Boston was, without a doubt, the most amazing place imaginable. The streets were overrun with people and carriages. Many fine buildings lined the tree-shaded avenues. Merchants sold everything from silver to vegetables in the market, and Angelique could not help but notice that class distinctions were far less important there than in Martinique. There were few slaves, although poverty was more apparent. The beggar and the tradesman both seemed to mingle on the street with all the finer sort, and there was energy in the air, a sense of promise.

André desiring one last holiday with his daughter, had sailed with her first to New York. There they would shop for her trousseau and he would show her the sights of the new nation’s capitol.

Certain that Josette would already have arrived at Collinwood, even though there had been no message, the Countess Natalie du Prés finally decided to leave Boston with Angelique and embark on the two-day journey to Collinsport. She did not wish to arrive too soon and be unwelcome, but without the two of them there, Josette would have no servant or companion should they be needed. Angelique was overjoyed; her long wait of three months was almost over.

They began the journey early in the morning. Angelique, in dismay, peered out of the carriage window at the passing countryside. The rain fell on a bleak landscape of barren fields. They passed woods with low stone walls and tall leafless trees, their thin black branches etched against the white sky. She was unprepared for the grayness of the countryside, and for the cold. Her thin cape, donated at the last minute from the countess’s wardrobe, barely kept the chill from her bones, and if her heart had not been beating so fiercely, she would have been shivering. Her hands were like ice, and her breath came in clouds, but a heat was raging through her body. She was afire with anticipation, waiting for that first moment when she and Barnabas would stand in each other’s presence. She was certain she would collapse with happiness.

She and the countess spent the night at a small country inn, where it seemed the entire male population of the area gathered that evening at the bar to drink some warmth into their veins. The boisterous carousing lasted far into the night, and the countess and Angelique were grateful to climb into the carriage the next morning, if only to sleep. Late in the day, the route began to skirt cliffs that fell to a roaring sea, and the horses labored on the grade. The roadbed now seemed to be entirely comprised of large rocks, jolting the passengers mercilessly.

“I don’t think I can bear much more,” the countess complained. “This road is unforgivable; it’s like rolling through a pigsty!” Angelique looked out and could see what seemed to be pieces of the sky flying through the air.

“Oh, look, Countess! What can that be?”

“That, Angelique, is hail! You’ve never seen that, have you?” said the countess disdainfully. “Such dreadful weather! The rain is turning to ice, and the road to mud.”

When she saw the falling hail, a strange feeling came over Angelique. She had never seen Maine, with its raw shores, but something seemed familiar, some dim recollection of a time when she was not a child of the sea and her world had not been blue and gold. Her mind tried to stitch together these delicate tree branches, which were like pen-and-ink drawings on white paper, with the thick glossy green of the Martinique foliage. But she gave up, and memory merged with reality. This was to be her home, this cold and forsaken wilderness that seemed to stretch on for such great distances. In Martinique, they would have crossed the island and back by now.

Suddenly the carriage lurched, and Angelique was thrown forward into the countess’s arms.

“I knew we were in for some trouble!” the countess gasped, for they had come to a dead stop. The driver was whipping the horses, and they could feel the straining of the carriage and the jerking on the harness; however, the conveyance did not budge. After a moment, the driver opened the carriage door.

“So’s, m’lady, seems we’re stuck in the mud!”

“Well can’t you dig us out, my good man?” the countess responded, thoroughly exasperated.

“I aim to, ma’am. We’re not too far, only a half mile or so from the Collinwood estate, and once I have this wheel free, I’ll take us there in no time, no time at all.”

“Well, make haste, can’t you. Before we freeze to death!”

So there was to be another delay, when waiting had become unbearable. Angelique could contain herself no longer.

“If it’s only a little way, why don’t I go for help?” she cried.

“What, girl? Don’t be foolish,” said the countess. “Why it’s near dark and freezing rain. I think we’d best rely on the strength of the driver and his spade.”

“But what if he is not able? We can’t remain here the night. I could not let you suffer in such a way!”

