. On the bedside table, three candles that had burned down to stubs indicated that Woodward had attempted more reading of the documents last night, and the documents themselves had spilled off the bed and lay now on the floor.

Matthew set about picking up the papers, carefully arranging them in proper sequence, and when he was done he returned them to the wooden box. The portion that Matthew had taken to his room and read yesterday evening had not delivered any further insights, much to his disappointment. He stared at Woodward's face, at the way the yellow-tinged flesh stretched over the skull, at the pale purple eyelids through which could be seen the protrusions of the orbs. A spiderwork of tiny red blood vessels had appeared on either side of Woodward's nose. The man seemed to have become thinner since Matthew last saw him, though this was due possibly to the change of light. He appeared much older too, the lines upon his face cut deeper by suffering. The blotches on his scalp had darkened as the flesh paled. There was a terrible fragility about him now, something breakable as a clay cup. Looking upon the magistrate in this condition frightened Matthew, yet he was compelled to observe.

He had seen the mask of Death before. He knew it was now before him, clasping on to the magistrate's face. The skin was being shrunken, the skull sharpened for its imminent emergence. A dagger of panic pierced him and twisted in his guts. He wished to shake Woodward awake, to pull him to his feet and make him walk, talk, dance... anything to banish this sickness. But, no... the magistrate needed his rest. He needed to sleep long and hard, with the benefit of the ointments and the bloodletting. And now there was good reason to hope for the best, with the freshened air and the sun's appearance! Yes, it was best to let the magistrate sleep until he awakened on his own, no matter how long, and let nature work its medicine.

Matthew reached out and gently touched Woodward's right hand. Instantly he drew back, because even though the magistrate's flesh was hot there was yet a moist waxy sensation to it that greatly disturbed him. Woodward made a soft moaning sound, and his eyelids fluttered but he didn't awaken. Matthew backed to the door, the panic dagger still jabbing at his stomach, and then he went quietly out into the hallway.

Downstairs, he followed the noise of cutlery scraping a plate and found Bidwell at the feasting table attacking a breakfast of corncakes, fried potatoes, and hambone marrow. "Ah, here is the clerk this fine, God-lit morning!" Bidwell said before he stuffed his mouth. He wore a peacock-blue suit, a lace-ruffled shirt, and one of his most elaborately combed and curled wigs.

He washed the food down with a drink of apple beer and nodded toward the place that had been set for Matthew. "Sit down and feed yourself!"

Matthew accepted the invitation. Bidwell shoved a platter of corncakes in his direction and Matthew speared two of them with his knife. The marrow platter followed.

"Mrs. Nettles told me you weren't in your room when she knocked." Bidwell continued to eat as he talked, which resulted in half-chewed food spilling from his mouth. "Where were you?"

"Out, " Matthew answered.

"Out, " Bidwell said, with a note of sarcasm. "Yes, I know you were out. But out where, and doing what?"

"I went outside when I saw the schoolhouse on fire. I stayed out the rest of the night."

"Oh, that's why you look so poorly then!" He started to stab a fried potato with his knife, but paused in mid-thrust. "Wait a moment." His eyes narrowed. "What mischief have you been up to?"

"Mischief? You presume the worst, I think."

"You may think, but I know. Whose barn have you been poking around in this time?"

Matthew looked him in the eyes. "I went back to the blacksmith's barn, of course."

There was a deadly quiet. Then Bidwell laughed. His knife came down into the potato; he claimed it from the platter and shoved the rest of the charred tubers toward Matthew. "Oh, you're full of spite today, aren't you? Well, I know you may be a young fool but you are not fool enough to go back to Hazelton's place! No sirrah! That man would put a pole to your backside!"

"Not unless I was a mare, " Matthew said quietly, taking a bite of a corncake. "What?"

"I said... I would do well to beware. Hazelton, I mean."

"Yes, and that's the smartest thing I've heard leave your lips!" Bidwell spent a moment eating again, as if food would be outlawed by the King on the morrow, before he spoke. "Your back. How is it?"

"A little painful. Otherwise, all right."

"Well, eat up. A full belly dulls all pain. That's what my father used to tell me, when I was your age. Of course, by the time I was your age I was working on the docks fourteen hours a day, and if I could steal a pear I was as happy as a lord." He paused to quaff from his tankard. "Have you ever worked a whole day in your life?"

"Physical work, you mean?"

"What other kind of work is there for a young man? Yes, I mean physical! Have you ever sweated to move a pile of heavy crates twenty feet because the bastard in charge says you'll do it or else? Have you ever pulled a rope until your hands bled, your shoulders cracked, and you cried like a baby but you knew you had to keep pulling? Have you ever gotten on your knees and scrubbed the deck of a ship with a brush, and then gotten down and scrubbed it again when that bastard in charge spat on it? Well? Have you?"

"No, " Matthew said.

"Ha!" Bidwell nodded, grinning. "I have. Many times! And I'm damned proud of it, too! You know why? Because it made me a man. And you know who that bastard in charge was? My father. Yes, my father, rest his soul." He stabbed a chunk of potato with a force that Matthew thought might send the knife through the plate and table both. When Bidwell chewed it, his teeth ground together.

"Your father sounds like a hard taskmaster, " Matthew said.

"My father, " Bidwell replied, "came up from London's dirt, just as I did. My first memory of him was the smell of the river. And he knew those docks and those ships. He started out as a cargo handler, but he had a gift for working wood and he could lay a hull patch with the best who ever lived. That's how the yard started. One ship here, another there. Then more and more, and soon he had his own drydock. Yes, he was a hard taskmaster, but just as hard on himself as on anyone else."

"You inherited your business from him, then?"

"Inherited?" Bidwell cast a scornful glance. "I inherited nothing from him but misery! My father was inspecting a hulk for salvage—something he'd done dozens of times before—when a section of rotten planks gave way and he fell through. His knees were shattered. Gangrene set in and to save his life the surgeon took both his legs. I was nineteen years old, and suddenly I was responsible for my invalid father, my mother, and two younger sisters, one of whom was sickly to the point of emaciation. Well, it quickly became clear to me that though my father was a hard taskmaster he was a sorry bookkeeper. The records of income and debts were abysmal, if they existed at all. And here came the creditors, who presumed the yard would be sold now that my father was confined to his bed."

"But you didn't sell it?" Matthew asked.

"Oh, I sold it all right. To the highest bidder. I had no choice, the records being as they were. My father raged like a tiger. He called me a fool and a weakling, and vowed he would hate me to his grave and beyond for destroying his business." Bidwell paused to swig from the tankard. "But I paid off the debtors and settled all accounts. I put food on our table and bought medicine for my sister, and I found I had a small amount of money left. There was a small marine carpentry shop that advertised for investors, as they were expanding their workplace. I decided to put every last shilling I had into it, so I might have some influence over the decisions. My family name was already known, of course. The greatest problem I first faced was in raising more money to put into the business, which I did by laboring at other jobs and also by some bluffing at the gaming tables. Then there were the small-thinkers to be gotten rid of, those men who let caution be their rulers and so never dared to win for fear of losing."

Bidwell chewed on bone marrow, his eyes hooded. "One of those men, unfortunately, had his name above the workplace door. He was too concerned with inches, while I thought in terms of leagues. He saw marine carpentry, while I saw shipbuilding.

Thus—though he was thirty years older than me, and had built the shop from its beginnings—I knew the pasture belonged to him, but the future was mine. I set out to procure business that I knew he would not condone. I prepared profit statements and cost predictions, down to the last timber and nail, which I then presented to a meeting of the craftsmen. My question to them was: did they wish to take a risk of a great future under my guidance, or did they wish to continue their current plodding path under Mr. Kellingsworth? Two of them voted to throw me out the door. The other four—including the master draftsman— voted to take on the new work."

"And Mr. Kellingsworth?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure he had something to say?"

"At first he was mute with anger. Then... I think he was relieved, because he didn't want the mantle of responsibility. He wanted a quiet life far removed from the specter of failure that haunted his successes." Bidwell nodded. "Yes, I think he'd been searching for a way to that pasture for a long time, but he needed a push. I gave it to him, along with a very decent buyout settlement and a percentage of future income... to decrease with the passage of time, of course. But my name was on the placard above the door. My name and my name only. That was the starting of it."

"I expect your father was proud of you."

Bidwell was silent, staring at nothing though his eyes were fierce. "One of the first things I purchased with my profits was a pair of wooden legs, " he said. "The finest wooden legs that could be made in all of England. I took them to him. He looked at them. I said I would help him learn to walk. I said I would hire a specialist to teach him." Bidwell's tongue emerged, and he slowly licked his upper lip. "He said... he would not wear them if I had bought him a pair of real legs and could bind them solid again. He said I could take them to the Devil, because that is where a traitor was destined to burn." Bidwell pulled in a long breath and let it go. "And those were the final words he ever spoke to me."

Though he didn't particularly care for Bidwell, Matthew couldn't help but feel little sad for him. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry?" Bidwell snapped. "Why?" He thrust his food-streaked chin forward. "Sorry because I'm a success? A self-made man? Sorry because I am rich, that I have built this house and this town and there is more building yet to be done? Because Fount Royal will become a center of maritime trade? Or because at long last the weather has cleared and the spirits of my citizens will rise accordingly?" He jabbed another piece of potato with his knife and pushed it into his mouth. "I think, " he said as he chewed, "that the only thing you're sorry for is the impending execution of that damned witch, because you won't be able to get up her skirt!" A wicked thought struck him and made his eyes glint. "Ah ha! Perhaps that's where you were all night! Were you in the gaol with her? I wouldn't doubt it! Preacher Jerusalem told me about you striking him yesterday!" He gave a dark grin. "What, did a blow upon the preacher earn you a blow from the witch?"

Matthew slowly put down his knife and spoon. Flames were burning behind his face, but he said coldly, "Preacher Jerusalem has his own intents toward Rachel. You may think as you please, but be aware that he has put a ring through your nose."

"Oh yes, of course he has! And she hasn't put a ring through yours, I suppose? Or perhaps she has put her kiss of approval on your balls, is that it? I can see her now, on her knees, and you up close against those bars! Oh, that's a precious sight!"

"I had a precious sight of my own last night!" Matthew said, the flames beginning to burn through his self-control. "When I went out to the—" He stopped himself before the words could flow. He'd been on the verge of telling Bidwell about Winston's escapade and the buckets of infernal fire, but he was not going to be goaded to spill his knowledge before he was ready. He stared down at his plate, a muscle working in his jaw.

"I never met a young man so full of pepper and manure as you, " Bidwell went on, calmer now but oblivious to what Matthew had been about to say. "If it were up to you, my town would be a witch's haven, wouldn't it? You'd even defy your own poor, sick master to save that woman's flesh from the fire! I think you ought to get to a monastery up there in Charles Town and become a monk to save your soul. Either that, or go to a bawdy-house and fuck the doxies 'til your eyeballs blow out."

"Mr. Rawlings, " Matthew said, his voice strained.

"Who?"

"Mr. Rawlings, " he repeated, realizing he had set one foot into the morass. "Do you know that name?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Mr. Danforth, " Matthew said. "Do you know that name?"

Bidwell scratched his chin. "Yes, I do. Oliver Danforth is the harbormaster in Charles Town. I have had some trouble with him, in getting supplies through. What of him?"

"Someone mentioned the name, " Matthew explained. "I hadn't met anyone by that name, so I wondered who he might be."

"Who mentioned him?"

Matthew saw ahead of him a maze taking shape, and he must quickly negotiate out of it. "Mr. Paine, " he said. "It was before I went into the gaol."

"Nicholas, eh?" Bidwell frowned. "That's odd."

"Is it?" Matthew's heart gave a thump.

"Yes. Nicholas can't stand the sight of Oliver Danforth. They've had some arguments over the supply situation, therefore I've been sending Edward to deal with him. Nicholas goes along too, to protect Edward from harm on the road, but Edward is far better a diplomat. I don't understand why Nicholas should be talking about Danforth to you."

"It wasn't to me, exactly. It was a name I overheard."

"Oh, you have big ears too, is that it?" Bidwell grunted and finished off his drink. "I should have guessed!"

"Mr. Winston seems a valuable and loyal man, " Matthew ventured. "Has he been with you very long?"

"Eight years. Now what're all these questions about?"

"My curiosity, that's all."

"Well for Christ's sake, rein it in! I've had enough of it!" He pushed himself up from his seat in preparation to leave.

"Please indulge me just a minute longer, " Matthew said, also standing up. "I swear before God I won't bother you with any further questions if you'll just answer a few more."

"Why? What is you wish to know about Edward?"

"Not about Mr. Winston. About the spring."

Bidwell looked as if he wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "The spring? Have you lost your senses altogether?"

"The spring, " Matthew repeated firmly. "I'd like to know how it came to be found, and when."

