He landed hard on his right knee, hands sprawled in front of him. Which spared him a broken nose at least, she supposed. Not that she gave a hoot in h.e.l.l.

She slammed the door shut, cutting off his yelps of pain.

The wind died away.

The brilliant light faded.

EB stared at her, speechless.

"Mercy," she said finally.

Then, "He all right?"

Bree shrugged. She took a deep breath and tucked her hair behind her ears. Then she cracked the office door and peered out. "He's halfway down the hall," she reported. "And he's only limping a little bit."

"I'm thinking maybe you overreacted," EB said. She looked around the office in a puzzled way. "Goodness knows where that wind comes from. And the light?" She rubbed her forehead as if it hurt, then looked up at the ceiling fixture. "Maybe we ought to change that fluorescent overhead for something reliable. Look! The window's open. See what that breeze done to my files. Did to my files," she corrected herself absently. "Hm." She got up and began to collect the papers scattered over the floor.

Bree wasn't sure where her fits of abnormal strength came from; they didn't happen often, and only since she'd taken on the cases representing the souls of the d.a.m.ned. The only thing she was certain of was that EB wouldn't remember anything unusual about her attack on Payton the Rat after a little more time had pa.s.sed.

Then the usual physical reaction set in. She sat down in the visitor's chair before her legs gave way. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Shoved that little turkey outside like that? Don't see why not. That man has a mouth on him, that's for sure." EB tapped the papers into a neat pile and looked at her employer. "Maybe you should go on home and get some food in your belly, though. You know what? I bet you had a drop in your sugar. That gives most folks a bit of a temper. Get yourself some good sweet tea. Put your feet up."

"I'll be all right." Bree, suddenly, was close to tears. This was part of the reaction, too. She pinched her leg hard, to distract herself. "I think I'd better get on over to the set of Bitter Tide, though. Just to check on Justine. Do you suppose this Mrs. Waterman really swore out a warrant for her arrest?"

"I wouldn't bet a flat nickel on that boy telling you the truth. On the other hand, a visit might be a good idea. I'll key in those will changes and print it on out. Then you have a genuine reason to go poking around. It'll be about half an hour, if that's okay."

"Of course," Bree said.

"You'll have enough time to walk on home and have some sweet tea with your sister."

Bree clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh my Lord. I forgot all about Antonia."

The office door bounced open, and Antonia herself stood there, her cheeks pink with annoyance. "There you are!" She put her hands on her hips and tapped her foot. "I thought you were coming home for lunch? I went and used the last of this week's paycheck to buy that shrimp salad from the Park Avenue market you love so much? And did I have to eat practically all of it myself because it, like, totally sucks if it sits around in the open air? The answer is yes." She pulled a paper bag out of the tote hanging from one shoulder and tossed it to Bree. "Here's the rest of it. I made it into a sandwich. Two ittybitty sandwiches, in fact. One for you and one for Mrs. Billingsley. Hi, Mrs. Billingsley. Have you decided to quit working for my scatterbrained sister and get a job working for a prompt and timely person yet?"

"Not yet," EB said placidly. "How are you, child?"

"Fine. Haven't seen you since before the holidays." Antonia looked around for a spare chair, didn't find one, and plunked herself onto the floor. "I'm back working as a tech manager for the Savannah Rep Theater, you know. Which is why I don't have enough money to buy more than enough shrimp salad for an anorexic." She dug back into her tote. "I forgot. Potato chips." She tossed the bag to Bree, who regarded it doubtfully and gave it to EB.

EB looked at the two of them in turn. "I swear if I didn't know better, I'd never guess you two were kin. It's not the looks so much as the att.i.tude."

They were, in fact, first cousins, although neither EB nor Antonia knew it. Royal and Francesca Winston-Beaufort had adopted Bree on the death of Leah, her mother. Royal's uncle, Franklin Winston-Beaufort, was her birth father. Bree knew a little bit about him. She knew almost nothing about Leah.

"We've got the same nose," Antonia offered. "And my hair's the same color as Mamma's."

"Mamma's is lighter," Bree said. "More of a reddish gold. You're frankly auburn."

"And Mamma's eyes are blue, like mine. And she's short, like me. You're tall, like Daddy and Uncle Franklin. As far as that seaweed color of your eyes ..."

"My eyes aren't seaweed colored," Bree said a little indignantly. "They're green."

"Algae, then. Or mold. Anyhow, I don't know where Bree's moldy eye color comes from, Mrs. Billingsley. n.o.body on the Beaufort or Carmichael side has 'em except her."

Bree, exasperated, took a bite of her sandwich. "I'm sorry I didn't get home for lunch."

"I'll live."

"Did you walk Sasha?"

"I walked Sasha. Although I swear that dog is perfectly capable of walking himself. If it weren't for the leash laws, you could just let him out on his own. He'd be just fine. He's a real angel."

This was truer than either Antonia or EB knew. Like her employees at the Angelus Street office, Sasha's antecedents were rooted in other times and s.p.a.ces. Sasha; Petru Lucheta, her paralegal; Ron Parchese, her secretary; and Lavinia Mather, her landlady, were all angels and members of Beaufort & Company.

Bree tucked the remains of her sandwich back into the bag. "Thank you for the food. I'm not sure what time I'm getting home tonight, so if you could see your way clear to taking Sasha out again after supper, I'd appreciate it."

"I thought we'd planned on hitting the movies tonight," Antonia said. "It's Monday."

"Antonia's theater is dark on Monday," Bree said to EB. "It's her night off."

"My only night off," Antonia said. "So how come your nose is to the grindstone and your shoulder's to the wheel?"

"I've got some work stacked up at the Angelus office."