“Nonsense, child. Here, pull that blanket over me, if you will—” But Angelique was already out of the carriage, gathering up her skirts to keep them from the mud, as she ran to the driver’s side.

“Is Collinwood just down this road, sir?”

“Yes, miss, it’s a pity we didn’t make it before we ran into this deep rut here. The horses are weary, and—”

“What sort of house is it?”

“Why, it’s the second house on the road, miss—set back a bit, with tall white columns and a round portico. There is another grand place we’ll come to first, in the last stages of building, a great mansion, but—I say, miss, you’re not going on foot, are you?”

But Angelique was already a hundred yards down the road, running, mindless of the mud on her boots or the rain falling on her shoulders. Her only thought was of the face of her beloved Barnabas. Her heart was beating wildly, and she felt that she would burst with eagerness to see him. Her mind was so full of the promise of exultation that she fairly flew over the distance, and it seemed only moments before she was standing beneath the wide columns in front of the large wooden door. She could hear voices within, arguing with some heat, and a man shouting.

“Love! Love is only a word in ladies’ novels!” There was a male response, low, murmured, and the angry voice cried out again. “A woman is not a future!” What was this argument? Could it be between Barnabas and his father? Was it possible that he was talking about her?

She lifted the brass knocker and let it fall. The door opened, and he was standing there, in a wine-colored jacket, his dark hair falling about his beautiful eyes, which widened with astonishment.

“Barnabas!” Her heart leapt, and she felt she would faint from joy. She wanted him to pull her into his arms, but he failed to make any move at all, and simply stared at her, awkward, not speaking.

“Are you surprised?” she asked, her eyes dancing. She told herself that the presence of the other man, whom she had overheard but could not see, prohibited any immediate show of recognition.

“Astonished,” he answered. “We didn’t expect the countess for at least a week.” There was a quick jerk to his eyes, a look behind her, a moment of hesitation. “Where is she? And why are you walking?”

“Oh, your roads, Monsieur,” she smiled again, embarrassed. She must look a strange sight, she thought, her cape dripping, her hair in disarray. “The carriage is buried in the mud—completely stuck!”

“How far back?”

“Too far for my mistress to walk,” she said. But she wanted to lean in, and whisper, “But not too far for me to fly to your side.” She felt girlish, giddy with euphoria. She fixed her eyes on his, looking for the silent message that he was as delighted as she.

But instead, to her disappointment, he asked her in with some diffidence. As she lifted her hood, she saw the room she had imagined a thousand times, warm and charming, with fine appointments. He was wealthier than she had supposed, and she realized the ties of his family must be strong, but not as strong—she told herself—as their secret pledge.

She turned to see an elegant older man with graying blond hair and prominent sideburns, standing by the fireplace.

“Father,” said Barnabas, “this is Angelique. The Countess du Prés’s . . . maid.”

She curtsied. So, it had been his father with whom he had been arguing. Monsieur Collins wore a velvet waistcoat and a gold watch fob, and he had an air of weary despondency underneath his irritable manner. Angelique could not help but wonder whether he had known some deep disappointment at some time in his life. Barnabas asked that rooms be prepared. Then he said, referring to the countess, “I must go and fetch her.”

“I will accompany you!” Angelique answered at once.

“That’s not necessary.” Was it her imagination, or was he afraid to look at her?

“Oh, but it is most necessary to my mistress,” she said with a determined air, flashing him a look. She turned to Joshua Collins and curtsied deeply.

“It is a great privilege to be in your home at last,” she said with a smile. But Monsieur Collins merely grunted and turned away, and she felt the stab of resentment she had known so often in Martinique. He treated her as a servant: invisible, ordinary, easily replaced. Anger welled up in her, and blood rose to her face.

She was none of those things, she thought. Now was her time, and soon she would throw off her maid’s disguise. She was a beautiful woman, and once she had the dresses and the jewels, no one would ever fail to see that. She was certain that Barnabas would never find anyone to replace her in his arms.