"You're serious, aren't you? Lord, you really are!" Bidwell started to blast at Matthew, but all the air seemed to leave him before he could gather himself. "You have worn me out, " he admitted. "You have absolutely tattered my rag."

"Humor me, as it is such a beautiful morning, " Matthew said steadfastly. "I repeat my promise not to plague you again, if you'll tell me how you came to find the spring."

Bidwell laughed quietly and shook his head. "All right, then. You must know that, in addition to royally funded explorers, there are men for hire who will carry out private explorations for individuals or companies. It was one of these that I contracted to find a settlement area with a fresh water source at least forty miles south of Charles Town. I stressed the fact that access to the sea was needed, yet a direct seafront was not necessary. I could drain a marsh, therefore the presence of such was tolerable. I also needed an abundance of hardwood and an area defensible from pirates and Indian raiders. When the proper place was found— this place—I presented the findings and my plans to the royal court, whereupon I waited two months for a grant to purchase the land."

"It was given readily?" Matthew asked. "Or did anyone attempt to block the grant?"

"Word had gotten to Charles Town. A coalition of their paid magpies swooped in and tried to dissuade the transaction, but I was already ahead of them. I had greased so many palms I could be called an oil pot, and I even added free giltwork to the yacht of the colonial administrator so he might turn heads on his jaunts up and down the Thames."

"But you hadn't visited this area before you made the purchase?"

"No, I trusted Aronzel Hearn. The man I'd hired." Bidwell took his snuffbox from his coat pocket, opened it, and noisily sniffed a pinch. "I saw a map, of course. It suited my needs, that's all I had to know."

"What of the spring?"

"What of it, boy?" Bidwell's patience was fraying like a rope rubbing splintered wood.

"I know the land was mapped, " Matthew said, "but what of the spring? Did Hearn take a sounding of it? How deep is it, and from where does the water come?"

"It comes from... I don't know. Somewhere." Bidwell took another sniff. "I do know there are other smaller springs out in the wilderness. Solomon Stiles has seen them, and drunk from them, on his hunting trips. I suppose they're all connected underground. As far as the depth is concerned..." He stopped, with his snuff-pinched fingers poised near his nostrils. "Now that's strange, " he said.

"What is?"

"Speaking of the spring like this. I remember someone else asking me similar questions."

At once Matthew's bloodhound sense came to full alert. "Who was it?"

"It was... a surveyor who came to town. Perhaps a year or so after we began building. He was mapping the road between Charles Town and here, and wished to map Fount Royal as well. I recall he was interested in the depth of the spring."

"So he took a sounding?"

"Yes, he did. He'd been set upon by Indians several miles from our gate. The savages had stolen all his instruments, therefore I had Hazelton fashion him a rope with a sounding weight tied at the end. I also had a raft built for him, that he might take his measurements from various areas of the fount."

"Ah, " Matthew said quietly, his mouth dry. "A surveyor without instruments. Do you know if he discovered the spring's depth?"

"As I remember, the deepest point was found to be some forty feet."

"Was this surveyor travelling alone?"

"He was alone. On horseback. I recall he told me he had left the savages playing with his bag, and he felt lucky to escape with his hair. He had a full beard too, so I expect they might have sheared his face off to get it."

"A beard, " Matthew said. "Was he young or old? Tall or short? Fat or thin?"

Bidwell stared blankly at him. "Your mind is as addled as a cockroach, isn't it? What the bloody hell does it matter?"

"I would really like to know, " Matthew persisted. "What was his height?"

"Well... taller than me, I suppose. I don't remember much about him but the beard."

"What color was it?"

"I think... dark brown. There might have been some gray in it." He scowled. "You don't expect me to fully remember a man who passed through here four years ago, do you? And what's the point of these foolish questions?"

"Where did he stay?" Matthew asked, oblivious to Bidwell's rising ire. "Here in the house?"

"I offered him a room. As I recall, he refused and asked for the loan of a tent. He spent two or possibly three nights sleeping outside. I believe it was early September, and certainly warm enough."

"Let me guess where the tent was pitched, " Matthew said. "Was it beside the spring?"

"I think it might have been. What of it?" Bidwell cocked his head to one side, flakes of snuff around his nostrils.

"I am working on a theory, " Matthew answered.

Bidwell giggled; it sounded like a woman's laugh, it was so quick and high-pitched, and Bidwell instantly put his hand to his mouth and flushed crimson. "A theory, " he said, about to laugh again; in fact, he was straining so hard to hold back his merriment that his jowls and corncake-stuffed belly quivered. "By God, we must have our daily theories, mustn't we?"

"Laugh if you like, but answer this: for whom was the surveyor working?"

"For whom? Why... one moment, I have a theory!" Bidwell widened his eyes in mockery. "I believe he must have been working for the Council of Lands and Plantations! There is such an administrative body, you know!"

"He told you he was working for this council, then?"

"Damn it, boy!" Bidwell shouted, the mighty schooner of his patience smashing out its belly on the rocks. "I've had enough of this!" He stalked past Matthew and out of the banquet room.

Matthew instantly followed him. "Please, sir!" he said as Bid-well walked to the staircase. "It's important! Did this surveyor tell you his name?"

"Pah!" Bidwell replied, starting up the steps. "You're as crazy as a loon!"

"His name! Can you recall it?"

Bidwell stopped, realizing he could not shake the flea that gave him such a maddening itch. He looked back at Matthew, his eyes ablaze. "No, I do not! Winston walked him about the town! Go ask him and leave me be! I swear, you could set Satan himself running for sanctuary!" He jabbed a finger toward the younger man. "But you won't ruin this glorious day for me, no sirrah you won't! The sun is out, praise God, and as soon as that damned witch is ashes this town will grow again! So go march to the gaol and tell her that Robert Bidwell has never failed, never, and will never be a failure!"

A figure suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. Matthew saw him first, of course, and Matthew's astonished expression made Bidwell jerk his head around.

Woodward braced himself against the wall, his flesh near the same hue as his pap-stained cotton nightgown. A sheen of sweat glistened on his sallow face, and his eyes were red-rimmed and weak with pain.

"Magistrate!" Bidwell climbed the risers to lend a supporting arm. "I thought you were sleeping!"

"I was, " he said hoarsely, though speaking with any volume caused his throat grievous suffering. "Who can sleep... during a duel of cannons?"

"I apologize, sir. Your clerk has roused my bad manners yet again."

The magistrate stared down into Matthew's face, and at once Matthew knew what had been important enough to force him from his bed.

"My deliberations are done, " Woodward said. "Come prepare a quill and paper."

"You mean..... you mean..." Bidwell could hardly contain himself. "You have reached your decision?"

"Come up, Matthew, " Woodward repeated, and then to Bid-well, "Will you help me to my bed, please?"

Bidwell might have bodily lifted the magistrate and carried him, but decorum prevailed. Matthew ascended the stairs, and together he and the master of Fount Royal took Woodward along the hallway to his room. Once settled in bed again and propped up on the blood-spotted pillow, Woodward said, "Thank you, Mr. Bidwell. You may depart."

"If you don't mind, I would like to stay and hear the decree." Bidwell had already closed the door and claimed a position next to the bed.

"I do mind, sir. Until the decree is read to the accused"— Woodward paused to gasp a breath—"it is the court's business. It would not be seemly otherwise."

"Yes but—"

"Depart, " Woodward said. "Your presence delays our work." He glanced irritably at Matthew, who stood at the foot of the bed. "The quill and paper! Now!" Matthew turned away to get the document box that also held sheets of clean paper, the quill, and the inkjar.

Bidwell went to the door, but before he left he had to try once again. "Tell me this, then: should I have the stake cut and planted?"

Woodward squeezed his eyes shut at Bidwell's dogged disregard for propriety. Then he opened them and said tersely, "Sir... you may accompany Matthew to read my decree to the accused. Now please... leave us."

"All right, then. I'm going."

"And... Mr. Bidwell... please refrain from dawdling in the hall."

"My word on it as a gentleman. I shall be waiting downstairs." Bidwell left the room and closed the door.

Woodward stared out the window at the gold-tinged sun-illumed morning. It was going to be beautiful today, he thought. A more lovely morning than he'd seen in the better part of a month. "Date the decree, " he told Matthew, though it was hardly necessary.

Matthew sat upon the stool beside the bed, using the document box as a makeshift writing table propped on his knees. He dipped the quill into the ink and wrote at the top of the paper May Seventeenth, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine.

"Ready it, " Woodward prodded, his eyes fixed on the outside world.

Matthew scribed the preface, which he had done enough times in enough different circumstances to know the correct wording. It took him a few moments and a few dips of the quill: By Decree of the Right Honorable King's Appointed Magistrate Isaac Temple Woodward on This Day in the Settlement of Fount Royal, Carolina Colony, Concerning the Accusations of Murder and Witchcraft to Be Detailed As Follows Against the Defendant, a Woman Citizen Known Hereby As Rachel Howarth...

He had to stop to work out a kink in his writing hand. "Go on, " Woodward said. "It must be done."

Matthew had an ashen taste in his mouth. He dipped the quill again, and this time he spoke the words aloud as he wrote them: "On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant—" He paused once more, his quill poised to record the magistrate's decree. The flesh of his face seemed to have drawn tight beyond endurance, and a heat burned in his skull.

Suddenly Woodward snapped his fingers. Matthew looked at him quizzically, and when the magistrate put a finger to his lips and then motioned toward the door Matthew realized what he was trying to communicate. Matthew quietly put aside his writing materials and the document box, got up from the stool, went to the door, and quickly opened it.

Bidwell was down on one knee in the hallway, busily buffing his right shoe with his peacock-blue sleeve. He turned his head and looked at Matthew, lifting his eyebrows as if to ask why the clerk had emerged so stealthily from the magistrate's room.

"Gentleman, my ass!" Woodward hissed under his breath.

"I thought you were going downstairs to wait, " Matthew reminded the man, who now ferociously buffed his shoetop and then heaved himself up to his feet with an air of indignance.

"Did I say I would race there? I saw a blemish on my shoe!"

"The blemish is on your vow, sir!" Woodward said, with a measure of fire that belied his watery constitution.

"Very well, then! I'm going." Bidwell reached up and adjusted his wig, which had become somewhat tilted during his ascent from the floor. "Can you blame me for wanting to know? I've waited so long for it!"

"You can wait a little longer, then." Woodward motioned him away. "Matthew, close the door." Matthew resettled himself, with the box on his knees and the writing materials and paper before him.

"Read it again, " Woodward said.

"Yes, sir." Matthew took a deep breath. "On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant—"

"Guilty, " came the whispered answer. "With a stipulation. That the defendant did not actually commit the murder... but caused it to be committed by her words, deeds, or associations."

"Sir!" Matthew said, his heart pounding. "Please! There's absolutely no evidence to—"

"Silence!" Woodward lifted himself up on his elbows, his face contorted with a mixture of anger, frustration, and pain. "I'll have no more of your second opinions, do you hear me?" He locked his gaze with Matthew's. "Scribe the next charge."

Matthew might have thrown down the quill and upset the inkjar, but he did not. He knew his duties, whether or not he agreed with the magistrate's decision. Therefore he swallowed the bitter gall in his throat, redipped the quill—that bastard weapon of blind destruction—and spoke again as he wrote: "On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant—"

"Guilty, with a stipulation. The same as above." Woodward glared at him when Matthew's hand failed to make the entry. "I should like to finish this sometime today."

Matthew had no choice but to write down the decree. The heat of shame flared in his cheeks. Now, of course, he knew what the next decision must be. "On the Charge of Witchcraft... I Find the Aforesaid Defendant—"

"Guilty, " Woodward said quickly. He closed his eyes and rested his head back down on the stained pillow, his breathing harsh. Matthew heard a rattling sound deep in the magistrate's lungs. "Scribe the preface to sentencing."

Matthew wrote it as if in a trance. By Virtue of the Power Ascribed to Me As Colonial Magistrate, I Hereby Sentence the Aforesaid Defendant Rachel Howarth to... He lifted his quill from the paper and waited.

Woodward opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. A moment passed, during which could be heard the singing of birds in the springtime sunlight. "Burning at the stake, as warranted by the King's law, " Woodward said. "The sentence to be carried out on Monday, the twenty-second of May, sixteen-ninety-nine.

In case of inclement weather... the earliest necessary date following." His gaze ticked toward Matthew, who had not moved. "Enter it."

Again, he was simply the unwitting flesh behind the instrument. Somehow the lines were quilled on the paper.

"Give it here." Woodward held out his hand and took the document. He squinted, reading it by the light that streamed through the window, and then he nodded with satisfaction. "The quill, please." Matthew had the presence of mind—or rather the dignity of his job—to dip the quill in the inkjar and blot the excess before he handed it over.

