Andrew forced a tired smile as he looked hard into Chantz's eyes.

The river roared and the rain drove hard upon Chantz's shoulders as he slogged through the deepening

mud and water and climbed the gallery steps, flinging the shovel hard to the ground where it disappeared in a puddle. Dawn fought its way through the dark clouds as Chantz looked out over Holly grounds. Already deep gulleys and broad chasms fanned out all directions, a growing plain of dark silt strewn with debris. By now, without the levee, the river would have risen to the lower cane fields, already decimated by the last flood. If he didn't start back to Belle soon, he wouldn't make it until the water subsided.

He came face-to-face with Tylor in the foyer.

Soaked by rain and sweat, his teeth chattering, Tylor stared at him with glazed eyes and blue lips. "My, my, look who we've got here. Just when I thought we had got rid of you for good."

Chantz mopped his face with his damp shirtsleeve as he looked Tylor up and down. The whites of

Tylor's eyes were red and his skin sickly yellow. "How the hell did you breach those barricades?" he

asked.

"Like I do everything else, brother. What Tylor Hollinsworth wants, Tylor Hollinsworth gets. Except for one thing. I've always wanted you dead. Guess we can't always get what we pray for."

Tylor unsteadily turned on his heels and staggered into the parlor, to the cellarette where he clumsily knocked against the decanters of his father's good bourbon and rum. Chantz watched him from the door, the hot core of hatred that had burned in his chest over the years turning into something else. Pity. It felt like a cold stone in his belly.

"Where the hell is Daddy?" Tylor demanded as he poured himself a drink. "No doubt down at that damn levee trying to sweet-talk the river out of his sugarcane. Bet he's pissing his pants right about now."

Chantz swallowed. "Maxwell is dead."

Tylor slowly lifted the glass to his mouth and drank deeply.

"Did you hear me, Tylor? Maxwell is-"

"You're a goddamn liar, Chantz."

"I just buried him."

Turning, the blue of his eyes a shock of color against the bloody whites, Tylor glared at Chantz and began to shake. "Son of a bitch. You killed him, didn't you?"

"The fever killed him."

"That's why you're here, isn't it? You think you could kill Daddy, and then me and get your hands at long last on Holly."

"You're crazy, Tylor. And you're sick."

Tylor flung the glass to the floor and stumbled toward the door, ramming Chantz with his shoulder.

"Daddy!" he shouted. "Daddy, where are you? Where the hell is everyone?"

"Gone," Chantz said. "They all took off when Max came sick."

"Daddy!" Tylor shouted up the stairs. "Get down here. Your bastard son is up to something again."

Silence but for the drumming of rain on the roof and advancing thunder.

Tylor frowned and closed his eyes. He swayed, toppled toward the wall before catching the stairpost

and shoving himself upright. When he turned back to Chantz he bared his teeth and inflamed gums that were tinged with black. "I won't let you get your hands on Holly. I'll kill you, Chantz. Do you hear me?"

"I don't want Holly. I don't need her anymore."

Chantz turned for the open front door. Already water had climbed to the first gallery stair. Rain fell in a dense gray sheet, obliterating the river in the distance. Still, its roar vibrated the air. The gallery planks trembled beneath him.

"Come back here, goddamn you!" Tylor yelled. "How dare you turn your back on me. Chantz! What the hell are you doing? Where do you think you're going?"

"I'm going home, Tylor."

Ducking his head against the downpour, Chantz descended the stairs, sank to his shins in the rising water, and headed for his horse tied under a shed.

"Home to what?" Tylor shouted from the door. "Home to that pile of rubble and trash? Home to your

whore of a wife?"

The water swirled around Chantz's boots as he untethered his horse. He mounted, struggled momentarily with the wild-eyed bay that snorted and fought the bit. He took one last glance toward the house- a mirage behind the wall of rain. Tylor stood in the door, pale as a ghost, face a mask of fear. Chantz could no longer hear him. The growl of the river and rain drowned him out.

Little Clara and Simon lay curled together on the floor before the fireplace. Little Clara gripped a handful of bright ribbons to her chest. Liza sat on an overturned wood crate, staring blindly into the fire while tears coursed down her cheeks. As Chantz stared at the children, then Liza, the air turned hot, his blood

hotter. He felt it rise up behind his eyes and pound at his temples. Briefly closing his eyes, he tried to swallow the lump of dread congealed in his throat. Oh Julie, Julie. Not you too. Please God... This was a nightmare.