The stable was warm. With the rain falling, steam rose from the bodies of the animals. The sweet smell of the horses, hay, and droppings, made her delirious. She remembered the joy of being at Barnabas’s side, when all the world seemed enchanted, and the words that flew through her thoughts were like poetry. She stood while the groom and the caretaker harnessed the buggy, longing to look into Barnabas’s eyes, but afraid to betray her eagerness. Then the buggy was ready, and she climbed in beside him.

To her chagrin, the caretaker heaved his obese body into the buggy as well. He carried an ax, and he saw her staring at it.

“To fell branches, to place under the wheel,” he said in a thick voice, and Angelique observed at once that he was somewhat simple-minded.

“Good idea, Ben,” said Barnabas. This Ben was strong as a bull; the muscles of his neck protruded from his shirt. He sat directly across from her and watched them both with a murky gaze, his presence forbidding any intimate conversation.

Barnabas reached for the heavy leather wrap and draped it over her and himself, giving her a quick smile that melted her fears. She could feel the warmth of his body beneath the blanket as the buggy trotted down the road, and she was drenched in happiness. She felt she could remain there for eternity, embraced by his dear presence, and be content. She closed her eyes and wished that time would stop, that the journey would last forever.

A few hours later, when the Countess du Prés arrived at Collinwood, wearing her enormous ostrich-feather chapeau and carrying a feather muff to match, Joshua Collins was disdainful, and she, in turn, was rude. They stood in the hallway verbally parrying with one another.

“The area in which you live is a wasteland of emotion and courtesy!” said the countess.

“Then I think you might have stayed in Boston if you dislike it so much here!” he retorted. Angelique rejoiced that the meeting was so strained, for this would only reflect on Josette. She had to smile to herself when the countess asked—

“Is it ever warm here? Does it ever stop raining?” She herself was wondering the same thing.

Once she was in her small room off the servant’s hallway, Angelique looked around in contempt at the plain furniture and common brick fireplace. How quaint, she thought, to find an old spinning wheel long out of use, its skeins unraveled. Was it there to suggest that her place in this house was one of service? But this was no time to fret like a spoiled child; she must prepare for the visit she knew was coming. Opening her luggage, she chose a simple flowered frock, then arranged her hair at the mirror so that it tumbled in soft ringlets. She studied herself dispassionately. She would never forget the countess’s words. “You think you are beautiful? Is that why I catch you looking at yourself in the mirror? You are not beautiful, Angelique. Josette . . . is beautiful.”

She had not Josette’s pale features, those of a patrician gentlewoman, but her face was well formed, perhaps the nose and mouth a bit small, but her eyes were deep and languorous. At this moment she thought she had never looked more desirable, for her skin was flushed and her eyes were soft with longing. She felt her senses quiver, aching for him, for his touch, for the melting warmth of his body.

She sat on the end of her bed and wrapped her arms around the turned post, easing her cheek against the smooth mahogany. Then she let her mind play with the images of their last night together in Martinique: the cascading waterfall, the spray and the surrounding mist, the darkness of the cave, the sweet-tasting water on his lips, the soft rain as it wet their faces and their mouths, the merging of their bodies under the flowing stream, and she felt a helpless throb in the deepest part of her.

When, at last, the hour grew late, and thunder rumbled in the darkness while rain fell between flashes of lightning at her window, Angelique could endure the wait no longer, and stole down the corridor. She climbed the great stairway and some instinct led her to Barnabas’s room as there was a light beneath his door. She tapped lightly on his door.

“Who is it?” She heard his voice. It was a long moment before he opened for her, and she burst into the room.

“A ghost from your past!” she cried, and flew to his arms. “Oh, my darling, I waited for you. . . . I couldn’t bear it! Not any longer!” She kissed him, her eyes laughing. “Why didn’t you come? Were you too proud? Don’t you know how I love you?”

She leaned in to him, pressing against him, limp with relief, sighing, whispering. “After you left the island, I dreamed of you every night, I heard you saying my name. . . . I so longed for this . . . hold me!”

She clung to him, her fingers digging into his velvet coat, and she kissed his face, his lips, sliding with a rush into her rapture. It was a moment before she felt him resisting, pushing her away. She kissed his mouth again, but felt no response.

“Ah, you taste of this cold house,” she cried. “What is it?”