Woodward signed his full name and, below it, the title Colonial Magistrate. Ordinarily an official wax seal would be added, but the seal had been lost to that blackhearted Will Shawcombe. He then returned the paper and the quill to Matthew, who knew what was expected of him. Still moving as if enveloped in a gray haze, Matthew signed his name beneath Woodward's, along with the title Magistrate's Clerk.

And it was done.

"You may read it to the defendant, " Woodward said, avoiding looking at his clerk's face because he knew what he would see there. "Take Bidwell with you, as he should also hear it."

Matthew realized there was no use in delaying the inevitable. He slowly stood up, his mind yet fogged, and walked to the door with the decree in hand.

"Matthew?" Woodward said, "For whatever this is worth... I know you must think me heartless and cruel." He hesitated, swallowing thick pus. "But the proper sentence has been given. The witch must be burned... for the good of everyone."

"She is innocent, " Matthew managed to say, his gaze cast to the floor. "I can't prove anything yet, but I intend to keep—"

"You delude yourself... and it is time for delusions to cease."

Matthew turned toward the man, his eyes coldly furious. "You are wrong, sir, " he added. "Rachel is not a witch, she's a pawn. Oh yes, all the conditions for a burning at the stake have been met, and all is in order with the law, sir, but I am damned if I'll let someone I know to be innocent lose her life on hearsay and fantasy!"

Woodward rasped, "Your task is to read the decree! No more and no less!"

"I'll read it." Matthew nodded. "Then I'll drink rum to wash my mouth out, but I will not surrender! If she burns on Monday, I have five days to prove her innocent, and by God that's what I intend to do!"

Woodward started to answer with some vinegar, but his strength failed him. "Do what you must, " he said. "I can't... protect you from your nightbird, can I?"

"The only thing I fear is that Rachel is burned before I can prove who murdered her husband and Reverend Grove. If that happens, I don't know how I can live with myself."

"Oh, my Christ." It had been spoken as nearly a moan. Woodward closed his eyes, feeling faint. "She has you so deeply... and you don't even realize it."

"She has my trust, if that's what you infer."

"She has your soul." His eyes opened; in an instant they had become sunken and bloodshot. "I long for the moment we shall leave this place. Return to Charles Town... civilization and sanity. When I am cured and in good health again, we'll put all this behind us. And then... when you can see clearly... you'll understand what danger tempted you."

Matthew had to get out, because the magistrate had been reduced to babbling. He couldn't bear to see the man—so proud, so regal, and so correct—on the verge of becoming a fever-dulled imbecile. He said, "I'm going, " but he still hesitated before he left the bedchamber. His tone had softened; there was no point now in harshness. "Can I get anything for you?"

Woodward drew in a suffering breath and released it. "I want ... "he began, but his agonized throat felt in jeopardy of closing and he had to start again. "I want... things to be as they were... between us. Before we came to this wretched place. I want us to return to Charles Town... and go on, as if none of this ever happened." He looked hopefully at Matthew. "All right?"

Matthew stood at the window, staring out at the sunlit town. The sky was turning bright blue, though the way he felt it might have been a dismal downpour out there. He knew what the magistrate wanted him to say. He knew it would ease him, but it would be a lie. He said quietly, "I wish it might be so, sir. But you and I both know it will not be. I may be your clerk... I may be under your watchcare, and live in your house... but I am a man, sir. If I fail to fight for the truth as I see it, then what kind of man am I? Surely not the kind you have taught me to be. So... you ask for something I am unable to give you, Isaac."

There was a long, torturous silence. Then the magistrate spoke in his dry husk of a voice: "Leave me."

Matthew walked out, taking the hateful decree downstairs to where Bidwell was waiting.

twenty-six

THE MAGISTRATE HAS MADE HIS DECREE, " Matthew said. Rachel, who was sitting on her bench with the coarse robe around her and the cowl shielding her face, hadn't moved when Matthew and Bidwell entered the gaol. Now she simply gave a brief nod, signifying her acknowledgment of the document that was about to be read.

"Go on, let's hear it!" Bidwell had been in such a hurry that he'd demanded they walk instead of waiting for the horses and carriage to be readied, and now he was truly champing at his bit.

Matthew stood beneath the roof hatch, which was open. He unrolled the document and began to read the preface in a calm, emotionless voice. Behind him, Bidwell paced back and forth. The master of Fount Royal abruptly stopped when Matthew reached the portion that began: "On the Charge of the Murder of the Reverend Burlton Grove..." Matthew could hear the man's wolfish breathing at his back. "I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty."

There was a smack as Bidwell struck his palm with his fist in a gesture of triumph. Matthew flinched, but kept his attention focused on Rachel. She showed no reaction whatsoever. "With a Stipulation, " Matthew continued. "That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or Associations."

"Yes, but it's all the same, isn't it?" Bidwell crowed. "She might as well have done it with her own hands!"

Matthew kept going by sheer force of will. "On the Charge of the Murder of Daniel Howarth, I Find the Aforesaid Defendant Guilty, With a Stipulation." At the word guilty, this time Rachel had given a soft cry and lowered her head. "That the Defendant Did Not Actually Commit the Murder, But Caused It to be Committed by Her Words, Deeds, or Associations."

"Excellent, excellent!" Bidwell gleefully clapped his hands together.

Matthew looked fiercely into the man's grinning face. "Would you please restrain yourself? This is not a five-pence play requiring comments from the idiots' gallery!"

Bidwell's grin only broadened. "Oh, say what you like! Just keep reading that blessed decree!"

Matthew's task—performed so many times at the magistrate's behest over criminals common and extraordinary—had become a test of endurance. He had to go on.

"On the Charge of Witchcraft, " he read to Rachel, "I Find the Aforesaid Defendant..." and here his throat almost clenched shut to prevent him from speaking, but the horrible word had to be uttered, "... Guilty."

"Ah, sweet deliverance!" Bidwell all but shouted.

Rachel made no sound, but she put a trembling hand to her cowl-shrouded face as if the word—which she had known would be delivered—had been a physical blow.

"By Virtue of the Power Ascribed to Me As Colonial Magistrate, " Matthew read, "I Hereby Sentence the Aforesaid Defendant Rachel Howarth to Burning at the Stake As Warranted by the King's Law. The Sentence to be Carried Out on Monday, the Twenty-Second of May, Sixteen-Ninety-Nine." When the distasteful chore was finished, he dropped the document down by his side.

"Your hours are numbered!" Bidwell said, standing behind Matthew. "Your master may have torched the schoolhouse last night, but we'll build it back!"

"I think you should leave, " Matthew told him, though he was too drained to raise his voice.

"You may go to your reward knowing that all your work to destroy my town was for nothing!" Bidwell raved on. "Once you're dead, Fount Royal shall rise to fame and glory!"

Rachel gave no response to these cutting comments, if indeed she felt them through her sphere of misery.

Still Bidwell wasn't done. "This is truly the day that God made!" He couldn't help it; he had to reach out and clap Matthew on the back. "A fine job you and the magistrate have done! And an excellent decision! Now... I must go start the preparations! There's a stake to be cut, and by Christ's blood it'll be the best stake any damned witch was ever burned on!" He glared at Rachel through the bars. "Your master may send every demon in his barn to cause us woe between now and Monday morn, but we'll weather it! You may rely on that, witch! So tell your black-cocked dog that Robert Bidwell never failed at anything in his life and Fount Royal will be no exception! Do you hear me?" He was no longer speaking directly to Rachel now but was looking around the gaol, his voice thunderous and haughty as if he were sending a warning to the very ears of the Devil. "We shall live and thrive here, no matter what treacheries you send against us!"

His chest-beating complete, Bidwell stalked to the door but stopped when he realized Matthew had not followed. "Come along! I want you to read that decree in the streets!"

"I take my commands from the magistrate, sir. If he requires me to read it for the public, I shall, but not until he so orders it."

"I've neither the time nor inclination to wrangle with you!" Bidwell's mouth had taken on an ugly sneer. "Ohhhh... yes, I see why you wish to dawdle! You intend to console her! If Woodward could see this lovely scene, it would send him two steps nearer his death!"

Matthew's initial impulse was to advance upon Bidwell and strike his face so hard that what served as the man's brains might dribble from his ears, but the ensuing duel that would likely follow would provide no good purpose save work for the gravedigger and a probable misspelling of his own name on the marker. Therefore he reined in his inclination and simply glowered daggers at the man.

Bidwell laughed, which acted as a bellows to further heat Matthew's banked fires. "A tender, touching moment between the witch and her latest conquest! I swear, you'd be better off lying in the lap of Mrs. Nettles! But do as you please!" He aimed his next jibe at Rachel. "Demons, old men, or babes in the woods: it doesn't matter what flavor your suckets! Well, take your rapture, as you shall be paying dearly for it come Monday!" He turned and made his leave like the strutting bird whose gaudy blue colored his suit.

In the aftermath of Bidwell's departure, Matthew realized that words were not potent enough instruments with which to communicate his sorrow. He rolled up the document, as it would have to be placed on official file in Charles Town.

Rachel spoke, her face still shielded. "You have done what you could. For that I thank you." Her voice, though weakened and listless, yet held a full measure of dignity.

"Listen to me!" Matthew stepped forward and grasped one of the bars with his free hand. "Monday is still a distance off—"

"A small distance, " she interrupted.

"A distance, nevertheless. The magistrate may have issued his decree, but I don't intend to stop my inquiries."

"You might as well." She stood up and pushed the cowl back from her face. "It is finished, whether you accept it or not."

"I don't accept it!" he shouted. "I never shall accept it!" He shut his mouth, shamed by his loss of control; he stared down at the dirty floor, searching within himself for any semblance of an articulate response. "To accept such a thing... means I agree with it and that is impossible. I can never, as long as I live, agree with this... this wrongful execution of an innocent victim."

"Matthew?" she said softly, and he looked at her. They stared at each other for a moment. Rachel approached him but stopped well short of the bars.

She said, "Go on about your life."

He found no answer.

"I am dead, " Rachel told him. "Dead. When I am taken on Monday to be burned, my body will be there for the flames... but the woman I used to be before Daniel was murdered is no longer here. Since I was brought to this gaol, I have slipped away. I did have hope, at one point, but I hardly remember what it felt like."

"You mustn't give up hope, " Matthew insisted. "If there is one more day, there is always—"

"Stop, " she said firmly. "Please... just stop. You think you are doing the right thing, by encouraging my spirit... but you are not. The time has come to embrace reality, and to put aside these... fantasies of my life being spared. Whoever committed these murders is too smart, Matthew. Too... demonic. Against such a power, I have no hope and I wish to cease this pretending. It does not prepare me for the stake, and that above all else is what I must do."

"I am close to learning something, " Matthew said. "Something important, though I'm not sure yet how it relates to you. I think it does, though. I think I have uncovered the first strands that form a rope, and the rope will lead me to—"

"I am begging you, " she whispered, and now there were tears in her eyes though her face displayed no other betrayal of emotion, "to cease this playing with Fate. You can't free me. Neither can you save my life. Do you not understand that an end has been reached?"

"An end has not been reached! I'm telling you, I have found—"

"You have found something that may mean something, " Rachel said. "And you might study it until a year from Monday, but I can't wish for freedom any longer, Matthew. I am going to be burned, and I must—I must—spend the time I have left in prayer and preparation." She looked up at the sunlight that streamed through the hatch, and at the cloudless azure sky beyond. "When they come for me... I'll be afraid, but I can't let them see it. Not Green, not Paine... especially not Bidwell. I can't allow myself to cry, or to scream and thrash. I don't want them sitting in Van Gundy's tavern, boasting over how they broke me. Laughing and drinking and saying how at the end I begged for mercy. I will not. If there is a God in Heaven, He will seal my mouth on that morning. They may cage me and strip me, dirty me and call me witch... but they will not make me into a shrieking animal. Not even on the stake." Her eyes met Matthew's again. "I have a single wish. Will you grant it?"

"If it's possible."

"It is. I wish you to walk out of here and not return."

Matthew hadn't known what to expect, but this request was as painful—and as startling—as a slap across the face.

Rachel watched him intently. When he failed to respond, she said, "It is more than a wish, it is a demand. I want you to put this place behind you. As I said before: go on about your life." Still he couldn't summon an answer. Rachel came forward two more paces and touched his hand that gripped the bar. "Thank you for your belief in me, " she said, her face close to his. "Thank you for listening. But it's over now. Please understand that, and accept it."

Matthew found his voice, though it was near perished. "How can I go on about my life, knowing such injustice was done?"

She gave him a faint, wry smile. "Injustice is done somewhere every day. It is a fact of living. If you don't already know that to be true, you are much less worldly than I thought." She sighed, and let her hand fall away from his. "Go away, Matthew. You've done your best."

