Twenty-Three Degrees, Sixteen Minutes: Part 2

The day had dawned clear and cloudless, and she'd been up since before daybreak, wrapped in the coat she used to protect her when she was tracking specimens in brushy areas. She had studied the horizon for quite some time, marking the time with her chronometer as it became more visible and waiting with an unaccustomed surge of pleasure for the sun to burst into glory, redeeming the carefully-gathering promise of its predawn illumination. A few minutes after its appearance, it had already become warm enough that the coat was oppressive, and so she folded it into a little bundle and stowed it carefully beneath a bench with storage pigeonholes underneath.

In shirtsleeves and vest, she picked her way over the gear lashed to the deck and stood at the prow, hands clasping her elbows, deep in thought. The prow smashed its way with mesmerizing regularity through the waves, and she tracked the bubbling froth as it flashed into being at the sharp edge of the bow, then trailed swiftly away, melting into the sea.

They're going to need help...

She lifted her eyes to the horizon.

And I have no idea how to provide it.

The soft arms wrapping around her from behind startled her, but only for a moment. A head descended with gentle familiarity onto her shoulder. "Emilie," she sighed in gratitude, patting the girl's arm and telling herself to be a bit more alert next time.

"Good morning, Kathryn," Emilie murmured. It was almost as though a lover had joined her, and Jameson smiled to herself at her nonsense. "Did you sleep well?"

"Oh, aye," Jameson lied, turning to face Emilie as well as she could, considering the arms twined around her shoulders. "And you, dear heart?"

Emilie sighed, snuggling closer to Jameson's neck. There was a dreamy look in her eyes as she watched the foam undulate over the green waves. "Like a baby lulled in her mother's arms."

Jameson put an arm about her waist. "I'm glad." It was good to see Emilie rested; she hadn't gotten much sleep since her father's death. "Coquin wasn't a distraction?"

Emilie raised her head and shook it solemnly. "She's a little angel."

"I'm certain," Jameson said wryly, "that she'd be annoyed at your assessment."

With a laugh, Emilie pulled away from her. "I fetched you some coffee." She knelt before one of the heavy canvas bags Jameson recognized as coming from the laboratory and pulled out an insulated flask.

"That was thoughtful of you," Jameson said, a bit surprised as she took the flask from Emilie's outstretched hand. "And how is Mr. Nilsson this morning?"

Emilie dug in the bag, emerging with two cups. "Oh, he didn't make it, I did," she replied without thinking. Her hands froze, and she looked up at Jameson with a sheepish expression.

Jameson patted her on the shoulder in reassurance. "Don't fret, sweetling, I'm certain he welcomes a bit of a break." It also made the coffee a bit more alluring, but she didn't say that. She popped the stopper on the flask, then poured a cup and held it out to Emilie, who sprang to her feet and took it with a little bow and a grin.

Jameson smiled as she held up her own cup. "To the dawn."

"To Torres," Emilie said mischievously. "And her quick thinking."

Jameson closed her eyes in horror. "If you insist." The memory of Torres's behavior the night before made her face flush with a foolish embarrassment entirely out of character for a trained scientist. She had no idea how Jack had reacted; she hadn't seen him by daylight. "I have the feeling she may have presented us with the permanent solution to the temporary problem."

"Yes," Emilie said, still with that incandescent expression on her face, "but wasn't it clever?"

Jameson studied her closely, speculating on a number of things she wasn't about to put into words. "You admire her, don't you?"

"Oh, more than anything," Emilie said eagerly, the light of hero-worship shining through her. "Not that I've met anyone here I don't admire. But Torres... Torres is the kind of woman who follows her destiny, and devil take anyone who stands in her way."

"It can be a lonely path, Emilie," Jameson said, not certain if she was warning or envious.

"Not nearly as lonely as giving up your dreams without a fight," Emilie said stubbornly, peering into her coffee as if it held the secrets of the universe.

Torres. Torres is the key to the miracle. It struck Jameson suddenly, and she put an arm around Emilie, who smiled, abashed, and snuggled close to her again, holding her coffee well out of the way of danger. The sunlight played along Emilie's fine blonde hair. Torres was the reason Emilie was here; that a woman who was a gifted engineer had insisted on entering the profession, claimed a right even men couldn't be certain of, and that she'd found a place aboard Discovery, whose crew relied on her to keep their expedition going--what an example to follow! And Emilie had borrowed a bit of that stubborn, oaken courage to seize her own life in both hands.

Jameson had been so thrilled to have both Emilie and Torres on board that she hadn't stopped to think, really think, about what this opportunity meant to Emilie. No wonder she was shot through with admiration for Torres; their irascible Portuguese shipmate didn't have a compromising bone in her body.

"To Torres, then," Jameson said softly, touching Emilie's coffee cup with her own.

Emilie tightened her arm around Jameson, then pulled away with a satisfied sigh. "And what are you doing out here all alone?"

"Playing Captain," Jameson murmured, staring out to sea.

"Hm?"

Jameson chuckled. "Pay no attention, dear heart. I was just wondering whether I could shoot someone."

"Have you anyone particular in mind?" Emilie asked, grinning up at her.

Jameson disengaged herself gently and sat on the bench currently protecting her brush coat. She patted the bench next to her, and Emilie took a seat, wrinkling her face against the brilliance of the sun. Jameson sipped at her coffee, which was robust enough to stiffen her spine considerably. "Persephone," she began, ruminating into the cup, "is likely to be heavily defended; it's a garrison of Aristide's. And if that's not enough, our annoyed friend Dominguez is bringing up the rear..."

"It'll take him a night and a day to hang the canvas again, even if he does have it," Emilie said.

Jameson shook her head. "We can't count on that."

"He is carrying some impressive armament," Emilie said meekly, sipping at her coffee and looking up over the rim of her cup at the captain. "A borrowed gun is just as dangerous as one you own."

Jameson sighed, propping her elbow on her knee and her chin on her fist. "What if Intrepide is trying to sneak her way in? Won't the arrival of a second ship tip off Aristide's people?"

"Cloud cover later and a sliver of moon," Emilie shrugged. "So we sneak up cloaked in darkness." She finished her coffee, swirling the dregs in the cup and eyeing Jameson.

"Aye, there's not much in the way of reefs in these islands," Jameson said, ruminating, "so we may be free of the danger of staving in the keel. But this part of the sea has a horizon that stretches for weeks. They're certain to see us coming hours before we arrive."

Emilie screwed her eyes shut and lifted her face to the sun. "Isn't Persephone part of an island chain?"

"Emilie," Jameson pointed out with patience, "threading our way through an island chain in the dark would take a navigational wizard."

"Or," Emilie replied equably without opening her eyes, "a master mathematician."

At that moment, Jameson happened to look past Emilie. The door to the crew area had just opened, and another towheaded woman had just emerged. It was Sabamin Tessa, come to take the air early in the morning, as was her already-familiar habit. Jameson steeled herself automatically against the flash of excitement that went through her as she watched Tessa make her way cautiously to the rail.

Emilie squinted at Jameson, who couldn't tell if she was shielding herself from the sun or smiling with wicked deliberation.

* * *

Giuliana had spent some time pacing a trench in the gunnery-deck, and Mingeaux was glad of the brief respite she had when she headed topside to check on the progress of the spurious repair to the steering. Cautiously, she lowered herself over the side, onto the scaffolding DiFalco had engineered so they could reach the rudder. DiFalco had a couple of pins driven through a piece of scrap wood, and she was laboriously drilling a hole in the wood with a drill mounted in a cylindrical guiding frame.

"Impressive," Mingeaux grunted.

"We're running out of reasons to delay," DiFalco told her in a low voice. "They're going to get suspicious."

"Still talking." Mingeaux glanced up at the house from around the framework holding the rudder. "There's not a great deal we can do about that at the moment."