“I am not cold, Angelique, but I want to be. I have to be,” he said softly. “I can’t do this. I mustn’t. Please . . . you must realize . . .” He lifted his hand in a limp gesture of embarrassment. “It was all a mistake.” Her head reeled, and she felt faint, as if all the blood had rushed to her feet.

“What? What was a mistake?”

“It was . . . my weakness to—” he stammered, turning from her.

“To what?”

“To—to love you . . . it was wrong . . . I’m sorry. . . .” She saw he was in anguish, struggling with what he was saying. “When we were together . . . I still wasn’t certain I was going to be married. . . . Josette loved me, but I never dreamed I would grow to love her in return. . . .”

“You love Josette? Josette is a thin-blooded girl! When you came to the door tonight . . . weren’t you glad to see me?”

He looked at her a moment. “I was surprised to see you. I never expected you to come. I was confounded by your appearance, your eyes, shadowed by your hood. . . .”

She bit her lip, waiting for him to say what she longed to hear, but he did not.

“Please try to understand, Angelique. You and I can never . . . there is no way . . . we could marry. I know I may have led you to believe that it could be possible, but my father . . .”

“Your father! What do you care about your father? He . . . is not you!” And she ran to him again, grasping his arms and looking up into his face. “Where is the man I loved—so rebellious and passionate? I never expected . . . weakness! Surely you will have the courage to tell your family what you want from life. You know you love me!”

Barnabas turned from her. “No, you are wrong,” he said after a pause. “I did love you. You are a beautiful . . . fascinating woman, but . . . perhaps I do not have your brand of courage. I have other things, more important things, to consider. I know it is difficult for you to understand, but my duty is . . . is to my family.”

She watched him helplessly, not comprehending, as he struggled to say more and could not. Then he seemed to grow resolute, and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “The truth is, I have grown to love Josette. I love her now, with all my heart. And if you value the power of love as much as you say, you will respect my feelings. Now, please, I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you, but . . . I must ask you to leave.”

“Leave?” she said grimly. “Before you regret all the foolish words you have just spoken?”

There was a long pause before he whispered, “Yes.”

“You don’t want me anymore.”

There was another long moment of silence. “No.”

Her eyes flooded with tears, and, too proud to let them be seen, she fled for the door.

Once in her room, she wept as though weeping would dislodge the crushing weight on her heart, as if a dull dagger was sunk deep in her breast. She wept until she was choking on her tears, coughing, sobbing, her chest heaving, and all the while she kept imagining that she heard his step in the hall, that the door would open and he would come into her room and take her in his arms. She felt her body ripping, as though it were being rent by the sharp claws of some cruel, indifferent monster. Disbelief was mingled with despair, and she realized that Barnabas’s rejection, his coldness, his complete lack of feeling was the only reaction she had not expected.

She had been prepared to flee, to run off with him, to endure misfortune, to show sympathy for the loss of his inheritance, to remain by his side through all tribulations, to work, to slave, for him. She had imagined adventures, hardships, a return, at length, to the embrace of his family.

But she had never imagined this. She had never believed that Josette would be a significant rival. She had seen Josette as a means for her to come to New England—where she could be near Barnabas—simply as an instrument of their finally being together. She would have even endured their pointless marriage if she could have remained his mistress and beloved. How could she have been so blind? Nothing had prepared her for this emptiness, this unbelievable vacuum that was now her future. What would become of her? Where would she go? How could she remain here as a servant, seeing Barnabas every day, humiliated, invisible, watching him living beside Josette and making love to her.

She rose, went to the window, and placed her hand against the glass. It was so very cold. The dark trees twisted their bare limbs in macabre shapes caught by the lightning. The flame of the candle at her table flickered and died, and in the shivering darkness, lit intermittently by bright flashes, her mind began to wind through channels of possibilities.

What would induce Barnabas to falter in this resolution and succumb to his deeper desires? This fidelity to father and family was only a posture, an attitude he had adopted. Of that she was certain. Was there some way she could weaken him—distract him?

She had a facetious notion: perhaps some silly bit of magic would awaken him to his true feelings. She instantly regretted her idea; magic was no longer an option for her.