"No, I haven't."

"You have. If you need me to release you from some imagined obligation to me... there." Rachel waved her hand past his face. "You are released."

"I cannot just walk out of here like that, " he said.

"You have no choice." Again, she levelled her gaze at him.

"Go on, now. Leave me alone." She turned away and went back to her bench.

"I will not give up, " Matthew said. "You may... but I swear I won't."

over toward her waterbowl. She cupped her hand into it and brought water to her mouth.

"I won't, " he repeated. "Do you hear me?" She pulled her hood over her head, shrouding her face once more, and withdrew into her mansion of solitude.

Matthew realized he might stand here as long as he pleased, but Rachel had removed herself to a sanctum that only she could inhabit. He suspected it was the place of reflection—perhaps of the memories of happier times—that had kept her mind from cracking during the long hours of her imprisonment. He realized also, with a twist of anguish, that he was no longer welcome in her company. She did not wish to be distracted from her inner dialogue with Death.

It was indeed time to leave her. Still he lingered, watching her immobile figure. He hoped she might say something again to him, but she was silent. After a few moments he went to the door. There was no movement or response from Rachel. He started to speak once more, but he knew not what to say. Goodbye seemed the only proper word, yet he was loath to utter it. He walked out into the cruel sunlight.

Shortly the smell of charred wood drifted to his nostrils, and he paused at the pile of blackened ruins. There was hardly anything left to attest that it had ever been a schoolhouse. All four walls were gone, and the roof had fallen in. He wondered if somewhere in the debris might be the wire handle of what had been a bucket.

Matthew had almost told Rachel about his findings of last night, but he'd decided not to for the same reason he'd decided to withhold the information from Bidwell: for the moment, the secret was best kept locked in his own vault. He needed an answer to the question of why Winston was spiriting infernal fire from Charles Town and using it to set flame to Bidwell's dream. He also needed from Winston further details—if the man could supply them—of the so-called surveyor who'd come to Fount Royal. Therefore his mission this morning was clear: to find Edward Winston.

He inquired from the first person he saw—a pipe-smoking farmer carrying a flasket of yellow grain—as to the location of Winston's house, and was informed that the dwelling stood on Harmony Street just shy of the cemetery. Matthew started off to his destination, walking at a brisk pace.

The house did stand within a stone's toss of the first row of grave markers. Matthew noted that the shutters were sealed, indicating that Winston must be out. It was by no means a large dwelling, and probably only held two or three rooms. The house had been painted white at some point in the past but the whitewash had worn off, leaving a mottled appearance to the walls. It occurred to Matthew that—unlike Bidwell's mansion and some of the sturdier farmhouses—Winston's abode had an air of shoddy impermanence akin to that found in the slave quarters. Matthew continued up the walk, which was made of packed sand and hammer-crushed oyster shells, and knocked soundly at the door.

There was but a short wait. "Who is it?" came Winston's voice—rough-edged and perhaps a bit slurred—from within the house.

"Matthew Corbett. May I please speak with you?"

"Concerning what?" This time he was making an obvious effort to disguise what might be termed an unbalanced condition. "The witch?"

"No, sir. Concerning a surveyor who came to Fount Royal four years ago." Silence fell. "Mr. Bidwell has told me you walked the man around, " Matthew pressed on. "I'd like to know what you might recall of him."

"I... have no recollection of such a man. If you'll forgive me now... I have some ledger business to attend to."

Matthew doubted that Winston had any business other than drinking and plotting more conflagrations. "I do have some information pertaining to Rachel Howarth. Might you want to see the magistrate's decision? I've just come from reading it to her."

Almost at once there was the sound of a latch being undone. The door opened a few inches, enough for a slice of sunlight to enter the house and fall upon Winston's haggard, unshaven face. "The decision?" he said, squinting in the glare. "You have it with you?"

"I do." Matthew held up the rolled document. "May I come in?"

Winston hesitated, but Matthew knew the die had been cast. The door was opened wide enough to admit Matthew and then closed again at his back.

Within the small front room, two candles burned on a wicker table. Beside the candles, and set before the bench that Winston had been occupying, was a squat blue bottle and a wooden tankard. Up until this moment Matthew had thought Winston to be—judging from his usual neatness of appearance and his precise manners—a paradigm of efficiency, but Matthew's opinion suddenly suffered a sharp reversal.

The room might have sickened a pig. On the floor lay scattered shirts, stockings, and breeches that Winston had not bothered to pick up. The smell of damp and musty cloth—coupled with body odor from some of the gamier articles—was somewhat less than appealing. Also littering the floor were crumpled balls of paper, spilled tobacco, a broken clay pipe here and there, a few books whose bindings had come unstitched, and sundry other items that had outlived their use but not been consigned to a proper garbage pit. Even the narrow little hearth was near choked with cold ashes and bits of trash. In fact, it might be within bounds to say that the entire room resembled a garbage pit, and Matthew shuddered to think what Winston's bedchamber might conceal. A bucket of sulphurous chemicals might be the least noxious of it.

Nearby stood the desk that Winston had recovered from the gaol. Now Matthew understood why it had been so thoroughly cleaned out when Winston had it carted over, as its surface was a jumbled mess of more crumpled and ink-splattered papers, a number of candles melted down to stubs, and a disorderly pile of ledger books. Matthew was surprised that Winston had been able to lay his hands on a clean sheaf of paper and an unspilled inkjar in this rat's nest. It occurred to him, in his brief but telling inspection, that all Winston's business with Bidwell was done at the mansion because Winston wished not to reveal his living conditions—and possibly the condition of his mental affairs—to his employer.

Winston was pouring liquid from the blue bottle into his tankard. He wore a long gray nightshirt that bore evidence of many poor repatchings, as well as several small scorched holes that told Matthew the man's control of fire did not extend to power over a spilled pipe. "So, " Winston said. "The decree's been made, eh?" He downed some of his pleasure, which Matthew assumed was either hard cider or rum. "Bring it over here and spread it out."

Matthew did, but he kept a hand on the document, as it was his charge. Winston leaned over and read the ornate handwriting. "No surprises there, I see. She's to be burned on Monday, then?"

"Yes."

"High time. She should've gone to the stake a month ago; we'd all be the better for it."

Matthew rolled the decree up again. He cast a disdainful eye about his surroundings. "Do you always live in this fashion?"

Winston had been about to drink again, but the tankard's ascent paused. "No, " he said with sarcasm. "My servants have been called away. Ordinarily I have a footman, a parlor wench, and a chamberpot scrubber." The tankard went to his mouth and he wiped his lips with the back of his hand. "You may go now, Sir Reverence."

Matthew smiled slightly, but his face was tight. Sir Reverence was gutter slang for human excrement. "You must have had a late night, " he said.

"A late night?" Winston's eyebrows went up. "Meaning what?"

"Meaning... a late night. I had assumed you were an early riser, and therefore must have been working into the small hours."

"Working." He nodded. "Yes. I'm always working." He motioned toward the ledger-laden desk. "See there? Managing his money. His pence and guineas and dog dollars. His ins and outs. That's what I do."

"You don't sound particularly proud of your accomplishments for Mr. Bidwell, " Matthew ventured. "He must rely on your services quite a lot, doesn't he?"

Winston stared at Matthew, his bloodshot eyes wary. "You may go now, " he repeated, with a more ominous inflection.

"I shall. But Mr. Bidwell himself suggested I find you and ask about the surveyor. As you were the one who escorted the man around, I hoped that—"

"A surveyor? I hardly remember the man!" Again Winston quaffed from the tankard, and this time the gleaming residue trickled down his chin. "What was it? Four years ago?"

"Or thereabouts."

"Go on, get out!" Winston sneered. "I don't have time for your foolishness!"

Matthew took a deep breath. "Yes, you do, " he answered.

"What? By God, will I have to throw you out of here?"

Matthew said quietly, "I know about your nocturnal activities."

The hand of God might have come down to stop time and still all sounds.

Matthew went on, taking advantage of the moment. "In addition, I have one of the six buckets that Mr. Rawlings and the others buried. Therefore it's no use to go out tonight and move them. The seventh bucket you took away is hidden here somewhere, I presume?"

The hand of God was a mighty instrument. It had turned Edward Winston into a gape-mouthed statue. In another few seconds, however, the tankard slipped from Winston's grasp and crashed to the floor.

"I presume it is, " Matthew said. "You used a brush to paint the chemicals on the walls of the houses you set afire, am I correct? It does seem to be a potent concoction."

Winston did not move, did not speak, and hardly appeared to be breathing. The color of his face and the somber grisard of his nightshirt were one and the same.

Matthew spent a moment looking around the littered room before he spoke again. "This is what I believe, " he said. "That on one of your supply trips to Charles Town with Nicholas Paine, you approached someone of authority there. Possibly Mr. Danforth, the harbormaster, but possibly someone with more interest in seeing that Fount Royal never grows to Bidwell's ambition. I suspect you might have sent Mr. Paine on some errand or another while you made this contact. He doesn't know, does he?"

Matthew hadn't expected Winston to reply, therefore he was not disappointed. "I don't think he knows, " Matthew said. "I think this is your intrigue alone. You volunteered to take advantage of Rachel Howarth's plight and set numerous fires to empty houses, thus speeding along the process of emptying more. Am I so far correct?" Winston slowly sank down upon his bench, his mouth still open.

"The problem was that you needed an incendiary to ignite in wet weather." Matthew prodded some discarded clothes with the toe of his right shoe. "The buckets of chemicals had to be mixed in Charles Town and secreted here by ship. The crew must have had some rough voyages, I'd suspect. But Mr. Rawlings must be making a profit for his risk. I would think you are making a profit for your risk as well. Or perhaps you've been promised a position in Charles Town after Fount Royal fails?"

Winston lifted a hand and put it to his forehead, his eyes glassy with shock.

"It is to your credit that you don't mar your dignity with denials, " Matthew offered. "I am curious, though. Bidwell tells me you've been in his employ for eight years. Why did you turn against him?"

Now both hands were pressed to Winston's face. He breathed raggedly, his shoulders slumped.

"I have seen enough of human nature to have an idea." Matthew went to the cluttered desk and opened one of the ledger books. He flipped through the pages as he spoke. "You know more than anyone else how much Bidwell is worth. You see his wealth on display, you see his plans for the future, and you see... your own existence, which according to the way you live is at a low flux. So I would venture to say this revolves around your own perceived misery. Did they promise you a mansion in Charles Town? A statue in your honor? What exactly did they promise, Mr. Winston?"

Winston reached with a feeble hand for the blue bottle, brought it to his mouth, and took a long swallow of courage. When he lowered the bottle, he blinked away tears and said, "Money."

"Considerably more than Bidwell was paying you, yes?"

"More than... I could hope to earn in two lifetimes." Again he drank copiously from the bottle. "You don't know what it's like, working for him. Being around him... and all that he has. He spends on wigs alone every year an amount I might live on as a prince. And the clothes and food! If you knew the numbers, you would understand and be sickened as I am by the man's philosophy: not a shilling more for a servant's needs, but spare no expense for the master's desires!"

"I won't defend him, but I will say that such is the right of a master."

"It is the right of no man!" Winston said heatedly. "I have an education, I am literate, and I consider myself reasonably bright! But I might as well be a slave, as far as he's concerned! I might even be the better for it!" He laughed harshly. "At least Bidwell cares enough about Goode to have bought him a fiddle!"

"The difference is that Goode is a slave and you're a free man. You can choose your employer. Then again..." Matthew nodded. "I suppose you have."

"Oh, be as smug as you please!" Winston turned upon Matthew an expression of the deepest disgust. "Look at my house, and look at his! Then look in the ledgers and see who directs the course of his monies! I do! He pretends to be such a sterling businessman, but in fact he is skilled at two things: intimidation and bluster. I ought to be a partner in his enterprises, for what I've encouraged! But it has been clearly and plainly shown to me by his actions that Bidwell takes good opinions and presents them as his own."

He held up a finger to mark his point. "Now, failed ventures... that's a different cart. Failure is always the fault of someone else... someone who invariably deserves to be banished from the kingdom. I have seen it happen. When Fount Royal fails—and it will, regardless of how many houses I flamed and how long the witch roasts on her stake—he will begin to fire his cannons of blame at every possible target. Including this one." He thumped his chest with his fist. "Do you think I should sit at his beck and call and await a further slide into poverty? No. For your information—-and whatever you choose to do with it—I did not do the approaching. They approached me, when Paine and I were on separate tasks in Charles Town. At first I refused... but they sweetened their offer with a house and a position on the Shipping Council. It was my idea to set the fires."

"And a clever idea it was, " Matthew said. "You hid behind Rachel Howarth's skirts and the Devil's shadow. Did it not trouble you in the least that these fires were ascribed to her?"

