The carriage finally pulled away, and Angelique turned and went back into the house. It was quiet now, after the family’s hysterical departure for the ball. She climbed the steps to Josette’s room, where stockings, camisoles, petticoats and shoes, ribbons and capes were scattered on the furniture and floor, carelessly strewn about in the excitement of dressing. Automatically, she rearranged the crumpled rugs, smoothed the bed, and collected the discarded articles of clothing, folding them carefully, and storing them in the wardrobe. Going to the vanity, she replaced each piece of jewelry that had been tossed aside. Every item was lovely and whispered of Josette’s enchanted existence: an ivory cameo—a birthday present from her father; the diamond cross—a family heirloom; a necklace of garnets and pearls— ordered from Paris by the countess.

She realized at this moment how much she envied Josette, who never seemed to notice if something was precious or fine. It was not remarkable that Josette was so loving, for she moved in a world without want, and her actions had no consequences. Even though she was invariably generous and kind, she was still protected by her station, and she carried the unconscious arrogance of the upper classes, the presumption of privilege.

At first Angelique’s tears only burned behind her eyes and formed a lump in her throat, but as she smoothed the cover of the jewelry case, she saw the dark spots blooming one by one on the pink-satin wrapper.

She was irritated with herself for succumbing to self-pity. She told herself these were only lifeless objects, but she knew it was not the possessions themselves as much as what they represented, things she so desired: comfort, promise, and most of all, affection.

Five years she had worked now for the du Prés family as the countess’s maid, and it seemed this would always be her life. She lived each day from dawn to dusk struggling for contentment and seeking to forget the past. The encounter with Barnabas at the market had inflamed her appetite for change. His looks, his words, promised ecstasy, and she was left with only dissatisfaction. Would the joys of love always be denied to her?

She folded a silken nightdress and placed it on the pillow. Josette attacked her life with eagerness. Each day brought new and unexpected delights, whereas the life of a servant was always one of arranging and preparing the lives of others. The work was invisible, never noticed or appreciated; only the unperformed task received remark. And all the objects one touched, the basin, the quilt, the fork, the shoe, all belonged to another, existed for another’s pleasure.

Wealth was like a smooth river one floated down, Angelique thought. Josette was always receiving gifts, and she had been given so many presents that day, her birthday, tokens from admirers, friends of André’s, total strangers seeking his goodwill. Some had not even been opened, and others had been exclaimed over and set aside. Josette was not to blame for her casual attitude. She could have any trinket in the shop window, a trinket that was then often discarded without a second thought. The hardest thing for Angelique to bear was this waste—like a piece of sweet cake with only one bite taken, the rest left on the plate.

About to leave the room, Angelique noticed on the floor the box containing the rejected turquoise gown made by the seamstress in Saint-Pierre. Impulsively, she took the dress from the box and held it to her before the mirror. The color swam to her eyes, setting them aglow. Moments later, she had it on.

The fit was not perfect, for the bodice was cut small; her breasts swelled at the low neckline, and the waist was so tight she could hardly fasten the hooks. The dress had been made for Josette, who was slimmer, but the gathered sleeves floated off her shoulders, and the skirt, which the countess had not even bothered to uncover, was yards and yards of shimmering fabric, the azure floating in her eyes. She dabbed a bit of Josette’s rosewater on her neck and lifted her hair high on her head.

She did not remember leaving the house. She knew only that moments later she was in the street. The theater was blocks away but she started out, walking in the direction of the ball, trying not to think of what she would say if the family saw her. Gathering determination made her reckless. She didn’t care. She would think of something. She had a right to be there. And she had taken nothing, really, not a ribbon or a jewel, only a dab of cologne and a dress no one wanted. The crickets and little frogs sang in the warm night. Soon she could hear the music, and before many moments had passed, she was in the square.

The flagged courtyard in front of the theater was crowded with buggies and traps, and horses were tethered to every lamppost. A great gathering of excited and noisy Negroes pressed in at the entrance; they had come to gawk at the blancs; békés, who were the only white Creoles descended from old colonials; and mulattoes invited to the ball. The mob parted to let her pass, sighing and murmuring, and seeming not to notice that she had come alone and on foot. She was simply another fine lady to them, she assured herself, and her heart beat faster.

She trembled at the thought of the countess, or André, catching sight of her, but bright orchestral music and the buzz of voices drifted down to her, drawing her farther. Climbing one of the great curving stairs, her skirt floating over the marble steps, she held her head high. Moving inside one of the arched doorways, she paused a moment in the darkness of the overhang.

The theater was overflowing with noisy celebrants. All the well-dressed planters and their families were there, but they were overshadowed by groups of dazzling mulatto ladies dressed in lavish gowns that seemed more designed for the Opéra in Paris. Lustrous dark hair was piled high with flowers, and jewels hung at necks and ears. Many of the women, and their equally resplendent escorts, wore masks of feathers or lace, covering their faces, but revealing flashing eyes and painted lips.