"I don't have to talk to God directly," DiFalco remarked, as if thinking it over. "I'd settle for a mug of ale with His watchmaker."

In spite of the tension, Mingeaux laughed softly. "Patience, my friend."

"Eh, my wager's with your lady and Brandy," DiFalco shrugged. "They could charm the teeth out of an alligator."

"I'd no idea she had such a talent for masquerade," Mingeaux agreed, glancing up at the house apprehensively.

"Has she left me anything of the gunnery?" DiFalco asked, mingling hope and despair.

She wasn't talking about Hester. "Aye, there's still a good half-inch of board left to the decking. Fear not, DiFalco."

In answer, DiFalco stuck her tongue between her teeth and continued to drill away. Mingeaux levered herself up off the scaffolding and made her way back belowdecks as unobtrusively as she could.

Carlisle had given up pacing and was leaning against the wall of the gunnery on one elbow, staring out through one of the gunports amidships. She held her fist to her chin. "Where are they?"

Mingeaux worked her way down the steps. "Still talking, I warrant. Come, Captain, it's a good sign; if they hadn't made contact with your sister, they'd have been back by now."

Giuliana's blue-eyed gaze grew murderously grim. "Unless they've been captured."

* * *

It had taken her some time to get all the way through Discovery, skirting the laboratory as unlikely and the galley as far too public. She finally found him sitting alone in an unused corner of the specimen-storage hold, staring at the planking of the wall.

"Jack?" she called softly into the gloom.

His head whipped round briefly, then he nailed his gaze to the wall again, not answering. Although it was dark, she had no trouble whatsoever seeing the tips of his ears turn a bright red. She shoved her hands deep into her pockets, trying not to sigh audibly. "You weren't at breakfast..." she assayed.

He was silent.

"I missed you," she said, moving carefully down the aisle between the specimen crates. As she came closer, she saw his profile, his face flushed to the approximate color of a tomato. For a moment, she looked down at him, and her heart sank. This wasn't going to be easy. "May I join you?"

"Oh--of cour--" Flustered, he leapt to his feet, striking his head painfully on an overhead beam, and she winced in sympathy.

"Mon dieu... Jack, do take care--are you hurt?"

Stubbornly, he shook his head, blushing even more furiously.

"Here," she said, "sit down. Please."

He moved instantly in obedience, and she told herself, That's because he's a gentleman... and a gentleman in distress deserves some special care. She sat on the bench next to him, looking at the planking and wondering how to comfort him. Was mortification mortal? She supposed she was about to find out. "I missed my dancing-partner," she sighed, not looking at him.

"Mam'selle Emilie--"

She turned to him, impassioned and impatient. "Oh, Jack, don't you see what you are?"

His rubbery face went all comical, and she tried not to laugh. "A clot-poll?"

"No," she exclaimed, turning to sit sideways on the bench, heedless of decorum. "A hero!" He looked at her as if she'd just struck him in the face with a trout, and she rushed on. "You kept Dominguez from pursuing Intrepide! Don't you have any idea what you've done? You've made it possible for Captain Carlisle to search for her sister without interference!"

"I--I--"

"Jack," she said, seizing his hands in her own, "listen to me. We were in despair. Our plan wasn't working. D'you know what we would've had to do? Train guns on them, probably, or--or put a knife to the captain's throat, or pitch Dominguez over the side. Murder, riot..."

He was listening politely, but she could see she wasn't getting through to him.

"Jack," she said, resettling herself on the bench and trying another tack, "everyone aboard knows you to be a gentleman. You're always polite, particularly to women, and your... your courtesy is beyond question. That's what made her think of it."

His face went a funny shape, halfway between a wince and a sheepish smile.

"Ballard would merely have laughed," Emilie said in desperation, "and Dominguez would've said, 'Aha, señorita, come over here and sit in my lap!'" He looked away, a brief expression of disgust flitting over his face. "But you--you--don't you understand, Jack? She knows you, and she knew you wouldn't do that. And she calculated your reaction as carefully as she calculates the yield from the aeolipile, or the temperature of the ether evaporator..." By now, she was peering into his face, looking for a sign of understanding. "Don't you see?" she beseeched him. "Don't you see what it says about... about you?"

He raised his eyes to hers, and she gusted out a relieved sigh. "It was clever of her, I'll give her that. And it worked; the gratitude of everyone aboard Discovery and Intrepide rightly belongs to our naval hero."

He gave her a little smile and a shrug. "Hero," he mumbled into his shoulder.

"Hero," Emilie asserted, clasping his hand between hers. "But as big of a victory as it was, I'd--I'd feel just terrible if I thought her stratagem had hurt the feelings of a good friend."

There was a silence then, and he stared at the wall for a moment. Emilie listened to the creaking of the timbers, her mind running wildly over stress formulae and load points as she waited, short of breath, for him to answer.

"I've never thought of myself as a hero," he admitted finally.

"Well, that's what you are," she said stoutly, clapping him on the shoulder. "And as soon as I can find a bit of ribbon, I'll--I'll make you a medal, how about that?" She got to her feet, a bit awkwardly in the tiny space. "Let's get topside, we're going to grow mushrooms down here."

" T--topside?" The panic flared in his eyes. "Oh, no, I--I--"

"Come, Jack," she told him firmly. "'Tis the privilege of the hero to be heroic, but it comes with the responsibility of... of facing the envy of those who didn't have a chance to save the day..." He looked up at her, and she gave him a shy smile.

He picked up her hand, smiling shyly in turn, and got to his feet. "Aye, I suppose I'd best give them the opportunity to make their little jokes, seeing as how everything's turned out all right."

"That's the spirit!" she said, tugging at his hand to lead him up to the deck before he had a chance to come to his senses.

When they were mere paces form the door, he murmured, "Emilie."

"Yes, Jack?"

"I'm glad I met you," he said softly.

She stopped and turned to smile at him. "And think how much the poorer I'd be if I hadn't."

"Oh, me t--" He studied her face, puzzled. "D'you really mean that?"

"Indeed I do," she said in a low voice, grasping his arms and giving them a gentle shake. "You're a--a good person, Jack. I hope you'll be able to admit that some day. To yourself. Because the rest of us already know it."

It was as if he'd added six inches in height on the spot. "Well, then. Let's give the rescued a chance to express their proper appreciation to their rescuer!"

When they went through the door, he was in the lead, which was perhaps to the good, because he couldn't see, and thereby misinterpret, her radiant smile.

* * *

"Mam'selle," said Hester quietly.

The woman in the gown had her hands clasped together at her waist, and there was something furtive in her eyes. It took Brandy a moment to compose herself: She looks precisely like Giuliana--!

Vason took a step toward the woman, and it was evident that he was moments away from exploding like the volcano at the center of Persephone.

"Lud, mam'selle," Hester exclaimed, fluttering her fan into action and taking a hasty yet unhurried step toward the woman, "I'm compelled to commend you on the place you've built here, and your command of your staff. With the exception of a few lapses in service--" (and here she glared at Vason) "--it's apparent that you've made an oasis of civilization amidst savagery."

Vason turned to Hester, holding up a finger and preparing a lecture.

"And you, Monsieur Vaseaux," she countered, before he had a chance to speak, "you ought to go on your knees and thank God that He's granted you such a mistress! 'Tisn't every heathen islander who has the chance to staff a house for a woman who knows the proper way to live!"

Pop-eyed, he goggled at her, and Brandy thought he was going to expire of apoplexy. Brandy eyed the pistol he was carrying in his belt and began to regret that Adelaide and Spinelli hadn't been allowed inside the house. Hester, however, was entirely unperturbed. "What time is dinner, monsieur?"

He was about to say something else when Hester turned serenely to the young woman. "I hope you'll pardon me, my dear, but I've been bold to invite myself and Mam'selle here to sup with you."

"I'm certain that will be fine," said the woman in the gown, darting a look at Vason. "Monsieur, surely--?"