"No, " he answered without hesitation. "If you'll read that document you hold, you'll find there's no charge there concerning the setting of fires. She fashioned the poppets, committed the murders, and consorted with Satan of her own accord. I simply used the situation to my benefit."

"Simply?" Matthew echoed. "I don't think there's anything simpleminded about you, Mr. Winston. I think coldly might be a better word."

"As you please." Winston offered a bitter smile. "I have learned from Bidwell that one fights fire with fire and ice with ice." His eyes narrowed. "So. You have a bucket. I presume you were hiding out there?" He waited for Matthew to nod. "Who else knows?"

"If you are considering violence as a solution, you might think otherwise. Someone else does know, but your secret is in no current danger."

Winston frowned. "What, then? Aren't you going to go running to Bidwell and tell him?"

"No, I'm not. As you've pointed out, the fires were incidental in the charges against Madam Howarth. I am hunting a smarter—and colder—fox than you."

"Pardon my dulled wits, but what are you talking about?"

"Your grievance against Bidwell is not my concern. Whatever you choose to do from this point is not of interest to me, either. As long as there are no future conflagrations, I might add."

Winston let go a sigh of relief. "Sir, " he said, "I bow gratefully before your mercy."

"My mercy has a price. I wish to know about the surveyor."

"The surveyor, " Winston repeated. He rubbed his temples with both hands. "I tell you... I can hardly recall the man. Why do you care to know about him, anyway?"

"My interest is a personal matter. Do you remember his name?"

"No. Wait... give me a moment..." He closed his eyes, obviously trying his best to concentrate. "I think... it was Spencer ... Spicer... something similar to that, at least." His eyes opened.

"The man was bearded?"

"Yes... a heavy beard. And he wore a hat."

"A tricorn?"

"No. It was... a loose-brimmed shade hat. Much like any farmer or traveller might wear. I remember... his clothing was rustic, as well."

"You took him walking around Fount Royal. How much time would you say you spent with him?"

Winston shrugged. "The better part of an afternoon, I suppose."

"Do you recall his description?"

"A beard and a hat, " Winston said. "That's all I can remember."

"And probably all you were meant to remember." Winston gave him a questioning look. "What does this concern?"

"It concerns the manipulation of memory, " Matthew answered. "Something I think my fox knows a great deal about."

"If you are making sense, I am unable to follow it."

"I believe I have information enough. Thank you for your time." Matthew started toward the door, and Winston stood up.

"Please!" Winston's voice held a note of urgency. "If you were in my position... what would you do? Remain here—and await the end—or go to Charles Town and try to salvage what I can of a future?"

"A difficult question, " Matthew said after a short consideration. "I would agree that your present is precarious, and since you have neither love nor loyalty for Bidwell you might as well seek your fortune elsewhere. However... as much a dog you think Bidwell to be, your masters in Charles Town are probably mongrels of similar breed. You might have known that, judging from the voracity with which they have eaten your soul. So... flip a coin, and good luck to you."

Matthew turned his back and left Edward Winston standing forlorn and alone in the midst of his self-made chaos.

twenty-seven

HIS THOUGHTS STILL CLOUDED by Winston's betrayal, Matthew was ascending the stairs to look in upon the magistrate when he almost collided with Mrs. Nettles, who was descending with a tray upon which sat a bowl of pap. "How is he?" Matthew asked.

"Not verra well, " she said, her voice low. "He's havin' some trouble even swallowin' the mush."

Matthew nodded grimly. "I have my doubts about whether the bloodletting is doing any good."

"I've seen it do wonders, though. That afflicted blood's got to be rid of."

"I hope you're right. I'm not sure his condition isn't being hastened by all this bleeding." He started to slide past her up the stairs, which was a precarious maneuver due to her formidable size and the lack of a railing.

"Just a moment, sir!" she said. "You have a visitor."

"A visitor? Who?"

"The child, " she said. "Violet Adams. She's in the library, waitin' for you."

"Oh?" Matthew instantly went back down the stairs and entered the library. His quick entrance startled the little girl, who was standing before the open window studying a bishop she had picked up from the chessboard. She jumped and backed away from him like a cornered deer.

"Forgive me, " Matthew said in a calming tone. He showed one palm in a non-threatening gesture, while he held the rolled-up decree at his side. "I should have announced myself."

She just stared at him, her body rigid as if she might either decide to flee past him or leap through the window. On this occasion she definitely was not groomed for a court appearance. Her light brown hair was loose about her shoulders and in need of washing, her tan-and-red-checked shift was held together with patches, and her shoes were near worn through.

"You've been waiting for me?" Matthew asked. She nodded. "I presume this is not an errand on behalf of your father and mother?"

"No sir, " she answered. "They sent me to fetch some water." Matthew looked down and saw two empty buckets on the floor. "I see. But you decided to come here first?"

"Yes sir."

"For what reason?"

Violet carefully placed the chesspiece back in its proper place on the board. "What are these, sir? Are they toys?"

"It's a game called chess. The pieces have different patterns of movement across the board."

"Ohhhh." She seemed much impressed. "Like knuckles 'n' stones, 'ceptin' you play that in the dirt."

"I imagine so, yes."

"They're pretty, " she said. "Did Mr. Bidwell carve 'em?"

"I doubt it."

She continued staring at the chessboard. The tic of her upper lip had returned. "Last night, " she said, "a rat got in my bed." Matthew didn't quite know how to respond to this matter-of-fact statement, so he said nothing.

"It got all tangled up in the beddin's, " she went on. "It couldn't get out, and I could feel it down at my feet, thrashin'. I couldn't get loose, neither. Both of us were tryin' to get out. Then my papa come in and I was scared I was gonna get bit so I was screamin'. So he grabbed it up in the sheet and hit it with a candlestick, and then my mama started screamin' 'cause there was blood everywhere and that sheet was ruined."

"I'm sorry, " Matthew said. "It must have been traumatic." Especially for a child of her sensitive nature, he might have added.

"Trau—what, sir?"

"I meant it must have been a fearsome experience."

"Yes sir." She nodded, and now she picked up a pawn and studied it in the sunlight. "The thing about it, though... is that... near mornin', I started rememberin' somethin'. About that man's voice I heard singin' in the Hamilton house."

Matthew's heart suddenly lodged in his throat. "Remembering what?"

"Whose voice it was." She put down the pawn and lifted her eyes to his. "It's still a fog... and thinkin' about it makes my head hurt somethin' awful, but... I recollected what he was sin-gin'." She took a breath and began to softly sing, in a sweet and clear timbre: "Come out, come out, my dames and dandies. Come out, come out, and taste my candies..."

"The ratcatcher, " Matthew said. In his mind he heard Linch singing that same macabre song during the massacre of rats at the gaol.

"Yes sir. It was Mr. Linch's voice I heard, from that room back there."

Matthew stared intensely into the child's eyes. "Tell me this, Violet: how did you know it was Linch's voice? Had you ever heard that song before?"

"One time he come to kill a nest of rats my papa found. They were all big ones, and black as night. Mr. Linch came and brought his potions and his sticker, and that was what he was singin' when he was waitin' for the rats to get drunk."

"Did you tell anyone else about this? Your mother and father?"

"No sir. They don't like for me to talk of it."

"Then you shouldn't tell them you've been here to see me, either."

"No sir, I wouldn't dare. I'd get a terrible whippin'."

"You ought to get your water and go home, then, " Matthew said. "But one more thing: when you entered the Hamilton house, do you remember smelling anything? Like a very bad odor?" He was thinking of the decaying carcass. "Or did you see or hear a dog?"

Violet shook her head. "No sir, none of that. Why?"

"Well..." Matthew reached down to the chessboard and traded positions between the king's knight and the king's bishop. "If you were to describe this board and the pieces upon it to someone not in this room, how would you do so?"

She shrugged. "I suppose... that it's a wooden board with light and dark squares and some pieces in position on it."

"Would you say the game is ready to be played?"

"I don't know, sir. I would say... it is, but then again I don't know the particulars."

"Yes." He smiled slightly. "And it is the particulars that make all the difference. I want to thank you for coming to tell me what you've remembered. I know this has been very difficult for you."

"Yes sir. But my mama says when the witch is burnt up my head won't pain me no more." She picked up the two buckets. "May I ask you somethin' now, sir?'"

"You may."

"Why do you suppose Mr. Linch was back there in the dark, singin' like that?"

"I don't know, " he answered.

"I thought on it all this mornin'." She stared out the window, the yellow sunlight coloring her face. "It made my head ache so bad I almost cried, but it seemed like somethin' I had to keep thinkin' on." Violet didn't speak for a moment, but Matthew could tell from the set of her jaw that she had come to an important conclusion. "I think... Mr. Linch must be a friend of Satan's. That's what I think."

"You might possibly be right. Do you know where I might find Mr. Linch?"

An expression of alarm tightened her face. "You're not going to tell him, are you?"

"No. I promise it. I would just like to know where he lives."

She hesitated for a few seconds, but she knew he would find out anyway. "At the end of Industry Street. He lives in the very last house."

"Thank you."

"I don't know if I was right to come here, " she said, frowning. "I mean to say... if Mr. Linch is a friend of the Devil, shouldn't he be called to account for it?"

"He'll be called for an accounting, " Matthew said. "You may depend on that." He touched her shoulder. "You were right to come. Go ahead, now. Get your water."

"Yes sir." Violet left the library with her buckets in tow, and a moment later Matthew stood at the window watching her walk to the spring. Then, his mind aflame with this new information, he hurried upstairs to look in on the magistrate.

He found Woodward sleeping again, which was probably for the best. The magistrate's face sparkled with sweat, and when Matthew approached the bed he could feel the man's fever long before he placed his fingers to Woodward's hot forehead.

The magistrate stirred. His mouth opened, yet his eyes remained sealed. "Hurting, " he said, in that tormented whisper. 'Ann... he's hurting..."

Matthew drew his hand back. The tips of his fingers felt as if he had held them over a forge. Matthew placed the rolled-up decree atop the dresser and then picked up the box that held the remainder of the court documents so that he might continue reading through them tonight. For now, though, he had other things to do. He went to his room, put the document box on the table beside his bed, splashed water in his face from his shaving bowl to revive his flagging energies, and then was again out the door.

It had become a truly magnificent day. The sky was bright blue and cloudless and the sun was gorgeously warm. A light breeze was blowing from the west, and in it Matthew could detect the fragrances of wild honeysuckle, pine sap, and the rich aroma of fulsome earth. He might have sat down upon the bank of the spring to enjoy the warmth, as he saw several citizens doing, but he had a task ahead of him that granted no freedom of time for simple pleasures.

On his way along Industry Street—which he was beginning to know quite well—he passed Exodus Jerusalem's camp. Actually, he heard the bluster of Jerusalem's preaching before he got there and he marvelled that the breeze didn't become a hot and malodorous tempest in this quarter of Fount Royal. Jerusalem's sister—and by that term Matthew didn't know whether the preacher meant by blood or by indecent patronage—was scrubbing clothes in a washpot next to the wagon, while the young nephew—and here it was best to make no mental comment— was lying on a quilt in the shade nearby, picking the petals off a yellow flower and tossing them idly aside. The black-garbed master of ceremonies, however, was hard at work; he stood upon an overturned crate, orating and gesticulating for a somber crowd of two men and a woman.

Matthew stared straight ahead, hoping to invoke invisibility as he slipped past Jerusalem's field of view, but he knew it was not to be. "Ah!" came the sky-ripping shout. "Ah, there walketh a sinner! Right there! Look, everyone! Look how he doth scurry like a thief in broad daylight!"

What Jerusalem called scurrying Matthew called picking up his pace. He dared not pause to deflect Jerusalem's hook, for then he would be nattered to holes by this pseudo-holy imbecile. Therefore he kept a constant course, even though the preacher began to rant and rave in a fashion that made Matthew's blood start to boil: "Yes, look at him and thy looketh upon the pride of a witch's bed! Oh, did thou not all know the vile truth? Well, it is as plain as the writ of God across the soul of a righteous man! That sinner yonder hath actually struck me—struck me, I sayeth!—in defense of that wanton sorceress he so dearly yearn-eth to protect! And not just protect! Gentle flock, if thou but kneweth the cravings in that sinner's mind concerning the dark woman, thou might falleth to thy knees in the frenzy of madness! He wisheth the flesh of her body be gripped in his hands, her mouth open to his abominable needs, her every orifice a receptacle of his goatly lusts! And there he goeth, the blind wretched beast, scurrying away from the word of God lest it scorcheth some light into his eyes and maketh him see the path to Damnation upon which he rusheth to travel!"