Angelique realized every property owner and merchant in Martinique had received an invitation. André du Prés was notoriously open-minded in such things, mostly because he was shrewd enough to realize it was to his advantage to accept all newcomers in the world of business, whatever their color. But her heart skipped a beat as she caught sight of several people she recognized. They were Monsieur Santurin, his wife, and their two horse-faced daughters, who sometimes came to visit at the du Prés household. Terrified that she would be noticed, she slid into a group of glittering ladies of color; one particularly glamorous matron seemed to notice her uneasiness and gave her a sly wink.

“Would you like a mask, my dear?” she inquired. “I’m leaving with my escort and have no further use for it. And . . . it matches your dress.” Angelique looked at the mask. It was made of the iridescent feathers from a peacock’s breast. A mask—such a delicious means of disguise!

“Thank you,” she said, and placed it over her face, slipping the tiny wires behind her ears.

The dancing began again, and the orchestra was ragged but enthusiastic as it launched into a waltz. Suddenly the entire room was filled with recklessly swirling couples. A slave boy moved through with a tray, and she reached for a cup of rum. Without thinking, she lifted it to her lips and drank it down just as the rollicking melody ceased and the cry went out for the quadrille.

Suddenly she felt a strong arm about her waist, and an awkward young man pulled her into the long double line which was forming across the hall. It was then she caught sight of Josette surrounded by suitors at the far end of the ballroom. Angelique was loath to be on the floor where she could be seen so easily, but before she could duck away, the music of the slow promenade began, and she was forced to keep her place, to curtsy, cross, and turn again, and again, each time meeting a new partner.

Somehow in all the riotous brilliance she had missed the scarlet jackets. The tenth time she spun, she saw the brass buttons and the buttonholes stitched with gold before she looked up into the face of the man who was next. She was stunned to see it was Barnabas.

“Aha! A mystery woman!” he cried when he saw her mask, and he took her hand firmly and marched her down the row. He stepped back and bowed extravagantly to her curtsy, but the moment he looked into her eyes, he recognized her.

“It’s you!” he said, incredulous. Angelique crossed behind him, swept on by the motion of the dance, and Barnabas continued to follow her with his eyes as she passed farther and farther down the line until the quadrille was finished. Then, in the space of a breath, he was at her side, taking both her hands in his.

“By God, you won’t run away this time,” he said, “because I will not let you go. Ah, this is a dream! I prayed you would be here.” Violins began to play. “Listen,” he said, “a waltz. And I have you. Dance with me!”

“No, I do not wish to dance, Monsieur—”

Her words of resistance were swallowed by the burst of the strings as he whirled her into the crowd. At first she was too nervous to keep up with him, but every time she missed a step, strong as he was, he picked her up and set her down again. The music surged, and the dancers swirled around them. Finally, she abandoned herself to the rhythm and seemed barely to touch the ground. She could feel his body as he held her and the strength of his thighs as he moved. The odor of his body was musky and heady. When it was over she fell against him, drunk with the tempo of the music. Then she looked up at him; he was grinning.

He led her out onto the balcony, and they stood together, caressed by the balmy night air. “Take off your mask,” he whispered. “I want to see your face.” He reached for the wires and gently pulled them away, revealing her features. As he looked down at her, he began to chuckle to himself.

“What is it?” she said.

“I was thinking of the poor girls I’ve abandoned. I signed so many dance cards.”

“Then go to them.”

“I want to be here with you.”

“There are not many balls in Martinique, and—”

“I have a secret to tell you. When I saw you for the first time, late the other night, beneath the tavern lamp, I followed you home.”

“Did you? I am shocked, sir. What did you see?”

“I watched you go in the side door of your house. I waited to catch a glimpse of you, and I was rewarded with the sight of you at your window, braiding your yellow hair in the candlelight.”

“You should not have spied on me. Why did you do that?”

“Let me ask you something. Do you believe it is possible to fall in love at first sight?”

“I believe it is possible for some, Monsieur. However, I’m afraid that love and I are not happily acquainted. In fact, we are bitter enemies.”

“Enemies? Really? Aha!” He drew back and stood at mock attention. “At last, I have my calling. I will become your champion, and it will be my duty to vanquish all your foes.”

“And if love be the only adversary I own?”

“Then I shall force love to submit, bend to my will, or I shall run love through.” His eyes were dancing as he made a thrust with an imaginary sword, his arm brushing her skirt before he placed his weapon in an invisible sheath.

“So you would murder love to possess it?” she asked.

“Yes. If that’s what is necessary.”

“But . . . then you are left with nothing,” she observed. And she was sobered by her own words.

“Or, everything . . .” he whispered, leaning in to her. At that moment she had a vision of another face burnished by the sun, a face she had tried to forget.