She returned to her bed, lay down, and stared up at the ceiling. Her mind began to search for solutions, and she grew calmer. One clear thought emerged. He loved her, and he had forgotten that he loved her; what was probably more true, he had decided not to love her. The surest way to clarity of mind was an encounter with death. Face-to-face with one’s mortality, the human creature always realizes, in a flash or insight, what is truly important. A brush with death—that was it! That was what she needed to bring Barnabas to his senses.

The only problem was how to create such an incident, and she had abandoned spells and potions so long ago. Was it worth a bit of subtle dabbling? She had to be very careful; the last thing she wanted was to awaken the attention of the Dark Spirit. She had abandoned her powers, and he had left her alone; that had been their truce. But something small, unnoticeable would be so simple. It was tempting; she had to break Barnabas down in some way. She decided to be patient. And with these thoughts fresh in her mind, she finally fell asleep.

Opportunity presented itself much more easily than she could have predicted. Once again she embarked on her servant’s duties with modesty and resolve. The countess depended on her for so many trivial tasks that she often wondered whether the woman would have been capable of dressing herself or arranging her own coiffure. There was no end to the mending, trimming, and removing of spots, not to mention selecting the perfect piece of lace for the bodice or jewel for the neck. Sometimes she felt as though she possessed all the expertise behind the stylish woman she served. Each day she released her to the world, transformed, elegantly arrayed, and only she knew what pains the transformation required.

The child Sarah, Barnabas’s little sister, often came to Angelique’s room to play. She was only six, but her presence carried Angelique back to her own childhood, and she remembered her time with her mother. She often thought of the man she had believed was her father and how defiant she had been. How obsessed she had been with learning the book of spells. Her determination and her courage had saved her then. It was difficult to believe that she had once been worshiped as a goddess and that Erzulie had embraced her spirit.

Sarah was an imaginative girl, capable of falling into the grip of the stories Angelique told so well. Her eyes grew wide at the descriptions of ceremonies, Negroes dancing on coals without burning their feet, of worshipers in deep trances singing and drumming. She particularly enjoyed tales of slavery in Martinique and of the soldiers who came to quell the uprisings. Once she brought a small wooden soldier from the nursery to show Angelique, and left it behind when she was called to dinner.

Angelique held the toy in her hand and looked at it carefully. It was painted wood, with a blue coat, a three-cornered hat, and a movable arm holding a tiny musket. She remembered, with a smile, the first time she had seen Barnabas in his uniform, how smart he had looked, and she knew in a flash that the toy had belonged to him when he was a child. She placed it in the pocket of her dress.

As plans began to form, and she became more hopeful, her mood grew cheerful. A line of verse sang in her mind: Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it.

She even smiled as she retrieved the countess’s shawl from the drawing room, stopping to admire the furniture, the gleam of mahogany and the texture of brocade, imagining that these riches would someday be hers.

She pulled the toy soldier from her dress and was staring at it, musing over possibilities it might have, when Jeremiah, Barnabas’s uncle, appeared in the room. Angelique remembered seeing him in Martinique at the festival when she had first met Barnabas. She was immediately struck by his handsome face and his respectful demeanor. How different he was from his brother, Joshua Collins, who was so arrogant and abrupt, and from Barnabas, who was passionate and rebelliously volatile. When Jeremiah saw the doll, he seemed to recognize it.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

“A member of the regiment,” he answered, and smiled. “An old soldier.”

“Was it yours?”

“No. It belonged to Barnabas. They were his favorite toys when he was a boy. It should be in the playroom.”

Her intuition had been correct. “Then I’ll return it,” she said.

“Very well.” She thought she saw a flicker of interest in his eyes, but it faded almost as soon as it appeared.

“Shall I take it for you?” he asked, almost as if he wanted to make conversation. She could sense a strained melancholy in his nature, as if his life had no purpose, no source of vitality, other than his work at the shipyard. Perhaps, as the younger brother, he had been under Joshua Collins’s iron fist of control even longer than Barnabas, even to the point that he, Jeremiah, had lost his taste for adventure. How vulnerable he is, she thought. Those who are resigned to a life without romance are most susceptible to love’s beckoning.