The only path upon which Matthew rusheth was the one leading away from Exodus Jerusalem. It occurred to him, as he gladly left the preacher's caterwaulings behind, that the gentle flock would probably cough up some coins to hear more on the subject of orifices, receptacles, and goatly lusts, which was probably at the heart of it the whole reason for their attendance today. Matthew had to admit that Jerusalem had a talent at painting horny pictures. For now, though—until, dreadfully, he had to come back this way—his attention was focused on finding the ratcatcher's domicile.

He passed the Hamilton house and Violet's home, and continued by a large weed-choked field where a split-rail fence had fallen to disrepair. Further on, what appeared to be an attempt at an apple orchard was stubbled with dwarfed and twisted trees that seemed to be begging for the mercy of an axe. On the opposite side of Industry Street, the feeble trees of another unfortunate planting drooped in apparent pain, their few remaining leaves blotched with brown and ochre sores. In this area of Fount Royal, the sun might be shining but there was definitely no rejoicing of nature.

Matthew saw that Bidwell's orchards had suffered greatly during the long period of storms. The coarse, sandy earth had been washed away to such an extent that some trees seemed more exposed roots than branches, and what branches there were had shrivelled and malformed in their piteous reach for sunlight. Here and there some kind of knobby-looking thing had sprouted, but it was more green mold than edible product. This display of blighted agriculture seemed to stretch on and on like a preview of the harvests of Hell, and Matthew could readily understand how Bidwell and the citizens might ascribe the devastation not to natural causes but to a demonic purpose.

As Matthew continued walking between the miserable fields he reflected on the possibility that, in addition to the havoc wreaked by the deluge, this climate and soil might not be suited to sustain the types of crops that Bidwell was trying to grow. Of course Bidwell was trying to produce something that would earn him money and attention from the home country, but it might be that apples, for instance, were doomed in this swamp air. Likewise doomed was whatever those green molded things were. It might be, then, that a suitable cash crop for Fount Royal was yet to be planted, and Bidwell could benefit from the advice of a professional botanist. Yet a botanist would command a sizeable fee, and Matthew thought that if Winston was correct about Bidwell's combination of stinginess and swollen self-worth—and there was no reason to doubt it—then the master of Fount Royal was apt to consider himself as much an expert on growing crops as in building ships.

Presently Matthew came to the last dwelling on Industry Street, beyond which stood the fortress wall.

If the ratcatcher desired to live apart from other human beings, he could only have created a more suitable abode by digging a hole in the earth and covering it with a mudcaked roof. The house—-if it might be distinguished by such a term—made Winston's shack appear the brother of Bidwell's mansion. Brush had been allowed to grow up around it, all but obscuring it from view. Vines gripped the gray clapboards and ivy grew abundant on the roof. The house's four windows were sealed by unpainted and badly weathered shutters, and Matthew thought it was a wonder the rains hadn't broken the poor place down to the ground entirely.

Matthew made his way to the door over a bare yard still treacherous with mud. Over the door Linch had hung three large rat skeletons from leather cords, as if to announce his trade to the world—whatever portion of the world cared to come to this place, that is. But then again, perhaps those three rats had given him such a fight Linch felt the need to mount them as trophies. Matthew swallowed his disgust, balled up his fist, and knocked at the door.

He waited, but there was no response. Matthew knocked again, and this time called, "Mr. Linch? May I speak with you, please?" Still there was no answer. The ratcatcher was out, probably pursuing some long-tailed dame or dandy.

Matthew had come a distance to see the man, and he despised the thought of making a second trip. He might wait for Linch, he decided, though there was no telling when the ratcatcher would return. He knocked a third time, just to know he had, and then he put his hand on the door's crude latch. He paused, weighing his sense of morality as concerning entering a man's home unbidden.

Pulling his hand back, he stepped away from the door and stood looking at the latch with his hands on his hips. What was the right thing to do? He glanced up Industry Street the way he'd come. There was no sign of a living soul. Of course, the right thing was to leave and return at a later time. The necessary thing... now that was a horse pulling a different cart.

But he wasn't sure he wanted to enter Linch's sanctum. If a place ever smelled like dead rats, he was sure this one did. And those skeletons did not speak well of what else might be on display in there. Matthew looked again down Industry Street. Still no sign of anyone. If he wanted a chance to explore the ratcatcher's quarters, this was definitely the moment.

He took a deep breath. Trespassing upon a house was far different than intruding upon a barn... or was it? He didn't care to debate the distinction.

He quickly lifted the latch, before he could think better of it, and pushed the door open. It went smoothly, on oiled hinges. And by the sunlight that entered the house Matthew saw a very strange thing.

He stood at the threshold, peering in and wondering if he had lost his senses. Or at least his sense of order. This revelation took him inside. He looked around, his curiosity now well and truly piqued.

There was a desk and a sleeping pallet, a hearth and a shelf of cooking utensils. There was a chair and beside it a table on which sat a lantern. Nearby were a half-dozen candles wrapped up in oiled paper. A chamberpot was placed at the foot of the pallet. Two pairs of dirty shoes were lined up side-by-side next to the hearth, which was perfectly devoid of ashes. A broom leaned against the wall, ready for work.

And this was what so completely astounded Matthew: Linch's dwelling was the absolute picture of neatness.

The pallet had been made, its bedding tight and precise. The chamberpot was spotless. So too were the cooking pots and utensils. The lantern's glass bore not a trace of candlesoot. The floor and walls had been recently scrubbed, and the house still smelled of pinetar soap. Matthew thought he might have eaten off that floor and not tasted a grain of dirt. Everything was so orderly that it put a scare into Matthew even more than the terrible chaos of Winston's home, for the single reason that— like Winston had been—the ratcatcher was not who he appeared to be.

"Well, " Matthew said, and his voice trembled. He looked once more toward town, but thankfully Industry Street was still empty. Then he continued his examination of this place that seemed to be a hovel from without but within was the epitome of ... might the word Matthew was searching for be control?

This was one of the damnedest things he'd ever seen. The only bad note in the house was the foursome of dirty shoes, and Matthew thought those were part of Linch's ratcatching costume. He decided to add a pound to his penny of intrusion and therefore opened a trunk, finding within it more clothes—shirts, breeches, and stockings, all of them clean and perfectly folded.

Beside the lantern and the candles was a small ivory box. Matthew opened it and discovered matches and a flint, the matches all lined up like obedient soldiers. In a larger box that occupied a corner Matthew discovered a supply of salted beef, ears of com, a pot of flour and a pot of grain, a bottle of rum and a bottle of wine, and various other foodstuffs. Upon the desk was a clay pipe and a carefully wrapped packet of tobacco. There was also an inkpot, a quill, and some papers ready to be written upon. He slid open the desk's top drawer, and found a second inkpot and a stack of paper, a leather wallet and... wonder of wonders... a book.

It was a thin volume, but a well-read and well-travelled tome, from the wear and tear of the binding. Matthew gently opened it to the title page—which threatened to fall out between his fingers—and received another puzzlement. The book's title, faded as it was, read A Pharaoh's Life, or Concerning Fanciful Events in Ancient Egypt.

Matthew knew that Egyptian culture, known through the travails of Moses in the Holy Bible, was a source of great fascination to a certain segment of the English and European populace—mainly, those gentry who had the time and inclination to indulge in theories and discourse on what that mysterious civilization might have been like. He could have expected a book of this nature to adorn Bidwell's library, simply for the show of it, but never touched; it was absolutely incredible that the ratcatcher might have an interest in the life of a pharaoh, however fancifully described. Matthew would have paged through the book to get an idea of its contents, but as the leaves were so fragile he decided to forgo that particular exploration. It was enough for now to know that Gwinett Linch was not the man he presented himself to be.

But if not... then who was he?

Matthew closed the book and made sure it was exactly in the position it had been when he'd touched it, as he had the feeling that Linch would know if it had been moved a hair's width. He picked up the wallet, unfolded it, and found inside a small object wrapped in brown cotton cloth and secured with knotted twine. Matthew's interest was further sharpened. The problem, however, was not the undoing of the twine but in the redoing of it. Was it worth the time and effort?

He decided it was.

He carefully untied the cord, noting the structure of the knot. Then he opened the cloth.

It was a piece of jewelry: a circular gold brooch, but missing its clasping pin. Picking up the item, he held it into the sunlight... and stared with amazement into the blazing dark blue depths of a sapphire that was near the size of his thumbnail.

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck. He twisted his head around, his eyes widening, but the doorway was empty.

Linch—or the man who called himself Linch—was not there. From where he stood, Matthew could see no one approaching. But he was certain that if Linch found him with this fabulous jewel in his hand, his life would be as short as that of a belly-gashed rat on the bloody blade of that sticker.

Time to go. Time to get out, while he could.

First, though, to wrap the brooch up once more, return it to the wallet and replace the wallet exactly—exactly—as it had been. His hands were shaking, as precision was a demanding taskmaster. When the wallet was correctly positioned, Matthew slid the drawer shut and stepped back, wiping his moist palms on his hips.

There were other drawers he might have wished to go through, and he might have desired to inspect the underside of Linch's pallet and further explore the house, but it would be daring Fate. He retreated to the door and was about to shut it when he realized with a shock that he had smeared across the otherwise-pristine floor a small amount of mud from the sodden yard.

He bent down, attempting to get the debris up with his hand. He succeeded somewhat but there was still a telltale streak. No doubt of it: Linch was going to know his sanctum had been violated.

A bell began ringing in the distance. Matthew, still working at removing the stain of his presence by spittle and elbow-grease, realized it was the watchman at the gate signaling an arrival. He had done the best he could do. A little grime on the floor would pall before the gore that would flow if Linch found him here. He stood up, went out, pulled the door shut, and dropped its latch.

As Matthew started walking back along Industry Street, the signal bell ceased. He assumed that the new arrival had been allowed into Fount Royal. Would that it was a doctor whose method was more medicine and less bloodletting!

The sun warmed his face and the breeze blew softly at his back. Yet Matthew had never felt as if he walked a darker or colder path. The sapphire in that brooch had to be worth a small fortune, therefore why was Linch stabbing rats for a living? And why did he go to such effort to disguise his true nature, which appeared to be a preference for order and control, behind a facade of filthiness? It seemed to Matthew that Linch even wished his house to look absolutely decrepit from the outside and had gone to some lengths to make it so.

This pit of deceit was deeper than he'd expected. But what did it have to do with Rachel? Linch was obviously a learned, intelligent man who could write with a quill and read books of theoretical substance; he was also quite well off financially, judging from the sapphire brooch. Why in the world was he acting such a wretched part?

And then there was the singing to consider. Had Violet gone into the Hamilton house or not? If she had, why didn't she notice the disagreeable odor of that dead dog? And if she had not gone in, then what strange power had made her believe she had? No, no; it was confusing to even his disciplined mind. The most troubling things about Violet's supposed entrance into the house were her sighting of the white-haired imp and her memory of the six gold buttons on Satan's cloak. Those details she shared with Buckner and Garrick were damnable evidence against Rachel. But what about the ratcatcher singing in that dark room where Matthew had found the bitch and her pups? One might say Violet had imagined it, but then could one not infer that she'd imagined the whole incident? But she could not imagine details that had already been supplied by Buckner and Garrick!

So: if Violet had entered the house, why was the ratcatcher singing back there in the dark? And if she had not entered the house, why—and how—did she fervently believe she had, and from where did those details of the white-haired imp and the six gold buttons come?

He was thinking so furiously on these questions that he failed to gird his wits for his return engagement with Exodus Jerusalem, but he found that the preacher's tongue had ceased its salivation over orifices. Indeed, Jerusalem, the trio of audience, and the so-called sister and the so-called nephew had departed and were nowhere to be seen. Matthew was soon aware, however, of a balhaloo in progress on Harmony Street. He saw four covered wagons and fifteen or twenty townspeople thronged about them. A lean gray-bearded man wearing a green tricorn sat at the reins of the first wagon's team and was engaged in conversation with Bidwell. Matthew also saw Winston standing behind his master; the cur had gone to some effort to shave and dress in clean clothes to make a presentable picture, and he was speaking to a young blond-haired man who appeared to be a companion to the wagon driver.

Matthew approached a farmer standing nearby. "May I ask what's going on?"

"The maskers have come, " the man, who had perhaps three teeth in his head, answered.

"Maskers? You mean actors?"

"That's right. They come every year and show a play. Weren't expected 'til midsummer, though."

Matthew was amazed at the tenacity of a travelling actors' troupe to negotiate the bone-jarring road between here and Charles Town. He recalled a book on the English theater he'd seen in Bidwell's library, and realized Bidwell had engineered a yearly entertainment—a midsummer festival, so to speak—for his citizenry.

"Now we'll have a fine time!" the farmer said, grinning that cavernous mouth. "A witch-burnin' in the morn and a play in the eve!"