Vason's face was a lovely shade of purple, but he turned and made his way toward the door with little grace, shooting Brandy a distinctly disapproving look as he did. It was right then that Brandy identified what was going on; a woman in charge of her own house would order, not request, and a jailer wouldn't be nearly so accommodating. Thus, the woman in the island gown wasn't a free agent, but Vason didn't dare stand in opposition to her.

At the door, Vason waved furiously in the general direction of the lady, and two of the guards stationed themselves to either side of her. He took one more look around, then stomped away down the corridor. They heard his footsteps recede, and Brandy relaxed a fraction.

"My manners," said Hester, folding up her fan with a snap of dismissal at Vason's departure. "I am Mrs. Regina Harvey, of the Philadelphia Harveys, and this is my ward, Mademoiselle Georgine."

"A pleasure," said the lady, with a deep curtsy that made Brandy a bit dizzy; the gown wasn't precisely constructed like a suit of armor. The curtsy itself was by the book. She'd obviously been well taught. Expensive girls' schools in Europe, perhaps? "I'm Mademoiselle Chapelet."

"Chapelet"? A false name... Brandy inclined her head, following Hester's example. Her heart had begun to hammer; it had to be Giuliana's sister.

"Is it a breach of hostessing to offer you your own tea?" Hester continued, gesturing toward the table. "We were just about to partake of your hospitality at your most welcome arrival."

The lady moved to the table with apparent reluctance, keeping an eye on Vason's three guards, carefully watching her from a position to thwart any potential exit. It was getting on toward the warm part of the day, but the beautiful parlor was cool and comfortable, the sunlight falling in beams through the windows, to glow on the polished wood and jewel-bright colors of the carpets. Brandy had seldom seen such a simple room with such expensive furnishings.

Hester kept prattling, filling the silence before it had a decent chance to form. "I am impressed, my dear. For such a young woman to run such a house is a tribute to your capability." She poured a cup, adding a slice of lemon and a spoonful of sugar without asking, and passed it to Mlle. Chapelet.

"Thank you," murmured the lady in the gown. "But I--"

"Not that your staff couldn't do with a bit of instruction," Hester interrupted, sounding a bit peevish. "Your man Vaseaux, for example."

"His name is Vason," the lady pointed out meekly, looking over the top of her cup at Hester. Brandy took the opportunity to study the gown, which was that gauzy, floating creation so favored in the islands. She felt her own dress to be graceful as a block of rough mahogany in comparison. But Mlle. Chapelet's gown was an airy, colorful, sweeping fantasia in cloth and attitude. It looked very comfortable, and, of course, she wore it like a goddess--

"I never could get the sense behind this wretched language," Hester said, but she kept on in French. "For a nation reputed to be gifted in the arts of love, the French certainly do spend a great deal of their time in slaughter and conquest." She passed a cup of tea to Brandy. The china of the cup was unexpectedly delicate, and Brandy tried not to fumble. "Remember not to spill on the gown, dear," she remarked by way of instruction. She turned back to Mlle. Chapelet. "Don't you agree, mam'selle?"

"Er," said the lady in the gown. "I'm--I'm not--"

"Oh, my dear, it's your youth," Hester said, serenely pouring herself a cup of tea. Brandy wondered if her bellows ever ran out of air. "When you're my age, you'll have enough experience of the bellicose French to recognize them for what they are." She gave Mlle. Chapelet a sharp glance. "As well as recognizing that giving your servants latitude is just an excuse for poor service. Firm, you must be firm with them, lest they fall back into the indolent and slothful ways that have kept them mired in filth and poverty."

Mlle. Chapelet turned incisive blue eyes on Brandy, who grew a little faint.

"And that would be a shame," Hester continued, "especially for a young woman who can keep such a lovely house so well." She shook her head and sipped her tea. The teacup had an elaborate scrolled "A" on the outside. "I say this merely for your instruction, my dear--yours and that of Mlle. Georgine, who, if she minds her manners and attends to my tutelage, might find herself similarly situated some day."

The lady shot Brandy a look of sympathy.

"We're on our way to a finishing school in Pennsylvania," Hester continued. "Mademoiselle Georgine is of an age to benefit from a course in discipline and the skills a lady needs to make a good marriage in the islands." She shrugged and added equably, "Or a reasonable facsimile thereof."

The blood damn near froze in Brandy's veins. Mlle. Chapelet turned to her again, the warm sorrow in her eyes unmistakable. Brandy had to look away, and her eyes searched out the little harbor at the foot of the hill, where Intrepide lay quietly berthed, the crew looking like leisurely ants from this height. Giuliana was down there somewhere, carefully concealed lest her resemblance to any of the island's inhabitants provoke questions. Brandy longed for her suddenly, the warm bed and the intense blue eyes so like those of the lady in whose parlor they sat to make genteel small talk.

"But here I am running on and on with little attention to our hostess," Hester continued, interrupting Brandy's reverie.

Mlle. Chapelet turned away from Brandy with what appeared to be an effort. "Not at all, Mme. Harvey. I'm pleased to make your acquaintance. I have so few visitors."

"La," Hester remarked, turning toward the door with pointed attention, "you haven't precisely made it easy to call. What d'you mean, shutting yourself up on this infernal hump of rock?"

Brandy realized that she hadn't so much as mentioned Aristide's name, in spite of the monogram emblazoned on the teacups.

Mlle. Chapelet gathered her breath to answer, and Brandy could see a bit of impatience in her expression--very like Giuliana. "I--"

The door opened, and Vason came back in, grumpy and out of sorts. "Dinner's being prepared," he grunted.

Hester directed her eyes at the ceiling. "Hopeless, these islanders," she murmured, gesturing to God with one gloved hand. She looked at Mlle. Chapelet, apparently offering her a silent opportunity to correct Vason, but Mlle. Chapelet looked toward the floor instead, and Brandy saw a flash of anger in her eyes.

Vason took up a post next to the door, watching Hester with unconcealed rage, and Mlle. Chapelet kept her face turned from him.

Hester was more than equal to the task of ignoring his soul-destroying glare. "Not that I'm not accustomed to it," Hester remarked, setting her teacup on the table with genteel finality. "Half the sailors aboard our vessel are Genoese. A dreadful people--excitable, vulgar, but they sing the most comical songs in that jibber-jabber they call a language." A tiny line had appeared between Mlle. Chapelet's eyebrows, but she controlled herself well. Hester asked casually, "D'you know any of the Italians, Mlle. Chapelet? The composers, I mean?"

"Some," said the lady in the gown, growing fractionally more still.

"The current crop are quite idiotic--they come from some theatrical tradition of bombast set to music--hardly M. Mozart, eh?" Hester said. She glanced at Vason. "Still, a long sea voyage makes it impossible to escape their efforts at melody, and it might pass the time until this unending project of dinner comes to fruition."

"Oh," Mlle. Chapelet sighed, "how I should love to hear Italian again! No one here speaks it--or much English--and my brain is fatigued with continual French."

Hester gave her an assessing look. "And if the songs are... somewhat rude?"

Mlle. Chapelet smiled, and the sadness in her face made Brandy want to weep. "Rudeness of speech is hardly the rudest rudeness one can encounter, Madame Harvey."

"There's one that the crew sings when they're hoisting the sails or whatever it is they do," Hester said, raising a hand to beat the time in the air with one finger. She had a good voice, and gooseflesh rippled over Brandy's arms as the song rose in the quiet room.

This time, the flash in the lady's eyes was directed at Hester.

* * *

They were finally going to see what their navigational skills could do. It was what she had always wanted, all her life, and never thought she could have. A vertiginous sense of miracle swept over her. Not that she had any time to enjoy it; she had a job to do.

The wind ruffled Emilie's hair, whipping around the sextant in a stiff breeze. She hadn't a spare hand with which to corral it, and it had already stung her eyes more than once, which only made it harder to get a good bead on their location. She lifted the sextant to her eye again, and Jack followed every move with avid attention from his post at the rail next to her.