“I’d like to keep it for a while,” she answered, “just to look at.”

“Of course.”

“It’s such a fascinating little toy.”

“Very well,” he said, almost awkwardly. “Keep it as long as you like.”

She held his gaze. Yes. He was the perfect foil. But his role would come later. For now the doll was almost all she needed, if she chose to do it, to cause Barnabas more pain and suffering than he had ever known.

That evening, Angelique sat by her window, gazing out at the night sky. The moon was wrapped in fog, and the moonstream flowed faintly upon the water. Here the sea was cold, she thought, and threatening, no call to warm embrace, only dark and forbidding. Nevertheless, she felt a longing for its force crashing against the shore. It had been such a long time since she had attempted sorcery, she wondered whether her powers lay dormant, or even whether they had shriveled and died. It was years since the Dark One had spoken, and she had repulsed him. But she did not need him now, not at all.

She took out the box she had brought with her from Martinique, undisturbed for so long, and yet she had not been able to leave it behind. She unwrapped the cloth and opened the lid. The tins were there, the vials, the small sacks. She shivered and slowly closed the lid again. There was a knock at her door, and she placed the box beneath her bed.

Angelique was surprised to see Barnabas standing in the gloom of the hallway. Never had he looked more handsome, with his silk vest and his fine white shirt with its poet’s sleeves, falling to soft gathers over his strong hands. His black hair tumbled over his eyes, which burned like coals, and she could see from his stance, his head lowered, his legs spread, that he was attempting to present an air of cool composure.

“May I come in?” he said softly. She stood aside to let him enter with a rush of hope. She had known he would come. She needed no spells when she herself possessed such power over him.

“I want to tell you how sorry I am,” he began, “and that I deeply regret what has occurred.” Angelique waited, saying nothing, feeling her pulse throb in her throat. “I admit that I may have taken advantage of you and treated you with less than the respect you were due. But . . . surely, I was not your only lover, and Martinique was . . . an enchanted place. A place of dreams. I—what I have come to say is . . . I see no reason why we can’t be friends.”

“Merely friends?” she whispered.

“Yes, why not? You are devoted to Josette and she to you. All I want is . . . for us all to be content. Don’t you see, our . . . love affair in Martinique will always be a cherished memory. I will never think of you without affection. But now, we both have different roles in life.”

A new role in life, her father had said. One you can fulfill with pride. She would never forget those words—words that had plunged her into a life of desolation at the whim of a heartless man.

“And what is my role?” she asked bitterly. “The countess’s maid?”

Barnabas looked at her, a helpless pain in his eyes.

“Angelique—”

“I am your servant,” she said simply.

“No . . .”

“And you are my master.”

“Angelique . . . please . . .”

“What do you truly want, deep in your heart?” she whispered. “At this moment?” She took a step toward him. “Why are you here?” She saw him tremble, and he lifted his hand to his mouth.

She thought of the many times that hand had touched her, those fingers had stroked her, as he now stroked his parted lips, the full lips that she had kissed with such abandon. He had told her once that he could live on her mouth. She could see how he struggled with his feelings, and her heart ached for him.

She went to him, embraced him. “I love you,” she said tremulously. “I will do anything to make you happy.” She kissed him softly, deeply. Her body lifted against his, and she whispered, “Think of those nights in Martinique. No one has ever loved as we do. You do remember, don’t you?”

He gave a little moan, his hands reaching for her, clutching her, bending her to him. She murmured, her mouth near his ear, “If all those promises we made were sweet lies of the moment, nothing more, then lie to me again. What does it matter?” She let flow from her lips the silent utterances of her heart. “Lie to me again,” she whispered, and pressed against him, feeling him weaken.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed, and she was amazed at his sudden ardor. His hands moved over her body, his fingers pressing the flesh beneath the fabric of her dress. She was in the sea, the surge rising, and the surf thundered in her ears. His kisses were savage and insistent, and his breath was harsh next to her ear, like the rush of the wind in a cave. His fingers groped for her skirt, and beneath it, and when he found her, she felt her body throb in response. His weight was upon her, crushing her and, even as she sensed, with a twinge of regret, that his desire for her had overtaken his reason, that she had tricked him, she still slipped into the rush of bitter release, drifted from her safe shore and rose to meet that sweet heaviness, folding herself under a huge arching wave that carried her, tumbled her, lifted her, and flung her into the deepest of all waters.

