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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love.

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

Love. What was it, reallyi The desire to possess someone, or the desire to free themi

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

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

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

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

But where was God, in all thisi

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He drew a breath, held it, and submerged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do tell."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, that's right."

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

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

"I am."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whati" Matthew raised his eyebrows. "No mansion or statuei"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her last hope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Who is iti" came Linch's wary voice.

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

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

"It should just take a minute."

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

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

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

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

"Mr. Linchi" Matthew said, standing close to the door. "What interests you so much about the Egyptian culturei"

a pot clattered to the floor within.

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

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

But just a crack. "Egyptian culturei What're you blatherin' about, boyi"

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

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

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

"You're very observant, aren't youi Does that come from catching ratsi"

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

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

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

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

"Fifteen, if I can prove you thieved any thin'. and you know whati I might just be missin' a..."

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

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

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

"Masqueradei You're talkin' riddles, boy!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I presume you have an explanation for the booki and the brooch as welli"

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

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

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

"Yes, you do."

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

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

To his credit - and his iron nerves - Linch only exhibited a slight frown. "Whoi"

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

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

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

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

"Don't piss your breeches, " Linch said, picking up his empty plate. "I'm gettin' another helpin'. You'll pardon me if I don't offer you nonei"

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

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

"What other way is therei"

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

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

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

"and just how am I supposed to have done such a thingi"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"ahhhhh, " he said. "Of course. You are a professional actor, aren't youi"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The brooch... the light...

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

"Whati" Matthew whispered. The brooch... the light... the brooch...

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

... the light...

"Listen, Matthew. Listen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was enough.

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

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

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

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

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