At Discovery's taffrail was a worktable secured with substantial pins to the decking, and atop it was a waterproof chart held firmly beneath a heavy sheet of glass. Studying it was Sabamin Tessa, blue eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight from underneath the high-crowned hat that made her even more intimidatingly tall. She stood like a statue next to Captain Jameson, who was cradling the ship's chronometer in both hands. Next to her stood Thomas, almanac at the ready, and next to him his already-ubiquitous shadow, Coquin. In front of them, Discovery's pilot awaited their course corrections.

Emilie lifted the sextant just as the door belowdecks opened, and Torres emerged. For a moment, when she caught sight of Jack, Torres seemed to hesitate. Emilie glanced his way. The flush was just spreading upwards from his neck.

"Jack," Torres nodded gruffly, and he nodded back at her.

Emilie schooled her face into a scrupulous neutrality and lifted the sextant again. Her hair fluttered painfully into her eyes, and she lowered the sextant, blinking away tears.

"Here," Torres said, stepping forward and plucking the sextant from Emilie's hand with deft caution. "Let me get that for you." To Emilie's shock, Torres handed the sextant to Jack with a mutter of, "Don't break it."

Jack babbled something in the affirmative, cradling the sextant with exceptional care, and Torres pulled a kerchief from her pocket. It was speckled with spots of silver nitrate, but clean, and Emilie stooped a bit so Torres could gather her hair into the kerchief, knotting it at the back of her neck.

"Better?" Torres asked, and Emilie sighed, "Much."

"Thank you, Jack," Torres murmured, decibels from her accustomed bellow, taking the sextant from him again. Jack swallowed and nodded, and Torres handed the sextant to Emilie.

Thomas leaned over to whisper to Jameson, "I am thinking that your next lecture series in London might well be on the topic of tropical thaumaturgy."

"I'll make a note of it," she whispered back, smiling at the confusion on Coquin's face.

Emilie lifted the sextant with the quick efficiency of an expert, giving them an instantaneous reading. Jameson called out the time, and Thomas gave the almanac listing.

Tessa leaned over the chart, her eyes darting this way and that. She called out a compass heading to the pilot, who glanced at the sails and the gimbaled compass swaying gently next to the wheel. The pilot turned the wheel a fraction, and the shadows on the deck began to shift as the ponderous ship took its new course.

Fifteen minutes later, they had spotted the dark line on the horizon marking the first of the islands in the group that contained Persephone. Jameson did her very best to feel surprised.

* * *

Like the parlor, the salon was gifted with a row of long windows, which made the room look like half of it was glass. Below them, tantalizingly close, Intrepide lay berthed quietly, with sailors swarming over the stern, carefully out of sight of anyone in the house. Giuliana had told them to be ready for anything, and Brandy tried not to let her eyes stray to the ship too often, lest she signal Vason that trouble might be a-brewing.

Dinner lasted until almost sunset, and they had made the most idle of small talk throughout the leisurely meal. Brandy was accustomed to good food--after all, Mistinguette was an artist in the kitchen--and Aristide's cook was exceptionally skillful. The wine was excellent, something she could judge well, and she tasted it critically, reflecting that they weren't even getting the best from Aristide's cellars.

The day outside was a tropical form of hot that Brandy associated with mid-spring, but the salon was swept with a continual cooling breeze, and even in her heavy costume, she was quite comfortable. She wondered how Hester was getting on with the corset.

Vason kept a sharp eye on the diners, interrupting now and again to shut off conversational rivulets. So far, he'd vetoed any discussion of Mlle. Chapelet's background, history, home, circle of acquaintances, or household.

Nonetheless, Hester and Mlle. Chapelet had kept the conversation running, seemingly without effort. Brandy was grateful that so few questions came her way; she was certain she'd betray her tavernish origins if she so much as opened her mouth, but Hester's skill in anticipating and deflecting questions was formidable. Over and over again, Brandy wondered where a Quaker schoolmistress had learned so much about impersonating an aristocrat. Was Hester an actress? The uncharitable thought made her blush; fortunately, neither of the chatting ladies appeared to take the slightest notice.

As the sun moved ever lower in the sky, Hester spoke knowledgeably about the community of planters and great estates in the region, and it was obvious that Mlle. Chapelet knew little about them. It was another valuable clue: she wasn't a member of the limited social circle of the islands, even though, from her dress and surroundings, she should have been. It spoke to a hasty snatching from the ship that had brought her to the Caribbean, but Brandy cautioned herself not to bludgeon the evidence into fitting the theory.

Still, the accented, hesitant French, the air of meekness, and her uncanny resemblance to Giuliana--who else could she be? Brandy longed to set off a signal-rocket from the parapets of the beautiful hillside fortress.

Hester appeared not in the slightest concerned. She prattled along, making her blood-chilling pretended occupation sound about as controversial as basket-weaving. Brandy heard a great deal about training stubborn, recalcitrant girls who didn't realize what an opportunity they were being granted. She supposed all of this was intended as instruction for Mlle. Georgine, so she did her best to lower her eyes and look abashed at frequent intervals. If nothing else, that spared her the sight of those sympathetic eyes, so like Giuliana's and yet not, trained on her.

Eventually, Mlle. Chapelet managed to bring the conversation around to music again. Hester followed her lead with deft speed, and Brandy watched, with growing admiration, as the two of them maneuvered Vason into letting them exchange coded messages.

"It's a new form of counterpoint," Hester was saying, struggling with an explanation Brandy didn't follow, "although this new gaggle of musicians are of the opinion that they'll be able to outdo Mozart. Not much conceit, these boastful little boys, eh?"

Mlle. Chapelet smiled, and for the first time there was a light in her face unalloyed by sadness. "Oh, I knew one once--a gifted singer with ambitions to write music. He had the most beautiful voice, and he played me some of his compositions. They were sublime."

"Indeed," Hester said, sounding like she didn't really approve. "P'raps I've heard of him--what is his name?"

"Ro--"

"That's enough," Vason growled, and Mlle. Chapelet's shoulders jerked as if he'd struck her. She lowered her head and fell silent.

Hester was on her feet, directing a freezing glare at him. "You, M. Vaseaux," she said venomously, "are a servant. And a servant does not address the lady of the house in such a manner."

"It's all right, Madame," Mlle Chapelet murmured into her lap.

"No, my dear, it most certainly is not," Hester said, practically quivering with rage at Vason. "I have made allowances for you being in a backward place tenanted by savages, but this is too much." Her hands were clenched at her sides, and Brandy wasn't certain she was play-acting any longer. "Apologize."

Vason made a rude gesture, and Hester's face began to get crimson. "I have no authority to dismiss you, you tiresome and indefensibly rude little man, but I do have at least a passing acquaintance with your master."

Mlle. Chapelet's head came up; speechless, she stared at Hester. Vason had gone as pale as Hester was flushed, and she went on into the silence, "Unless you're intending to knock me over the head and sink my body in some nameless bog to prevent me having speech with him... and you're just the type to do that, I perceive, by your cockerel air and the pistol you wear at your belt. I'd remind you, Vaseaux, that an entire ship's complement is awaiting our return from this house of discourtesy."

He had started to sweat.

"Apologize!" Hester cried, stamping her foot.

"I beg your pardon, mam'selle," he muttered to Mlle. Chapelet.

Hester interrupted before Mlle. Chapelet could answer. "Take care that it does not occur again," she told him, her voice low. "By God, monsieur, the last thing a gentleman does is to treat a lady ill. And whatsoever else you may think of him, I assure you that your master is a gentleman."

He spluttered some form of protest intended to save his skin; Hester turned to take her seat again, ignoring him and inquiring serenely of Mlle. Chapelet, "You were just about to tell me your friend's name?"

"Rossini," Mlle. Chapelet gasped, more than a little in shock.