Afterward, she drifted in a quiet eddy before she turned to him and saw that his face was shadowed with remorse. She traced the shape of his cheek with her finger, thinking how he was changed after lovemaking and wondering why this was so.

She smiled, and whispered, “You see, nothing can keep us apart.”

He rose and pulled on his clothes, embarrassed, uneasy.

She watched him, then said lightly, “I told you you cannot resist me.”

“I admit you are difficult to resist—I lost . . . control—”

“When two people are in love, nothing can stop them from wanting to be together.”

“I think . . . it would be better if we did not see each other again—alone.”

“How will you stay away?”

“I will. I must. Josette is coming. Angelique . . . I love her.”

“No, Barnabas, you only think you love her. You are trying to convince yourself that you love her.”

“I am going to marry her.”

“A marriage that will only be a charade. One week, and you will regret it. She will never make you happy.”

He turned to her and looked down at her. His eyes were red, and there was a weariness to his tone that made her want to weep. “This was the last time for us, Angelique. Please believe me, and don’t make it more difficult than it already is.”

Her heart filled with a sudden hatred for him. He was weak and dishonest, and he had used her again. She had allowed him to do so, humiliating herself in a desperate effort to rekindle his love with his desire. She was a fool. “Go. Leave me. Leave me now,” she said cruelly. He walked to the door, then turned.

“Is there any way we can be friends?” he said helplessly.

“Oh, Barnabas,” she said in a low voice, “I will always be much closer to you than you think.”

Word was received that the ship carrying Josette and André to New York had been blown off course in a storm, delaying her arrival for more than one week. Josette was anxious to join her fiancé, and, as André had further business in the city, he had sent her ahead with an escort to Collinsport.

The time for father and daughter together in New York was cut short, but Josette had managed to peruse the shops for the latest fashions. When she arrived at Collinwood, she was dressed in a wine-colored coat that fell to the floor, loose in back and flowing with a train. She carried a fox muff, and her hat, a bouquet of lavender and roses, perched on her chestnut hair, which lay in charming ringlets on her breast. Her face was radiant when she embraced Angelique with unabashed affection. Barnabas appeared, breathless, and while Angelique watched, her heart filled with envy, Josette went into his arms, and he kissed her with great tenderness.

“Josette, my love, welcome to your new home,” he said warmly. It was impossible not to see that his devotion was genuine. He fairly glowed when he looked at her. Slightly self-conscious, Josette turned to Angelique.

“Has my luggage been sent up?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Then . . . would you see that it is unpacked?” Josette was gentle as always, never condescending or unkind, but the intonation was clear. She wanted to be alone with him.

Of course Josette was lovely, and so very sweet, always insisting that Angelique was her friend, not her servant, and now she would again begin to confide in her, sharing her feelings about Barnabas. Angelique would be forced to listen attentively, giving solace, understanding, commiserating, although the poisoned fiend of jealousy was already curling in her stomach, spitting his sour taste into her mouth.

Once she was back in her small room, Angelique opened the drawer of her dresser and took out the toy. Her hand was shaking, and a numbness flowed down her arms. The little soldier was sturdy and ready for battle, as untroubled as the man he impersonated. The handkerchief, easily found among Barnabas’s things, was cumbersome, too large, but it carried his monogram and would suffice.

“Wake up, little soldier,” she said, her voice tense and uncommonly sweet. “The time has come for you to perform your duties. My mistress has arrived to prepare for her wedding. But there isn’t going to be any wedding, is there?”

Carefully, she looped the noose around the little neck. “Just a little pressure,” she said, “just a slight tightening of the collar.” How she wished she could be there to watch, but she did not need to be; she could picture it all in her mind. Then she sucked in her breath and called up the pulse of fire. It quivered at once through her body, like a snake of flame, and danced down her arms and into her hands. How simple it all was.