"Phyllis is with her," Andrew said in a rough voice that seemed to come to Chantz from a hollow well.

Clumsily, Chantz moved around him, mentally cursing his legs that felt weak as old straw, as if they would snap at any moment.

Andrew caught his arm. "Don't, Chantz. You don't want to see her like this."

"Get your hand off me, Drew."

"You won't do her any good by getting sick yourself."

"If I was gonna get sick I would be sick by now."

"Chantz-"

He turned on Andrew and shoved hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor on his back. Liza

leaped to her feet and ran to him, her eyes flashing with anger.

Chantz mounted the stairs, moved woodenly to the door that stood ajar. Phyllis sat at Juliette's side, lightly bathing her flushed brow with a damp cloth. Startled, she looked around.

"I'm sorry," she said sadly.

Chantz moved to the bed and Phyllis stood. "She's been unconscious since dawn."

"Leave us."

"Chantz-"

"I said to go. Now. My place is with her."

Phyllis folded the linen and put it in his hand. She moved to the door, then stopped, looked around, her

dark eyes reflecting her sadness and concern, then she silently left the room.

He had never felt so inadequate in his life, never so full with helpless fear. The suffering he had

experienced over the last days ill prepared him for the fever that filled up Juliette's small frame and racked her with pain.

Climbing onto the bed, he took her in his arms and held her, hour upon hour. He bathed her sweating

body with cool water. Covered her with blankets when her teeth chattered. Flung them from her body

when she burned.

Twice the sun rose. Each time daylight, dim as it was through the rain clouds, crept through their window he cradled her in his arms and stroked her hair.

"Another day, darlin'. One more day. You can make it, Julie. You're a fighter. Hold me, darlin'. Hold me tight as you can. I love you, Juliette. I'll cease to exist without you..."

Tylor awoke with a jolt. The fire that had burned his brain for the last days was gone. Lying in his bed, the filthy sheets twisted around his naked legs, he stared at the ceiling and listened to the... silence. The rain had stopped.

He started to laugh. He howled roughly, his body contracting and his lungs wheezing. Son of a bitch, he had beaten it.

"Now who's the big man, Daddy?" he yelled at the ceiling and beat the bed with his fist. "Here I am and where are you?"

He coughed and pain sliced through his belly and chest. Groaning, he rolled and clutched his stomach that felt hollow and cramped. God, he was hungry. He thought of yelling for food.

Impossible, he realized with a groan. Everyone had deserted him. Everyone had taken to the woods like scattering guinea hens in the presence of a fox. Well, he'd show them. He'd hunt them down and drag them back by their damn ears if he had to. He'd nail their ears to a post and whip them dearly. They'd think twice before they ran away from Holly again. They'd soon learn that, unlike his idiot soft-headed and soft-hearted father, when dealing with the new master of Holly Plantation there would be hell to pay for their betrayal.

He rolled from the bed, and sank into water.

"Jesus," he croaked, staring down at the swirl of muddy water around his knees. Panic mounting, he slogged weakly toward the bedroom window, leaned upon the sill, and stared with horror at the landscape of water.

A sound crawled up his throat, and he groaned in fear as a water snake slithered around his leg. Frantic, he turned and looked around the room. Yes, yes, he was in his room. This was no sinking ship. There was no escaping without a boat. There was no food, no water...

"Help!" he shouted out the window. "Help!"

The chicken coop floated by, bobbing up and down while clucking, flapping chickens balanced on its peaked roof.

With a yowl of outrage, Tylor slammed his fist into the wall. "Son of a bitch Chantz Boudreaux, this is all your fault thanks to that sorry excuse for a levee..." He hit the wall again, then waded through the deepening water to the open door, out into the corridor and to the top of the stairs that disappeared beneath the brown surface. A turtle paddled by and Tylor momentarily thought of clubbing it with something. God, he was hungry. How many days had passed since he'd last eaten?

"I'll get you for this, Chantz. I'm gonna make you suffer for this. Probably did it on purpose, envious bastard that you are."

He returned to the room and retrieved a tin of matches from the fireplace mantel. He struck three before one lit. With shaking hands, he ignited the lantern by his bed while shadows crept in. Scrambling onto the high mattress, pulling his knees to his chest, he watched the water level creep up, up, turning darker as night closed in.

Drained of strength, he dozed.