"Never heard of him," Hester said, waving airily. "Doesn't matter, though--'tisn't as though the current Italian composers will ever amount to much. We're living in a degraded age, and the Italians are merely shadows. No, my dear, give me Mozart as my musician. The arias in Le nozze di Figaro--sublime! D'you know it?"

"Not--not well," Mlle. Chapelet said.

"Have you a piano in the house?" Hester asked.

* * *

Discovery glided through the dark, casting little more of a wake than a shark's fin. The ship was silent, each crew member straining her or his eyes into the oily blackness of the water, looking for things they had no way of detecting.

Tessa had taken off her hat with the coming of night, and she leaned over the chart, murmuring the occasional compass heading to the pilot. Even more rarely, she asked for a sighting on one of the now-visible stars; each shot, however, appeared only to confirm her sense of their location, and she merely nodded, tracing a route with her finger over the glass atop the chart.

Jameson had been on tenterhooks since the fall of night, wondering what there was to run into just under the menacing surface of the water. Surreptitiously, she wiped her sweat-dampened palm on the side of her coat. The most gifted navigator in the world couldn't anticipate an uncharted reef or a shallow, long shoreline. So far, though, the ship had threaded her ghostly way unmolested through whatever unseen dangers lurked beneath their keel.

The only light aboard was a dark lantern on the taffrail, enough to illuminate Tessa's chart, the almanac, and the compass by the wheel. They had left one dark patch of suspected island behind a while before, and another dark patch had appeared to starboard. The stars glowed overhead through wispy patches of cloud, and the glimmers of starlight off the water hypnotized Jameson into forgetting where they were, what they were doing...

Until they swept with eerie quiet past a stand of some form of vegetation, and a light burned steadily toward them. Instantly, Torres was in motion, hopping lightly through the shrouds to the bow as if she had no need of her eyes. Jameson heard the subtle metallic snick of a spyglass being opened, and the starlight flashed along the brass barrel as Torres scanned the shore.

She made her way nimbly back through the maze of rope, the tiny, brilliant light gleaming behind her shoulder, blocked by her form now and then. She drew close to Jameson and Tessa, announcing in a low voice, "It's a dock, about half a league distant. And Intrepide's tied up to it."

"Are you sure?" Jameson hissed.

Torres shrugged. "Either her or her twin."

Stupefied, Jameson turned to Tessa, staring up into the shadowed blue eyes, mysterious and deep in the gloom from the dark lantern. "Captain," Tessa murmured, her face only inches from Jameson's. The starlight was glinting against her pupils, and Jameson felt like she was drowning. "Had you not better order a stop?"

Jameson shut her mouth and turned to the pilot. "Oh. Oh, yes. Let's halt here and get the boat into the water."

They tried to work quickly and quietly, freezing at every sound.

* * *

Hester found the piano charming, and the lack of sheet music predictable and barbaric. What good was a piano with no music? 'Twas a mouth without a tongue. Vason looked considerably brightened at the prospect of Hester speechless--Brandy could see it in his sullen face, and it looked like the only cheery thought he'd had in a decade.

Hester sat at the piano, running her fingers lightly over the keys and producing a lovely, tinny trill like a birdcall. Apparently, the piano was not "tuned", whatever that was, and Hester made a sour face and another comment. Brandy thought she was laying it on a bit thick, and remarked on the lack of subtlety in Hester's performance. She was beginning to fret; she was certain that the sweat had made wide circles under the arms of her dress in the tropical night, and she wondered if her nerves would give them away. Vason looked pacified for the moment by her genteel greater force, but Hester's casual mention of the pistol had gotten her to thinking things she wasn't entirely happy to think.

Hester and Mlle. Chapelet were having a gay old time with the Mozart. At first, Hester played and sang a variety of songs, all of which were in incomprehensible Italian, but Mlle. Chapelet, who apparently also played, stood next to the piano, watching her hands. As each song went on--some of them chopped in the middle because Hester claimed she'd forgotten the rest--Mlle. Chapelet came closer and closer to her, until she was leaning over Hester's shoulder, memorizing how she played the music.

Hester took a brief pause with one hand to pat the bench beside her. "Sit."

"No," Vason spat.

In the abrupt silence, Hester and Mlle. Chapelet turned to face him, and Hester's eyes blazed. "Whyever not, Vaseux?"

Mlle Chapelet drew back. "He's--he's correct, Madame Harvey. I'm not to get too close to visitors..."

"Have I the pox, or is it my breath that's the trouble?" Hester sniffed. Mlle. Chapelet shook her head, looking miserable, and stood beside the piano again. Brandy moved back hastily, not wanting to cause any more trouble. Obviously, Vason had been carefully instructed to keep the lady away from anyone who might pass her a message or a weapon. Would Mam'selle be confined after they left? Beaten? Sent away?

Hester turned her back on Vason resolutely, squaring her shoulders in wordless disapproval. As if she hadn't been mortally offended by the island's idea of hospitality, Hester turned her attention to the keyboard again, swinging into a piece that sounded vaguely familiar. After a moment, Mlle. Chapelet closed her eyes and began to sing.

She has one hell of a voice was Brandy's first dumbstruck thought. The music rolled out of her with a bell-like clarity, and it seemed all the pent-up misery of a lifetime went into the expression. She had no idea whatsoever what the song was about, but she wanted to stand in that little room for the rest of her life until she figured it out.

Hester kept her eyes trained on the keyboard, her face neutral, then chimed in at the chorus. The two of them harmonized, their voices well matched, except that, where Hester was a perfectly adequate, unselfconscious musician, Mlle. Chapelet had the chill-producing voice of an angel.

She seemed to hold herself up by the one hand resting lightly on the piano, and her head lifted as if she were pulling the music from heaven itself. Brandy found herself taking a breath when Mlle. Chapelet did, her whole soul straining toward the sound. It seemed she was not singing for them alone, but for every creature on earth; it occurred to Brandy that she was singing not to reach Hester and her, but in hopes that her notes could penetrate the very planking of the lovely yacht moored so close, yet so impossibly far.

For only a thin sheet of glass and insubstantial air separated her from the little ship and her captain, who, Brandy well knew, would have given all her wealth and both her arms to be in the room with them. Outside the long row of windows, the stars blazed with indifferent magnificence overhead, cold glimmers catching in the wavelets meandering into the little harbor, in which lay the instrument of the lady's deliverance.

It seemed, indeed, as if the starlight were the only fitting jewelry in which to adorn Mlle. Chapelet, whose music was quite as lovely as her form. The lady in the island gown, outlined against the frigid blaze of the stars, her face shadowed in the light of the candles, the perfection of pure music pouring from her, was one of the most exquisitely beautiful experiences of Brandy's life.

Inevitably, the song came to an end, and the last chord died away into silence. Hester raised huge, dark eyes to Mlle. Chapelet without a word. Something passed between them, something Brandy could only guess at. Her head hurt; she'd been holding her breath.

"Lud, mam'selle," Hester said, her voice quavering a bit, "that's a set of pipes you have."

Mlle. Chapelet looked away, her face uncertain and a little lost. "I--I didn't think I'd remember the whole thing..."

"Heavens," Hester said with a brief chuckle, recovering her composure, "as if we'd have objected if you'd spent an hour on la-la-la instead." She shook her head, adding suavely, "And I had the effrontery to sing you that sailors' song..."

Dead on, Mlle. Chapelet picked up the suggestion. "Oh... do you think you could teach me that one, madame?"

* * *

Seemingly by inches, Discovery's lightest coracle made its way to the larger Intrepide. As Discovery's comforting bulk receded into the darkness behind her, Jameson tried to steel her heart. It had taken some serious argument, but, in the end, she just couldn't bring herself to send anyone else into danger. It was the captain's job.

Some day she might know what was good about being captain, but not tonight.