Barnabas cupped her chin in his hand. “Oh, you are puzzling. What is it about you . . . secretive . . . fascinating. Something mysterious sleeps in you. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

Images of Thierry, struggling to hold the gunwale of the boat, the slimy sea empty of life, the Evil One in his dark chariot, flashed though her mind. What had she done? She had been so immersed in the delights of flirtation, she had forgotten her dire constraints. Selfishly, she had allowed Barnabas to pursue her, and now he was in grave danger. With a sinking heart, she realized she could continue this insanity no longer.

“What you see in me is something you should fear,” she said quickly.

“As one always fears, and longs for, a new adventure.”

“What if I were to tell you that I am . . . that I am not what you believe me to be.”

“What I believe? I don’t know what I believe. I know if I were to dream of a woman, in all her beauty and mystery, that woman would be you.”

“I am not like the other girls in Martinique. I was not raised in the common way.” She struggled for clarity, but her thoughts were blurred by his closeness. She felt him place his arm around her waist.

“I already know there is no one like you.”

“You speak of love,” she blurted out, “but could you love a sorceress?”

“A what . . . ?” He leaned back to look at her more clearly.

“It is true,” she said breathlessly. “You even asked in jest if I were . . . that strange creature. Your instincts were right. You must believe me when I tell you that because of . . . certain restraints on my actions . . . I-I have been forbidden . . .” She stopped, floundering in the awareness that her words were meaningless to him. How could she explain the Dark Spirit who guarded her, especially when he, Barnabas, who was flesh and blood, was staring down at her, obviously smitten.

“You aren’t really a sorceress, are you?” he said, and his arm tightened.

“But I am. I have traveled to the farthest vistas of the mind. I have performed spells that would terrify you.”

His black eyes shone; he was intrigued. “Tell me one thing you have done and see if I am frightened,” he challenged.

She hesitated a moment, thinking of the horrors she could never reveal, but knowing she must warn him away. Finally she said, simply:

“I possess the power to make fire.”

He sucked in his breath and drew her to him. “You have already done that, my lady,” he whispered. Her words had only aroused him. He lifted her against him, molding her body to his, and kissed her neck, breathing in the perfume of her skin, then, clumsily at first, and then more insistently, he found her lips and kissed her softly, deeply, with such longing that she thought her heart would break.

She was not aware of the murmuring crowds gathering outside on the terrace until she finally opened her eyes, breathless, her head reeling. There were excited voices, and several hands pointing toward Pelée, the volcano. She turned, afraid of what she would see. Orange gases tumbled from the top of the mountain, and explosions of sparks traced the heavens.

“Look,” Barnabas whispered. “Pelée is breathing fire!”

“The god is turning over!” a woman cried.

A man shouted, “He is angry that he has been awakened.”

Angelique felt a shiver race though her body.

“The god? Of the volcano?” Barnabas asked the man.

“The god who guards the entrance to the underworld,” he answered. “Baron Cimetière. The god of death.”

There was a sudden clap of thunder, and the sky was rent with brilliant arcs. Angelique’s stomach clutched as she saw lava pouring down from the lip, radiant rocks tumbling in sparks and flashes of fire.

Barnabas was enchanted. “Look at it! Amazing! How does it happen?”

“Don’t you know?” she said, trembling against him.

“I have no idea.”

“These islands are all tips of volcanoes,” she said. Somehow she had to find a way to tell him, but other words fell from her lips. “. . . mountains of a land beneath the sea, with meadows of sea grass and forests of coral . . .” He was watching her, spellbound. Why was she suddenly talking to him about the places she loved? “And . . . living in that world are the most beautiful creatures on earth.” Her voice broke. “But beneath, there is a dark sanctuary, where Pelée lingers.”

“What makes him so angry?” he asked, indulging her.

“Because . . . I am here, with you,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears.

“I can see his fire glowing in your eyes. Ah, now I understand. He is envious, longs for you as I do, burns with the same desire . . .”

“Your ridicule mocks sincerity, Barnabas. What I say is true!”

He pulled her against him. “I believe you. Don’t they say the gods envy mortals when they fall in love? This is the happiest night of my life!” Once again, his youthful fervor, his bold self-assurance, swept him past her vague words of caution.

“You must not tempt me, Barnabas,” Angelique said finally. “I must never fall in love.”

“Why do you say that?”

She struggled to speak, but her words were only enigmas. “Everything . . . in the world has its shadow. Grief . . . is love’s reflection. Love is not for me, Barnabas. I learned that a long time ago.”

“But you are so beautiful. You were made for love.”

At that instant, she heard a familiar voice and turned to see Josette moving toward the balcony, two young men bending over her, whispering.

“It’s too late,” Angelique cried desperately. “You must leave me alone. It’s too late!” And she turned and ran down the stairs and away from him, into the night.