"And she's got to get over to the Bitter Tide movie shoot," EB said. "We've got ourselves a nice new client, Antonia. Ms. Justine Coville, the famous actress. I'm working on her file right now. And then we're going to take the papers over to the set. I expect we'll run into all sorts of famous folks. Hatch Lewis. Tyra Steele. Craig Oliver."

Antonia's mouth dropped open. "Hatch Lewis!"

Bree winced. She'd forgotten to warn EB about Antonia's pa.s.sionate desire to get into that movie.

"Just when," Antonia asked, after a long, dangerous silence, "were you planning on letting that little item of news drop?"

"Hm," Bree said feebly.

"You've got an invitation to that set?! No! No! Even better than that. An actual cast member is your client?" She leaned forward and hissed, "And you were planning on going over there without me?"

"I'm sure Justine wouldn't mind if you took your baby sister along," EB said comfortably.

Antonia leaped to her feet and began pacing around the room-which was far too small for this energetic activity. "I worked myself to the bone in the theater for years!"

Bree figured it would be counterproductive to point out that Antonia was only twenty-two.

"Years! Waiting for a break. Longing for a break. Dying for a break. And when one of the hottest TV productions in years! Years! Comes along to Savannah, the first person you should have thought of was me!"

"Maybe I should rethink that business about Justine not minding your baby sister," EB muttered.

"No kidding," Bree said.

"So how's about it, Sis? I can carry your briefcase or something. Drive your car. I've got it! I'll be your consultant! I mean, you've spent most of the productive years of your life with your nose stuck in a law book. How much does a lawyer know about film, anyway?"

EB smacked her hand flat on her desk. "That's enough."

Antonia stopped midstride.

"You just sit yourself down and think about your behavior, young lady. Your sister and I are in the middle of building one of the finest law firms in this city."

"You are?"

"We are. This is not all about you, Miss Actress of the Year."

"It's not," Antonia admitted, her voice considerably smaller.

"This is about an important client with an important problem."

"What is her problem?"

"That is confidential," EB said sternly.

"Sorry. Of course. Sorry."

"But it has to do with threats to the poor woman's life."

"Oh dear." Antonia thought about this for a minute. "What sort of role is she playing? I'll bet it's something I could do. If anything should happen, G.o.d forbid."

"Mrs. Coville is eighty years old, child. And I cannot believe I heard what you just said!"

"You don't know actors," Bree muttered.

Antonia's face fell. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. It's not that I want anything to happen to her. Eighty years old? Jeez!"

"So you mind yourself, now. I think an apology is due." She snorted. "Imagine. Busting in on that poor old lady like you wanted to do."

Antonia pulled at her lower lip. "Mrs. Billingsley's right. I'm a jerk," she said to Bree. "It's just so hard. I audition and audition and audition, and I never seem to get anywhere."

"It's a horrible life, the actor's life," Bree said. "I'm sorry myself." Then, because she couldn't stand the desperate look in her sister's eyes, "Okay. So I probably do need a consultant. A very well-behaved one, though."

"You do?"

"And a well-behaved a.s.sistant," EB said with authority. "We all have to go along. I read about it. It's called having a posse. But you"-she shook her finger at Antonia-"no shenanigans."

"A posse?" Bree said. "You want me to show up on the set with a posse?"

"Oh, c'mon," Antonia said excitedly. "Mrs. Billingsley's right. Everybody who's anybody has an entourage. We'll be your entourage. Except we have to be a better-dressed entourage."

"We look just fine," Bree said repressively.

"The money I do have goes to night school tuition," EB said. "I'm not hauling out of here to buy anything else."

"Okay, so you guys look fine. Boring but fine." Antonia waved her hand dismissively. "You don't expect me to show up in sweats, do you?" She bounced to the door. "Give me twenty minutes. That's it. It'll take you that amount of time to run and get the car."

"If you make it thirty, I'll have Justine's will ready for her to sign," EB said. "If n.o.body believes Bree's worth a posse, we'll say we have to be there as witnesses so Justine can legally sign her will. The State of Georgia requires two."

"Hey!" Bree said. "What do you mean I'm not worth a posse?"

"Oh my goodness," EB said, chagrined. "I didn't mean that the way it sounded. I do believe I'm fl.u.s.tered."

Antonia clapped her hands with excitement. "Who wouldn't be? It's perfect, Mrs. Billingsley! I'm out of here. I'll meet you two outside the townhouse, okay?"

"Stop!" Bree said, more loudly than she meant to.

Antonia deflated like a balloon stuck with a pin. "You mean we can't go?"

"Will the two of you keep cool? You're behaving like crazy people. I'm not sure we should hare off down there to begin with." Her cell phone chimed. "Lord, Lord. Hang on a minute. I'm getting a text message." Bree kept her business dress simple; she alternated between three elegantly cut pantsuits and a series of silk tees. All of the suit jackets had inside pockets where she could keep her cell phone, a credit card, and a fifty-dollar bill. She dug her cell phone out: CAR WTG DWNSTRS.

The sender was Armand Cianquino.

Her former law school professor and director of Beaufort & Company, the firm specializing in celestial law based on Angelus Street. Her firm, since she was the only advocate.

"Lord," Bree said again. She clicked on Reply and tapped in "?"

The reply was GET TO BITTER TIDE SET SOONEST.

Suddenly, Justine's fears for her safety seemed very real.

"Okay," Bree said. "I'm headed out."

"I've got to change!" Antonia wailed.

"I can't take you with me, Tonia."

"You have to!"

Bree hesitated. "You promise not to pitch a fit, right?"

"Right."

"We'll see." She picked up her briefcase. "I'm not making any promises. Not yet."

"But . . . !"

Bree shook her head. It all depended on who was driving the car.

Three.