There! It was happening! Down in the foyer, Barnabas was kissing Josette when he stopped, confused by the discomfort, then panicked at the jerk at his throat.

“Barnabas, what is it?” Josette cried, frightened, then hysterical, as Barnabas collapsed in the chair, clawing at his throat.

“I can’t breathe. . . .”

Angelique pulled the noose tighter. She smiled as she felt the force surge through her, physical, pleasurable, almost as though she were with him, holding him, feeling him in her body.

“I—something is choking—t he room is—growing darker— where are you—Josette?” He groaned, crashed to the floor, knocking over the chair. Josette screamed, helplessly bewildered. Servants were called. He was carried to his room. The doctor was sent for.

Several hours passed, and Angelique decided to look in on Barnabas. Josette sat by his bedside, weeping piteously. She looked up, her eyes rimmed with red.

“Oh, Angelique, what am I going to do?”

“How is he, Mademoiselle?”

“Much worse, I’m afraid. Even the doctor can’t help him.”

Angelique felt a quiver of pride. “The doctor came?”

“The doctor has said there is nothing medically wrong. It’s . . . it’s as if something attacked him . . . a look in his eyes, his hand to his throat—”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Will you come and pray with me, Angelique?”

“Of course, my lady.”

Angelique knelt beside her mistress, then turned to her, hands folded, as if with a sudden impulse, and said: “Perhaps, if you intend to pray, it might be helpful for you to have your medal of Saint-Pierre. Did you bring it with you?”

“Oh, yes! It’s in my luggage.”

Angelique rose as if to go fetch it, but Josette stopped her.

“Let me find it,” she said breathlessly, obviously glad for an excuse to be away for a moment. “Stay and watch over him.” And she dashed out. Once alone, Angelique looked down at her victim.

“Barnabas,” she whispered, leaning in close to his face. “You are such a foolish man, and you look so pathetic.” He was sweating, his skin gray, his mouth moving with no sound. She touched his throat lightly, and he opened his eyes. “What are you thinking?” she said softly, without rancor. She waited while he looked up at her, tortured, bleary-eyed, and struggled to speak. Then she said with amazing calm, “Is there anything you wish to tell me?”

“I’m dying,” he rasped, his voice thin and strained. Angelique felt a pulse of fear. Surely he wasn’t close to death. It was far too soon, and the handkerchief was not tied that tightly. She was reminded of something, some anguished, long-buried memory, and suddenly her heart began to beat faster.

“I am dying . . .” he said so softly she could barely hear him. “Death is all around me. . . .”

“No! No, you cannot die!” She leaned in close to him, her breath mingling with his.

“Angelique . . . please . . . help me. . . .”

“I love you! If you die, I will have no one!” Then the memory struck like a dagger.

Chloe!

She dashed down the hall to her room, her heart pounding in her throat. Her hands were shaking when she reached for the doll.

Chloe!

She wrenched at the handkerchief, but it was so tight around the neck of the little soldier that she could not tear it loose. Cold panic in her veins, she relived the nightmare, floundering in self-reproach. She killed the things she loved. She destroyed her chances for happiness. What would she do if he died? What would she do if she lost him? She would be alone!

Desperately she fumbled through her bureau, searching for scissors, a knife, nothing! She jerked at the knot once again. It had to come loose. It must. There was a sickening moment of helplessness, as her fingertips dug at the handkerchief, nails ripping with pain, and finally, she felt a loop loosen, and slipping a finger beneath it, she pulled it free.

In her mind she saw Barnabas gasp for air and breathe again with great wrenching gulps as Josette embraced him with joy.

“It was so terrifying,” he said, clinging to her. “Death was . . . whispering to me.”

Angelique sat numb with relief, staring at the doll in her hand. How could I have been so careless? she thought. I must not ever harm him again. If he had died, I would have been left with nothing. It can’t be a spell on Barnabas. I must find another way, some other means of disturbing the world around him, destroying his hopes, so that he will turn to me for solace, and then I shall be his.