Courage--they know their way back to Haven, and Thomas can run the ship better than anyone... But the thought of leaving her crewmates made the pulse pound painfully in her temples. Torres... her dear Emilie... Ballard and Daschenhauer and Jack and Coquin, Thomas's new shadow... she tried not to add one more name to the list, but it took everything she had.

Intrepide lay majestically at rest like a floating palazzo, lanterns strung here and there adding to the illumination on the dock. She studied as much of the landscape as she could, careful to stay in shadow, and moved from pool of darkness to pool of darkness, feathering her oars so that the regular plashing wouldn't betray her location. She drew near the ship, and it was with a sense of deliverance that she put up a hand to touch the side.

The darkness had cloaked her well, Jameson thought, until she heard the rasping click next to her ear. "Don't move," whispered a voice attached to someone she couldn't see, "or you'll lose the part of your brain that sent you on this foolish errand."

She could have outlined the barrel of the pistol at her head just with her mind. Her knees went like a jellied aspic. "Mingeaux, it's Jameson."

For one moment, nothing in the universe moved. Then there was another click, and the ticklish sensation at her temple receded. "Well, good evening, Captain," Mingeaux murmured. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?"

"Dominguez is after you," Jameson said in a rush. "I've no idea how far behind--"

A strong hand reached for her forearm, and with a firm grip, Mingeaux swung her instantly up onto the deck of Intrepide.

* * *

In the next few minutes, Brandy had reason to be very grateful that Vason was standing behind Hester. "Oh, my dear, that song is all about a tradesman's sort of love." Hester made a dismissive gesture Vason could see, but she looked Mlle. Chapelet straight in the eye with a searching expression he was not in a position to appreciate. "Vulgar. Cheap."

"I've so little music," Mlle. Chapelet sighed.

"Oh, very well." Hester smiled, precisely as if she were indulging a spoiled child. She bent over the keyboard again. This time, with the piano, it was lovely.

She looked at Mlle. Chapelet again with concentrated attention, taking advantage of the fact that her back was turned to Vason.

Mlle. Chapelet's eyes were directed at the floor. Hester spread her fingers along the keys, and the music ended. When she spoke, it was unexpected enough that Brandy had to conceal her startled jump.

"Of course, those words are terribly improper," Hester said lightly. "I should change them, if you've a mind to sing it to anyone--"

"I shall," Mlle. Chapelet said, looking away as if it really didn't matter much. "The melody is lovely... is it from M. Gluck?"

Hester laughed--there was more than a little real relief in it--and responded, "I shouldn't be a bit surprised--those Italians have a love for theft that isn't confined to horses and gold--"

The door opened suddenly, and Vason went to attention, crossing the room. Mlle Chapelet stiffened with what looked to Brandy like fear. Vason whispered with whoever it was, then turned to Hester with a smug look on his face.

"Your ship's almost fixed."

* * *

They were in the captain's cabin, curtains drawn so that no one looking in through the glass window at the stern could see their unexpected visitor. Carlisle had been pacing before the window, half-frantic as Jameson recounted the story of their encounter with Aristide's ship and lieutenant. When Jameson was finished, Carlisle ceased pacing, flung an elbow against the lip of an expensively-crafted storage cabinet set into the wall, and faced her, blue eyes boring into Jameson's soul. "You're not serious."

"Captain," Mingeaux said sharply, getting to her feet. "I've known this lady for many years, and one thing I can tell you is that she does not exaggerate."

"It's all right, Mingeaux," Jameson said, patting her arm gently. "The news is upsetting. I understand."

"Apologies," was the brusque reply. Carlisle waved her hands in the general direction of heaven. "How in the devil could he have found us?"

"He may have been sent," Mingeaux pointed out.

"Aye, I suspect so," Jameson added soberly. She turned to Carlisle. "Captain, I've no way of knowing, but he could be... mere hours away. Minutes."

"Then a murderous she-demon awaits him," Carlisle spat. "Mingeaux, have DiFalco ready the guns."

Mingeaux closed her eyes briefly, her jaw clenching. "What?" Jameson interjected, as mildly as she could. "Guns? Are you a lunati--" Hastily, she held up a hand, shuttling it back and forth as if erasing the words in midair. "Your pardon, Captain. I merely meant--"

A discreet knock on the door of the cabin interrupted her. She lifted an eyebrow at Mingeaux, who opened the door a fraction of an inch and whispered briefly in Italian with someone. She shut the door and turned, and Jameson wondered at a trick of the lamplight that made her look pale.

"Spinelli wants to bring them back down," Mingeaux announced quietly.

For a moment, no one moved, and then Carlisle turned to Jameson, a freezing light in her deep blue eyes. "I trust you're pleased, Captain," Carlisle said, her voice menacing.

"It's not that," Mingeaux said, taking a hasty step forward. "It's--Spinelli heard them singing."

Carlisle's eyes shot toward Mingeaux. Both of them were motionless. The air in the cabin went dead. Jameson wondered if either of them was still breathing.

"Singing," Carlisle inquired mildly, "what?"

Mingeaux swallowed as if her throat were dry. "Aspettarme."

Carlisle's eyes flashed in the lamplight. "She--she heard it--" Carlisle stumbled for the door, reaching for the latch blindly. Jameson got out of her way in haste. Before Carlisle could fling open the door, Mingeaux had gotten between her and the latch.

"Captain--"

"Out of my way, Mingeaux!" roared Carlisle.

If she goes up there--flashed through Jameson's brain, and she took a step toward the pair wrestling in the doorway. Mingeaux caught Carlisle by the arm, trying to hold her away from the door. "Captain."

Carlisle struggled against her for a moment, her eyes red with rage. "I said out of my way!" Mingeaux shook her head stubbornly, and Jameson wondered if this would come to blows.

"Captain, you must listen to me," Mingeaux said. Jameson began to look around surreptitiously for something to even out Carlisle's temper, possibly by hitting her over the head with it. Carlisle tried to reach around Mingeaux, but Mingeaux seized her wrist in a painfully tight grip. "You told me once you'd listen to my advice--"

"She's up there, Mingeaux," Carlisle said. She'd grown quieter, but the note in her voice was deadly and desperate. "You know it's her up there."

"And so are Brandy and Hester," Mingeaux said forcefully.

Jameson, courting danger she well recognized, laid her hand on Carlisle's shoulder. "Captain," she said in a low voice. "Does it require an equal rank to get your attention?"

Mingeaux caught her breath in shock. Carlisle whirled, murder in her eye. Jameson lifted her chin and stared at her with determination. "You have no way of knowing what instructions Aristide has given his men," she pointed out, keeping her voice low. "They might have orders to repel any incursion at gunpoint. They could have been instructed to seize intruders. They might have been told not to let her escape with her life." Carlisle's shoulders slumped, and she moved away from the door of her cabin. Jameson followed, and Carlisle threw herself into the chair at her desk, propping her elbows on her knees and leaning forward to bury her face in her hands. "The crossfire," she told Carlisle, "is something you simply cannot risk."

"I wanted--" Carlisle muttered. "I swore--"

Jameson knelt before her. "Captain Carlisle," she said, "surely you must see that your only hope is to sail from here undetected?" She placed a hand gently on Carlisle's knee. "When you are not pursued--"

"So this is your advice?" Carlisle lifted a face suffused with misery to Jameson. "I am to leave her here? In the hands of that--that barbarian?"

"And if it comes to battle?" Jameson asked inexorably. "How many of this crew are you ready to leave here, to a painful death and a nameless burial?"

"That's why I hired them," Carlisle shot back through clenched teeth.

"Brandy too?" Jameson cried in disbelief. Mingeaux sputtered a protest, and Carlisle's eyes blazed with fury. Jameson cursed her tongue, which would have benefited from a bridle. She murmured an apology, looking away from the livid blue eyes so close to her. She frowned at the corner of the cabin, thinking it over. "She's been safe so far," she said ruminatively. "Surely his intentions aren't homicidal..."