Matthew did not reply. He observed that the gray-bearded man, who appeared to be the troupe's leader, seemed to be asking instructions or directions from Bidwell. The master of Fount Royal conferred for a moment with Winston, whose outward mannerisms gave no inkling that he was anything but a loyal servant. Then, the conference done, Bidwell spoke again to the bearded man and motioned westward along Industry Street. Matthew realized Bidwell must be telling the man where the actors might set up their camp. He would have paid an admission fee to hear the thoughts of Exodus Jerusalem when the preacher learned his neighbors would be thespians. Then again, Jerusalem might make some extra coins by giving the players acting lessons.

Matthew went on his way, avoiding contact with Bidwell and the scoundrel in his shadow. He paused for a short while at the spring, watching the golden sunlight ripple on the water's surface. It entered his mind to go to the gaol and look in on Rachel; in fact, he felt an urgent need to see her, but with a considerable effort of willpower he declined. She had made it clear she did not want his presence there, and as much as it pained him, he must respect her wishes.

He returned to the house, found Mrs. Nettles, and asked if he might have some lunch. After a quick repast of corn soup and buttered bread, he ascended the stairs to his room and settled in a chair by the open window to contemplate his findings and to finish reading through the documents.

He could not shake the feeling, as he read the answers to the questions he had posed, that a revelation was close at hand. He only dimly heard the singing of birds and sensed the warmth of the sun, as all his attention was focused on these responses. There had to be something in here—something small, something overlooked—that might be a key to prove Rachel's innocence. As he read, however, he was distracted by two things: first, the bellring-ing and braying voice of a public crier announcing the magistrate's decree even in the slave quarters; and second, the sound of an axe chopping timber in the woods between the mansion and the tidewater swamp.

Matthew reached the end of the documents. He had found nothing. He realized he was looking for a shadow that may or may not exist, and to find it—if it was discoverable—he must concentrate on reading between the lines. He ran a weary hand over his face, and began once more from the beginning.

twenty-eight

ISAAC WOODWARD INHABITED A REALM that lay somewhere between twilight and Tartarus. The agony of his swollen throat had spread now through his every nerve and fiber, and the act of breathing seemed itself a defiance toward the will of God. His flesh was slick with sweat and sore with fever. Sleep would fall upon him like a heavy shroud, bearing him into blessed insensibility, but while he was awake his vision was as blurred as a candle behind soot-filmed glass. In spite of all these torments, however, the worst was that he was keenly aware of his condition. The deterioration of his body had not yet reached his mind, and thus he had sense enough to realize he was perilously close to the grave's edge.

"Will you help me turn him over?" Dr. Shields asked Matthew and Mrs. Nettles.

Matthew hesitated, his own face pallid in the light from a double candleholder to which was fixed a circle of reflective mirror. "What are you going to do?"

Dr. Shields pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. "The afflicted blood is pooling in his body, " he answered. "It must be moved. Stirred up from its stagnant ponds, if you will."

"Stirred up? How? By more bleeding?"

"No. I think at this point the lancet will not perform its necessary function."

"How, then?" Matthew insisted.

"Mrs. Nettles, " the doctor said curtly, "if you'll please assist me?"

"Yes sir." She took hold of Woodward's arm and leg on one side and Shields took the opposite side.

"All right, then. Turn him toward me, " Shields instructed. "Magistrate, can you help us at all?"

"I shall try, " Woodward whispered.

Together, the doctor and Mrs. Nettles repositioned Woodward so he lay on his stomach. Matthew was torn about whether to give a hand, for he feared what Dr. Shields had decided to do. The magistrate gave a single groan during the procedure, but otherwise bore the pain and indignity like a gentleman.

"Very well." Dr. Shields looked across the bed at Mrs. Nettles. "I shall have to lift his gown up, as his back must be bared."

"What procedure is this?" Matthew asked. "I demand to know!"

"For your information, young man, it is a time-tested procedure to move the blood within the body. It involves heat and a vacuum effect. Mrs. Nettles, would you remove yourself, please? For the sake of decorum?"

"Shall I wait outside?"

"No, that won't be necessary. I shall call if you're needed." He paused while Mrs. Nettles left the room, and when the door was again closed he said to Woodward, "I am going to pull your gown up to your shoulders, Isaac. Whatever help you may give me is much appreciated."

"Yes, " came the muffled reply. "Do what is needed."

The doctor went about the business of exposing Woodward's buttocks and back. Matthew saw that at the base of the magistrate's spine was a bed sore about two inches in diameter, bright red at its center and outlined with yellow infection. A second, smaller, but no less malignant sore had opened on the back of Woodward's right thigh.

Dr. Shields opened his bag, brought out a pair of supple deerskin gloves, and began to put them on. "If your stomach is weak, " he said quietly to Matthew, "you should follow Mrs. Nettles. I need no further complications."

"My stomach is fine, " Matthew lied. "What... is the procedure?"

The doctor reached into the bag again and brought out a small glass sphere, its surface marred only by a circular opening with a pronounced curved rim. The rim, Matthew saw with sickened fascination, had been discolored dark brown by the application of fire. "As I said before... heat and vacuum." From the pocket of his tan waistcoat he produced the fragrant piece of sassafras root, which he deftly pushed to the magistrate's lips. "Isaac, there will be some pain involved, and we wish your tongue not to be injured." Woodward accepted the tongue-guard and sank his teeth into the accustomed grooves. "Young man, will you hold the candles, please?"

Matthew picked up the double candlestick from the table beside Woodward's bed. Dr. Shields leaned forward and stroked the sphere's rim from one flame to the other in a circular motion, all the time staring into Matthew's eyes in order to gauge his nerves. As he continued to heat the rim, Shields said, "Magistrate, I am going to apply a blister cup to your back. The first of six. I regret the sensation, but the afflicted blood will be caused to rise to the surface from the internal organs and that is our purpose. Are you ready, sir?"

Woodward nodded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. Shields held the cup's opening directly over the flames for perhaps five seconds. Then, rapidly and without hesitation, he pressed the hot glass rim down upon Woodward's white flesh a few inches upward from the virulent bedsore.

There was a small noise—a snake's hiss, perhaps—and the cup clamped tightly as the heated air within compressed itself. An instant after the hideous contact was made, Woodward cried out around the sassafras root and his body shivered in a spasm of pure, animal pain.

"Steady, " Shields said, speaking to both the magistrate and his clerk. "Let nature do its work."

Matthew could see that already the flesh caught within the blister cup was swelling and reddening. Dr. Shields had brought a second cup from his bag, and again let the flames lick its cruel rim. After the procedure of heating the air inside the cup, the glass was pressed to Woodward's back with predictable and—at least to Matthew—spine-crawling result.

By the time the third cup was affixed, the flesh within the first had gone through the stages of red to scarlet and now was blood-gorged and turning brown like a maliferous poison mushroom.

Shields had the fourth cup in his gloved hand. He offered it to the candle flames. "We shall see a play directly, I understand, " he said, his voice divorced from his actions. "The citizens do enjoy the maskers every year."

Matthew didn't answer. He was watching the first brown mushroom of flesh becoming still darker, and the other two following the path of swollen discoloration.

"Usually, " the doctor went on, "they don't arrive until the middle of July or so. I understand from Mr. Brightman—he's the leader of the company—that two towns they customarily play in were decimated by sickness, and a third had vanished altogether. That accounts for their early arrival this year. It's a thing to be thankful for, though, because we need a pleasant diversion." He pressed the fourth blister cup onto Woodward's back, and the magistrate trembled but held back a moan. "My wife and I used to enjoy the theater in Boston, " Shields said as he prepared the fifth implement. "A play in the afternoon... a beaker of wine... a concert on the Commons." He smiled faintly. "Those were wonderful times."

Matthew had recovered his composure enough to ask the question that at this point naturally presented itself. "Why did you leave Boston?"

The doctor waited until the fifth cup was attached before he replied. "Well... let us say I needed a challenge. Or perhaps... there was something I wished to accomplish."

"And have you? Accomplished it, I mean?"

Shields stared at the rim of the sixth cup as he moved it between the flames, and Matthew saw the fire reflected in his spectacles. "No, " he said. "Not yet."

"This involves Fount Royal, I presume? And your infirmary?"

"It involves... what it involves." Shields glanced quickly into Matthew's eyes and then away again. "You do have a fetish for questions, don't you?"

If this remark was designed to seal Matthew's mouth and turn aside his curiosity, it had the opposite effect. "Only for questions that go unanswered."

"Touche, " the doctor said, and he pressed the sixth blister cup firmly onto Woodward's back. Again the magistrate trembled with pain but was steadfastly silent. "All right, then: I left Boston because my practise was failing there. The city has a glut of doctors, as well as lawyers and ministers. There must be a dozen physicians alone, not to mention the herbalists and faith-healers! So I decided that for a space of time I would leave Boston—and my wife, whose sewing enterprise is actually doing quite well— and offer my services elsewhere."

"Fount Royal is a long distance from Boston, " Matthew said.

"Oh, I didn't come directly here. I lived for a month in New York, spent a summer in Philadelphia, and lived in other smaller places. I always seemed to be heading southward." He began peeling off his deerskin gloves. "You may put the candles down now."

Matthew returned the double candlestick to the table. He had seen—though he certainly didn't let his eyes linger on the sight, or his imagination linger on what the sensation must be— that the flesh gripped by the first two cups had become hideous, blood-swollen ebony blisters. The others were following the gruesome pattern.

"We shall let the blood rise for a time." Dr. Shields put the gloves into his bag. "This procedure breaks up the stagnant pools within his body, you see."

Matthew saw nothing but grotesque swellings. He dared not dwell on what pressures were inflicted within the magistrate's suffering bones. To keep his mind from wandering in that painful direction, he asked, "Do you plan on staying in Fount Royal very much longer?"

"No, I don't think so. Bidwell pays me a fee, and he has certainly built a fine infirmary for my use, but... I do miss my wife. And Boston, too. So as soon as the town is progressing again, the population healthy and growing, I shall seek to find a replacement for myself."

"And what then would be the accomplishment you crave, sir?"

Dr. Shields cocked his head to one side, a hint of a smile on his mouth but his owlish eyes stony. "You're a regular goat amid a briar patch, aren't you?"

"I pride myself on being persistent, if that's your meaning."

"No, that is not my meaning, but I'll answer that rather meddlesome question in spite of my reluctance to add pine knots to your fire. My accomplishment—my hoped-for accomplishment, that is—would be twofold: one, to aid in the construction of a settlement that would grow into a city; and two, to have my name forevermore on the title of Fount Royal's infirmary. I plan on remaining here long enough to see both those things come to pass." He reached out and gently grasped the first blister cup between thumb and forefinger, checking its suction. "The influence of Rachel Howarth, " he said, "was an unfortunate interruption in the forward motion of Fount Royal. But as soon as her ashes are buried—or scattered or whatever Bidwell's going to do with them—we shall put an end to our calamities. As the weather has turned for the better, the swamp vapors have been banished. Soon we shall see an increase in the population, both by people coming in from elsewhere and by healthy babies being born. Within a year, I think Fount Royal will be back to where it was before this ugly incident ever happened. I shall do my best to aid that growth, leave my mark and name for posterity, and return to Boston and my wife. And, of course, the comfort and culture of the city."

"Admirable aims, " Matthew said. "I expect having your name on the mast of an infirmary would help your standing in Boston, as well."

"It would. A letter from Bidwell stating that fact and his appreciation for my services could secure me a place in a medical partnership that ordinarily I might be denied."

Matthew was about to ask if Bidwell knew what the doctor intended when there was a knock at the door. Shields said, "Who is it, please?"

"Nicholas, " came the reply. "I wanted to look in on the magistrate."

Instantly Matthew sensed a change in Dr. Shields's demeanor. It was nothing radical, but remarkable nevertheless. The doctor's face seemed to tighten; indeed, his entire body went taut as if an unseen hand had gripped him around the back of his neck. When Shields answered, even his voice had sharpened. "The magistrate is indisposed at the moment."

"Oh... well, then. I'll return later."

"Wait!" Woodward had removed the sassafras root from his mouth, and was whispering in Matthew's direction. "Ask Mr. Paine to come in, please."

Matthew went to the door and stopped Paine before he reached the stairs. When Paine entered the room, Matthew watched the doctor's face and saw that Shields refused to even cast a glance at his fellow citizen.

"How is he?" Paine inquired, standing at the door.

"As I said, indisposed, " Shields replied, with a distinct chill. "You can see for yourself."

Paine flinched a little at the sight of the six glass cups and the ebony blisters they had drawn, but he came around to Matthew's side of the bed for a view of the magistrate's face. "Good evening, " he said, with as much of a smile as he could summon. "I see... Dr. Shields is taking care of you. How are you feeling?"

"I have felt... much superior, " Woodward said.

"I'm sure." Paine's smile faltered. "I wanted to tell you... that I approve heartily of your decree, sir. Also that your efforts—and the efforts of your clerk, of course—have been nothing short of commendable."

"My thanks, " Woodward replied, his eyes heavy-lidded.

"Might I get you anything?"

"You might leave, " Shields said. "You're taxing him."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I don't wish to do any harm."

"No harm." Woodward gasped for a breath, a green crust around his nostrils. "I appreciate... your taking... time and effort... to come and see me."

"I also wanted to tell you, sir, that the stake has been cut. I understand Mr. Bidwell hasn't yet decided where the execution shall take place, but the likelihood is in one of the unused fields on Industry Street."

"Yes." Woodward swallowed thickly. "That would do."

Shields grasped the first blister cup and popped it free. Woodward winced and bit his lower lip. "I think you should depart now, " the doctor said to Paine. "Unless you'd like to give a hand in this procedure?"

"Uh... yes, I'd best be going." Paine, for all his manly experiences, appeared to Matthew to be a little green around the gills. "Magistrate, I'll look in on you at a later time." He glanced at Matthew with a pained expression of commiseration and took a step toward the door.

"Mr. Paine?" Woodward whispered. "Please... may I ask you something?"

"Yes, surely." Paine returned to the bedside and stood close, leaning toward the magistrate, the better to hear him clearly.

Shields removed the second blister cup. Again Woodward winced, and now his eyes were wet. He said, "We share... a commonality."

"We do, sir?"

"Your wife. Died of fits, I understand. I wanted you to know... my son... perished of fits... suffered by the plague. Was your wife... also plague-stricken?"

Dr. Shields's hand had seized the third blister cup, but had not yet removed it.

Nicholas Paine stared into Woodward's face. Matthew saw a pulse beating at Paine's temple. "I fear you're mistaken, sir, " Paine said, in a strangely hollow voice. "I have never been married."

"Dr. Shields told me, " Woodward went on, with an effort. "I know... such things are difficult to speak of. Believe me, I do know."

"Dr. Shields, " Paine repeated, "told you."

"Yes. That she suffered fits until she died. And that... possibly it was the plague."

Shields removed the third cup and placed it almost noiselessly into his bag.

Paine licked his lower lip. "I'm sorry, " he said, "but I fear Dr. Shields is just as mistaken as—" He chose that instant to look into the doctor's face, and Matthew was a witness to what next occurred.

Something passed between Paine and Shields. It was something intangible, yet absolutely horrific. For the briefest of seconds Matthew saw the doctor's eyes blaze with a hatred that defied all reason and logic, and Paine actually drew back as if from a threatening physical presence. Matthew also realized that he'd witnessed very little direct communication between Dr. Shields and Paine. It dawned on Matthew that it was the doctor who preferred to keep his distance from Paine, yet the feeling had been so well disguised that Paine might not even have been aware of a void between them.

However, now an ugly animosity was clearly revealed if only for that fleeting second. Paine perhaps recognized it for the first time, and his mouth opened as if he might exclaim or protest against it. Yet in the next heartbeat Paine's face froze as tightly as the doctor's and whatever he might have said remained unborn.

Shields held the dark bond between them for only a second or two longer, and then he very calmly returned his attention to his patient. He removed the fourth blister cup, and into the bag it went.

Matthew looked questioningly at Paine, but the other man had blanched and would not meet his gaze. Matthew realized a piece of information had been delivered from Dr. Shields to Paine in that brief hateful glare, and whatever it was had almost buckled Paine's knees.

"My wife, " Paine's voice was choked with emotion. "My wife."

"My son... died, " Woodward said, oblivious to the drama. "Fits. From the plague. Pardon my asking you... but I wished you to know... you were not alone in your grief."

"Grief, " Paine repeated. Shadows lay in his eye sockets, and his face appeared to have become more gaunt and aged by five years in as many seconds. "Yes, " he said quietly. "Grief."

Dr. Shields pulled the fifth blister cup free, none too gently, and Woodward winced.

"I should... tell you about my wife, " Paine offered, his face turned toward the window. "She did perish from fits. But not caused by the plague. No." He shook his head. "Hunger was the killer. Hunger... and crushing despair. We were very young, you see. Very poor. We had a baby girl who was sick, as well. And I was sick in the mind... and very desperate."

No one spoke. Even the magistrate, in his cloudy realm on the edge of delirium, realized Paine had dropped his mask of sturdy self-control and was revealing heart's blood and fractured bones.

"I think I understand this, " Paine said, though that strange remark itself was a puzzle to Matthew. "I am... quite overcome... but I must tell you... all of you... that I never intended... the result of what happened. As I said, I was young... I was brash, and I was frightened. My wife and my child needed food and medicine. I had nothing... but an ability I had learned from hunting cruel and violent men." He was silent for a time, during which Dr. Shields stared intently at the sixth blister cup but made no attempt at removing it.

"I did not fire the first shot, " Paine went on, his voice tired and heavy. "I was first struck myself. In the leg. But you must know that already. Something I had been taught by the older men... during my career at sea... was that once a weapon— pistol or rapier—was aimed at you, you fired or slashed back with grievous intent. That was our creed, and it served to keep us— most of us—among the living. It was a natural reaction, learned by watching other men die wallowing in their own blood. That was why I could not—could not—spare Quentin Summers in our duel. How can a man be taught the ways of a wolf and then live among sheep? Especially... when there is hunger and need involved... and the specter of death knocking at the door."

Matthew's curiosity had ignited from a flame to a bonfire and he yearned to ask Paine exactly what he was talking about, but something of the moment seemed almost sacred in its self-revelation, in its picture of a proud man giving up his pride to the overwhelming desire for confession and—perhaps—sanctuary from past misdeeds. Therefore he felt it small of himself to speak and break this spell of soul-broaching.

Paine walked to the window and looked out over the lantern-spangled town. On Industry Street, two fires some distance apart marked the camps of Exodus Jerusalem and the newly arrived maskers. Through the warm night wafted the faint sound of laughter and the trilling of a recorder from Van Gundy's tavern. "My compliments, " Paine said, his face still averted. "I presume my wound left a trail. Is that what you followed?"

Dr. Shields at last freed the ebony flesh under the sixth blister cup. He put the implement into his bag, followed by the sassafras root. Then, slowly and methodically, he began to close the bag by its buttons and loops.

"Are you not going to answer me?" Paine asked. "Or is this a torture by silence?"

"I think, " the doctor said with grit in his voice, "that the time has come for you to depart."

"Depart? What game are you playing at?"

"No game. I assure you... no game." Shields pressed a finger to one of the six horrid black swellings that protruded from Woodward's back. "Ah, yes. Quite firm now. We have drawn the stagnant blood upward from the organs, you see?" He glanced at Matthew, then away. "This procedure has a cleansing effect, and we should see some improvement in the magistrate's condition by morning."

"And if not?" Matthew had to ask.

"If not... then there is the next step."

"Which is?"

"Again applying the cups, " Shields said, "and then bleeding the blisters." Matthew instantly regretted his inquiry. The thought of those swellings being burst by a lancet was almost too much to consider.

Shields lowered the magistrate's gown. "You should endeavor to sleep on your stomach tonight, Isaac. I know your position is less than comfortable, but I'm afraid it's necessary."

"I shall endure it, " Woodward rasped, drifting even now toward sleep again.

"Good. I'll have Mrs. Nettles send a servant with a cold compress for your fever. In the morning we shall—"

"Shields, what do you want of me?" Paine interrupted, this time daring to face the other man. Moisture glistened on Paine's forehead and cheeks.

The doctor lifted his eyebrows. "I've already told you, sir. I wish you to depart."

"Are you going to hold this over my head for the rest of my life?"

Shields did not answer, but stared fixedly through his spectacle lenses at his antagonist. So damning was this wordless accusation that Paine was forced at length to drop his gaze to the floorboards. Then, abruptly, Paine turned toward the door and slinked out in the manner of the wolf he had proclaimed himself to be—yet, however, a wolf whose tail had been shorn off by an unexpected blade.

In the wake of Paine's departure, Dr. Shields let free a breath he'd been hoarding. "Well, " he said, and behind the lenses his magnified eyes appeared stunned by the rapid turn of events. He blinked slowly several times, as if clearing his mind as well as his vision. "What was I saying? Oh... in the morning we shall administer a colonic and apply fresh plasters. Then we shall proceed as necessary." He took a handkerchief from inside his jacket and mopped his brow. "Is it hot in here to you?"

"No, sir, " Matthew said. "The temperature seems very regular." He now saw his opportunity. "May I ask what your exchange with Mr. Paine concerned?"

"I will have Mrs. Nettles look in on the magistrate from time to time tonight, " the doctor said. "You might keep yourself aware, also. I will be ready to come if any emergency presents itself." He placed a reassuring hand on Woodward's shoulder. "I'm going to leave now, Isaac, just rest and be of good spirits. Tomorrow we might have you up and walking for some exercise." From the magistrate there was no reply, because he had already fallen asleep.

"Good night, " Shields said to Matthew and, taking his bag with him, he left the bedchamber.

Matthew was after him like a shot. "One moment, sir!" he called in the hallway, but to be such a small-framed man Dr. Shields suddenly had the stride of a racehorse. Just before the doctor reached the stairs, Matthew said, "If you refuse to tell me, I shall find out on my own."

This statement caused an immediate reaction. Dr. Shields halted in his tracks, spun around with furious speed, and advanced on Matthew as if to strike the clerk a blow. By the Mars-orange glow of the hallway's lantern, Shields's face was a hellish, sweating rictus with bared and clenched teeth, his eyes drawn into narrow slits that made him appear a stranger to the man Matthew had seen only seconds before. To compound this transformation, Shields gripped the front of Matthew's shirt with one hand and forced his back solidly and painfully into the wall.

"You listen!" Shields hissed. His hand tightened, twisting the fabric it clenched. "You do not—I repeat, do not-—have the right to interfere in my business. What transpired between Paine and myself tonight will remain just that: between him and me. No one else. Certainly not you. Do you understand me, boy?" Shields gave Matthew a violent shake to underscore his vehemence. 'Answer!"

In spite of the fact that he towered over the doctor, Matthew was stricken with fright. "Yes, sir, " Matthew said. "I do understand."

"You'd better, or by God you'll wish you had!" Shields held Matthew pressed up against the wall for a few seconds longer— an eternity to Matthew—and then the doctor's hand left his shirt. Without a further word, Shields walked away and descended the stairs.

Matthew was left severely confused and no less severely scared. The doctor might have been a brother to Will Shawcombe, for all that rough treatment. As he straightened his shirt and tried to steady his nerves, Matthew realized something truly treacherous was going on between Shields and Paine; indeed, the violence induced from Shields spoke volumes about the doctor's mental state. What had all that been, about wounds and weapons and Paine's deceased wife? I presume my wound left a trail, Paine had said. Is that what you followed?

Whatever the problem was, it had to do with Paine's past— which seemed more infamous now than ever. But Matthew was faced with so many puzzles to untangle concerning Rachel's plight—and such a short time to untangle them—that this new situation seemed more of a sideshow than a compelling attraction. He didn't believe the strife between the two men had anything to do with Rachel, whereas, for instance, Gwinett Linch's voice singing in the darkness of the Hamilton house while Satan laid an ultimatum at the feet of Violet Adams most certainly did.

Therefore, though he might fervently desire to know more about the relationship he'd witnessed tonight, he felt pressed by time to keep his focus on proving Rachel's innocence and let old griefs fall by the wayside. For now, at least.

He looked in once more on the magistrate and waited for the servant girl to come with the cold compress. Matthew thanked her, bade her go, and himself applied the compress—a water-soaked cotton cloth, to be accurate—to the sleeping man's face and on the back of his neck where the fever seemed most heated. Afterward, Matthew went downstairs and found Mrs. Nettles closing the shutters for the night. He asked if he might have a pot of tea and some biscuits, and was soon thereafter in possession of a tray with both. He took the moment to inquire of Mrs. Nettles what she knew about the ratcatcher, but she could supply nothing other than the facts that Linch kept to himself, and though he was sorely needed he was something of a pariah because of the nature of his craft. Matthew also asked—in a most casual way—if Mrs. Nettles had ever detected a tension between Dr. Shields and Nicholas Paine, or knew of anything that might be a cause of trouble in their dealings with each other.

Mrs. Nettles answered that she knew of no trouble, but that she was aware of a certain chill emanating from the good doctor regarding Mr. Paine. By contrast, she said, Dr. Shields acted warmly toward Mr. Winston and Mr. Bidwell, but it was apparent to her that the doctor would rather not share the same room in which Mr. Paine was present. It was nothing so dramatic that anyone else might notice, but in her opinion Dr. Shields had a marked distaste for the man.