"No," Carlisle spat, "merely carnal." Her hand tightened into a fist, and she looked away.

Jameson could see the pain in her face, and she lifted her hand to stroke Carlisle's forearm with what she hoped would be a comforting touch.

"She's not dead, Captain," Mingeaux replied softly. "She's being well cared for. Everyone who's seen her agrees on that. And where there is life..." Mingeaux sighed and thrust her hands into her trousers pockets. "...there is hope."

Startled, Jameson glanced at her. Mingeaux's face was set in lines of remembrance and regret, and Jameson's memory went back to the loss of Brandy's mother. She fortified herself against the memories of her husband's final illness; giving in to that right now could bring her to her knees. The pain could be held at bay, but it was always ready to break out afresh. And here, now, was someone who was facing what Mingeaux and Jameson had already endured, except that they'd not had the agony of expecting it without being able to do anything to prevent it. Her soul flooded with compassion for the woman whose beauty and wealth meant nothing in the struggle to regain her heart's desire. Jameson turned to regard Carlisle, whose steady gaze enveloped her.

"Captain," she began, "I agree with Mingeaux. If that is your sister up at the house, you must reflect that, for the moment, she has a safety you do not." The next sentence was painful to utter; she knew it would be as painful to hear. "Nor do Brandy or Miss Brundage, who are in grave danger should their errand be discovered. You've no reason to suspect that the captive in that house will pay for your visit, provided nothing happens to make them suspect who's called on them."

Carlisle's extraordinary eyes, shadowed with pain in the lantern-light, were trained on her with the most concentrated attention Jameson had yet seen from her. The look was most unsettling; it reminded her of Tessa's blue eyes, and she had a momentary lapse in concentration.

"I've been observing nature for some time," Jameson said, a bit rattled, "and I've come to suspect that most creatures don't claw their way out of trouble. It's just as effective to conceal oneself, to hide until cover of darkness offers protection..." Carlisle's brows contracted; Jameson's face flushed as she realized how idiotic she must sound. Well, in for a penny... She squared her shoulders. "There's a time for guns," Jameson finished softly, "and a time for cleverness. Now is not the time to shoot."

The silence stretched between them, and Jameson's heart began to pound. "Mingeaux," said Carlisle brusquely, "tell DiFalco..." She put a hand to her chin and dropped her gaze to the floor with a defeated sigh. "...to go and fetch them from the house."

Mingeaux nodded, unable to reply in speech, and left the cabin with a noiseless tread.

* * *

The door opened, and Spinelli stepped into the drawing room, hat held obsequiously against her belly. "Begging your pardon, ladies," she said in accented French, bowing to the three of them, "but the rudder's been repaired and the ship is ready to depart."

The news drained the color from Mlle. Chapelet's face. "Oh, but--"

"On your way," Vason interrupted, with an imperious wave of his arm.

Mlle. Chapelet reached for Hester's arm, then drew back hesitantly. "But M. Vason--"

"My dear," Hester said kindly, "it's obvious your man is eager for us to leave. As I've told you, 'tis a matter of disciplining one's staff, and the sooner we depart the sooner you can see to your people's training." She glared at Vason, and he puffed up again, ugly and blustering. "Come," Hester continued, as if casting about for something nice to say, "you've learned a new song, at any rate."

"Can't they stay a few days?" Mlle. Chapelet pleaded to Vason. "Even if they sleep aboard their ship?"

"No," Vason said, looking unaccountably pleased with himself.

"'Tisn't as though we'd have the time, pleasant through the prospect is," Hester said with a gentle smile at Mlle. Chapelet. "I must get Mlle. Georgine here to Philadelphia. We're meeting some influential people, and we're already behind schedule." She began to gather the music back together, murmuring something derisive about island time.

Mlle. Chapelet's desperation was more than evident. "May I walk them back to their ship?"

A wild hope sprang up in Brandy's heart, dashed when Vason grunted, "No. Absolutely out of the question."

Mlle. Chapelet, visibly crushed, clenched her hands together.

"Bon soir, my dear," Hester said, and the warmth and comfort in her voice would have roused a dying man. "We thank you for your hospitality and wish you all happiness in life."

"Me too," said Brandy, close to tears.

Mlle. Chapelet turned to Brandy, and the sympathetic misery in her eyes nearly overwhelmed her. She had to get out of here before she burst into tears; at the same time, she wanted to snatch Mlle. Chapelet up, swing through the windows on a rope, and carry her off to the ship, and freedom.

Alas, there was no rope, and fervent wishing didn't make one grow from the casements.

"It's--it's not so bad," Mlle Chapelet said to Brandy with a brave smile. "You'll see..." She reached for Brandy, but Vason moved to intercept her, and Brandy's heart came close to breaking.

"Good night," she said. There seemed nothing else to say, no comfort she could offer.

Hester caught Brandy by the shoulders and turned her. "Good night, then, Mlle. Chapelet, and thank you."

They went out the door, Spinelli right behind them. With a vertiginous despair, Brandy descended the steps that had brought them within sight of Giuliana's sister. She turned to look back at the house, and Mlle. Chapelet was waving to them from the parapet, for all the world like the chatelaine of a great palace seeing her household off to war. The vision blurred before her eyes, and Brandy tried to keep her sobbing quiet.

* * *

Two crew members had carefully maneuvered the coracle around to the stern of Intrepide, and Mingeaux crouched on the false scaffold in the darkness next to Jameson. A glimmer of light from the deck lanterns caught Mingeaux's grim face as she turned to Jameson.

"I'm in your debt," Carlisle's first mate murmured.

A light shock ran over Jameson's nerves. "My debt? But... but... Mingeaux, I'll never be able to recompense you for saving Discovery."

"Aye, Mlle. Tessa's quite the chessplayer, eh?" Mingeaux's smile, what she could see of it in the gloom, was sad. "One to carry on, I suppose."

"Don't," Jameson said sharply, placing a hand on Mingeaux's arm. "There's no reason to succumb to melancholy, Mingeaux, not yet. Dominguez may be horribly inconvenienced... there's every reason to believe you'll get away undetected."

"And then," Mingeaux hissed into the darkness, "what becomes of her sister?"

Jameson didn't have a ready answer for that. "Mingeaux," she said finally, "what's become of your trust in your Creator Spirit?"

Mingeaux shrugged. "'Tis worth thinking over, my friend. I thank you for the reminder. But now you'd best be thinking of your own safety, that and your crew."

Jameson gave her arm a reassuring squeeze, and Mingeaux turned her hand to grip Jameson's forearm, levering her with a gentle, efficient swing into the coracle. As she pushed away from Intrepide's side, melting into the darkness, Jameson heard the clatter of determined footsteps coming down the dock.

* * *

Mingeaux barely had time to get onto the deck to greet the returning spies. Hester lifted her skirts with the ease of long practice, nodding crisply to Mingeaux as her footsteps tapped up the gangway. It's she, then... Behind her, Brandy followed, looking as crestfallen as Mingeaux had ever seen her.

"I hear we're repaired and ready to embark," Hester remarked in unobtrusive French, not at all as if she were asking a question.

"Indeed," Mingeaux replied. "On the instant, it appears."

"Aye, I've seen their notion of hospitality," Hester said, turning to shoot one last nasty glare in Vason's direction. He looked much happier that their departure was imminent.

Hester turned with brisk purpose to address Mingeaux again. "I'll be heading below, then." She turned to Brandy, silent and pale in the beautiful gown. "Come, my dear."

"Let me go with you," Mingeaux offered. "Spinelli," she called to the pilot, who had just gotten back to the wheel, "can you get us under way?"

"Aye, no worries," Spinelli answered laconically, lighting her pipe.

Mingeaux hustled Hester and Brandy down the steps to the captain's cabin.

* * *

Thomas stood on the deck with his hands clasped behind his back, head cocked to the side, listening. Torres had her eyes glued to the horizon, scanning for signs of sails. Emilie was sitting cross-legged on the deck gnawing her fingernails, then reminding herself that grownups didn't do that, then attacking them again. Tessa studied the shoreline with the grave demeanor of a surveyor.

The first faint splash took them by surprise, even though they'd been on tenterhooks waiting for it. A tiny smudge of lighter darkness moved toward them, and Emilie got to her feet cautiously.

Torres didn't budge from her watchful position on deck, so Tessa and Emilie made their way carefully down the steps to intercept Jameson and the coracle. Emilie hooked the coracle to a hauling line while Tessa steadied Jameson on the steps. By the time Jameson was standing on planking again, six hands had swung the coracle up on deck and were stowing it. She spent a moment appreciating her home berth in the absolute silence.

Fortunately, it didn't last long enough to unnerve her. "All well?" Thomas inquired in a near-whisper.

"Yes," Jameson replied, sighing with relief. "They were just getting their party aboard as I left. They'll be embarking momentarily."

Emilie turned from locking the hasps on the coracle. "And her sister?"

Jameson hesitated. "It seems likely that she's there." She glanced behind her in the direction of the dock, not visible from their position. "But they're not able to free her--"

She happened to turn to Thomas as she spoke, and his face flashed with emotion before sliding back into his habitual impenetrable mask. Her heart went out to him.

"It's time we were on our way too," Torres murmured, pointing toward the horizon, where a patch of white was just beginning to take shape in the uncertain starlight.

* * *

As they reached it, the door to the captain's cabin was, ominously, shut. Mingeaux reached for the latch with a subtle sigh, swinging the door open and ushering them inside with a brusque nod.

Giuliana raised her head as they entered, and Brandy stifled a gasp. Her face was haggard and her eyes glittered as if with fever. Giuliana turned a direct, disapproving glare on Hester, who raised her chin with solemn determination.

"It's she," Hester said without preamble.

"Is she well?" Giuliana inquired gruffly.

"She appears to be," answered Hester, with a diffident lift of her shoulder.

Giuliana's gaze broke, and her eyes darted this way and that. Brandy made a move to go to her, but checked herself. She had no idea what to do.

Mingeaux leaned in the doorway and tucked her thumbs into her belt. "Spinelli says," she said heavily into the silence, "that we should be under way shortly."

Brandy asked innocently, "Are we going to the other side of the island?"

Giuliana heaved herself to her feet and stalked to the window, grasping the curtain Brandy had never seen drawn. Hester bit her lip, and Mingeaux directed her gaze at the ceiling.

The silence grew rapidly to ominous proportions.

"I've given orders, mam'selle," Giuliana murmured finally, without looking around.

"Orders?" Brandy glanced from Hester to Mingeaux, but there was no help forthcoming. "What sort of orders?"

"To return to Haven," Mingeaux said.

"But--" Brandy stared at her in incomprehension. The lantern in the ceiling began to sway slightly; befuddled, she studied it until spots appeared before her eyes. Under her feet, she could feel the ship moving, the deceptively smooth shifting that meant she was leaving her berth. "I--I don't--"

"We are pursued," Giuliana said, turning finally to dart a look at Mingeaux. "Allegedly."

"Pursued?" Hester's voice was sharp as the crack of a whip.

"Dominguez," Mingeaux replied. "Aristide gave him command of the Sang du Diable, and the commission to stop us."

"Oh," Brandy said in a small voice, twisting her hands together.

"Then we come back for her after he's left," Hester said simply.

Giuliana's face blazed with rage. "You think it so easy?"

"Indeed." The much smaller Hester faced up to the towering blue-eyed captain, and Brandy was breathless at her courage. "My money's on you and Mingeaux." She nodded briefly in Brandy's direction. "And mam'selle here. You've no idea how much faith I have in the three of you."

"With little reason, so far," Giuliana grunted, the bitterness audible.

"You may say so," Hester retorted, "but I assure you I don't value the rescue of my pitiful little life so lightly." She turned with a flounce of petticoat and a rustle of silk, and Mingeaux stepped hastily out of her way.

When she was halfway through the doorway, Giuliana called softly, "Miss Brundage." Hester stopped and faced her, an inquisitive look underlying the anger visible in her face. Giuliana's next words were in English, and Brandy didn't follow them.

Hester's expression softened, and she took a step nearer. "I'd like to say it's an honor, but I'll reserve that pleasure for when she's standing here on the deck before you." She reached up to put a reassuring hand on Giuliana's shoulder. "She's not ill-treated, Captain. I hope that will comfort you, when you come to your senses again."

Hester whirled on her heel, catching Brandy's stupefied expression. "Well done, Brandy," she said, her voice respectful and calm. She patted Brandy's arm in passing, and after she had gone, they heard the door to Mingeaux's cabin open and shut.

"Mingeaux," Giuliana said softly, "would you see to her?"

For a moment, Mingeaux appeared thunderstruck. "Of course," she said finally, reaching for the latch on the cabin door. When it had closed, Brandy was alone with the captain.

The silence was longer this time, and Brandy had a moment of fathomless despair when she realized that the ship was indeed leaving without Mlle. Chapelet. The frantic need to do something--anything--nearly engulfed her, and she clenched her fists, waving them in incoherent, expressive circles.

"I--I can't--" she gasped.

Giuliana was holding her in an instant, and Brandy's sobs were muffled against the captain's vest. She gripped Giuliana's arms hard, and a wild, fierce grief overtook her.

"Hush, hush," Giuliana crooned softly. "All will be well, mam'selle."

There was a bleak note to her voice, and Brandy raised her tear-stained eyes to the captain's pale, shuttered face. "How d'you know?"

"Miss Brundage says so," Giuliana told her, with a ghost of a smile.

* * *

In the darkness, a lonely woman whose life had recently exhibited a brief, cruel flash of hope studied the ship, what she could see of it, bobbing gently amid the glitter of her captors' torches on the waves. The name at the forefront of her mind she dared not even utter aloud. She raised a hand in brave, despairing farewell, then broke down in wrenching sobs, making her way back into the house blindly.

* * *

DiFalco knocked softly on the door of the captain's cabin.

"What is it?" the captain inquired, civilly enough, considering.

"We're far enough away for you to go topside, Captain," DiFalco answered. "But you'll have to be cautious--we've seen a sail."

The door opened abruptly, and behind Carlisle, DiFalco saw the captain's lady dabbing her eyes with the captain's handkerchief. "Dominguez?" the captain spat.

DiFalco shrugged and spread her hands. "I can load the guns--"

"No," Carlisle responded automatically. "The devil protects his own, even if they're spineless lickspittles..." She turned to hold out a hand to Brandy, who took it and allowed Carlisle to lead her up onto the deck.

The night air was brisk, and a lovely, refreshing breeze enveloped them as they ascended the steps. Spinelli pointed to the port side, and Giuliana led Brandy to the rail. Amid the blaze of a thousand stars, the waves tossed and foamed, the ship rising and falling as she made her way past a lovely, verdant island that seemed to toss in the sea. A tiny light glimmered from one edge of the island, and Brandy kept her eyes on it.

Giuliana moved behind her, taking her in strong arms, her chin grazing the top of Brandy's head. Brandy reached up for Giuliana's hands, and Giuliana folded Brandy's hand in her own, holding it to her lips to place a kiss on it. Brandy held her tight, vowing wordlessly not to let go, and the two of them watched the little light until it had winked out and vanished, swallowed into the night. Giuliana sighed against Brandy's back, and Brandy snuggled closer to her, trying to find some shred of hope to offer a woman who had no reason for it. They stayed by the rail, watching where the light had been, until the silent despair in their souls was vanquished by the powerful, lively restlessness of the sea.

All the while, Giuliana kept Brandy's hand pressed to her cheek, and it was some time before Brandy realized that the dampness falling on her hand was not coming from the sea.