Emily couldn't get to her room fast enough. She pulled her bag from the bottom dresser drawer, planning to count out her money. Only her money was gone. She looked in the top drawer where she kept her jewelry. All of it was there, except for her necklace. She looked around the room, in the closet, and then sat on the bed in shock, trying to figure out why someone would take her things. She decided it couldn't be for the money. Unless... What if the necklace really was worth something after all? She had worn it the one night and received a number of compliments. But... they took the money too, and it wasn't much compared to what the girls made. It didn't make sense. After some thought, she considered that maybe someone did this to keep her from sneaking off. As much as she tried to fit in, she doubted anyone believed she wanted to be at the Palace.

She checked around some more then sat at the table looking out the window. Her eyes filled with tears. Maybe someone... well, like Beatrice, was trying to keep her in line. She could blackmail her. Although, that didn't make sense either, unless... Maybe Donald set her up. But why on earth would he want to do that?

Emily didn't know where to start. Desirae was gone... conveniently, and Toni was off. This was just all so bizarre. Here she was without a soul she could trust.

Then she remembered Peter and rushed back to the dresser to get his card, but it was gone too. She hadn't even bothered to look at his last name.

She was angry and confused as she headed downstairs to look for Beatrice. She wasn't in her office, so she checked the kitchen. No one was there. She went to the lounge and peeked inside. Then she headed to the parlor where she found her interviewing a young woman. "I need to talk to you."

Beatrice spun around with a scowl, although her voice didn't reflect the anger in her face. "Would you please wait in the kitchen? I'm busy here," she said sweetly, batting her head toward the girl a couple times.

Emily looked over at the young woman, tempted to warn her about what she was getting into. But judging by her plunging neckline, the heavy makeup, and that bleached hair piled up like Beatrice's, it looked as if she already knew.

Exasperated, Emily went to the kitchen and sat at the table, trying to make sense of everything. She knew that any one of them could have had something to do with the theft, though she hated to think that Desirae was involved.

When Beatrice walked in, she headed straight to the stove for coffee. "Want some?" she said over her shoulder as if nothing was wrong.

"Nope."

"So, what's up?"

"Someone robbed me. They took all my money and my necklace too."

Beatrice stirred sugar into her coffee then went to sit across from Emily. "Could've been a pickpocket."

"No, that wasn't it. Someone went in my room and took every last dime of mine. Well, except for the twenty dollars I had with me. And I spent maybe five of that." She pulled the money from her skirt pocket and dropped it on the table. "That's all I've got left. And then there's the necklace too. It was an inheritance."

"Oh, stop fretting over the measly bit of money you lost," Beatrice said, sounding thoroughly irritated now. "And the necklace probably fell out of that purse of yours, or whatever you call that thing you carry around. You know, young lady, if you'd take a few more men up to your room, you could replace all of it in no time."

"How do you replace an heirloom? And... what makes you think the necklace was in my bag?" She stood and stuffed the money back into her pocket.

"I saw you leave with that thing just here the other day, and it was bulging at the seams. Just about the same as when you came that first day."

"Well, I'm certain I didn't drop anything because it was up in my room when I left this morning. I'm careful that way. Anyhow, I think I'm going to ask around and see if I can find out what happened."

"Listen, Emily, don't stir things up, you hear? I'll check myself, just keep still about it." Beatrice looked at her watch. "Say, you'd better go up and change. Donald will be here soon. I'm sure he'll take you to a nice place."

Emily went back to her room, furious that Beatrice didn't give two hoots that she'd been robbed. She began to gather up her things, and when she headed to her closet and pulled down her notebook, she realized that it was clearly not in the spot she had left it. The white turkey feather she always left on the page of her last entry was missing. Only three pages back in full view was what she had written on the bus ride to Chicago. It would have been easy for someone to thumb back and read every last word.

She checked the floor of the closet for the feather, brought a chair in and looked up on the shelf, then looked under her bed and nightstand. As she started for the dresser, she saw it lying up against the wall beneath the table. She hadn't been anywhere near there with her notebook, only to her bed where she wrote.

She sat at the table and bent to pick up the feather, astonished that someone would bother to snoop in her notebook. Yet, someone had, although she had a feeling it wasn't a mission of pleasure. The worst of it was that someone probably now knew she killed Claude. They could turn her into the police whenever they liked.

Then a thought hit her. She had written the part about Claude as a story, hadn't even used his name, or her own. So how would anyone know she was writing about herself, or that the story was even true?

By calling the Illinois police, that's how, you idiot. The police would confirm everything. Because she had never anticipated anyone reading her private journal, she had foolishly mentioned a young woman running from the barn and leaving a dead man with a pitchfork through his chest. Then she had gone on at length about the bus ride from Watseka to Chicago. Chicago, city lights, buildings a mile high, and how the anticipation of riding a train for the first time to the city by the bay had been ruined because of him. It had all seemed so right on paper that day.

She jumped up and stuffed her bag with a few things she might need, and then headed out the door. When she reached the stairway, she stopped when she realized that thinking about leaving was altogether different from actually walking out into the street with almost nothing to her name. She saw images of herself sleeping in back alleys with the bums and coming out with the sun, tangled hair, wrinkled clothes, with no food, or even water to bathe. Then there were the women Beatrice mentioned who'd been raped, stabbed, and left to die. And she hadn't even considered what would happen if the police started asking questions.

On her way back to her room, she decided to find someone who knew Peter's last name. Desirae wouldn't return until the next afternoon, but she tried Felece and Angellee's rooms. When there wasn't an answer, she tried the door across the hall.

Someone groaned. "Leave me alone. I'm trying to sleep."

Back in her room, she lay across the bed, remembering how close she had felt to Michael not that long ago. He lived just across the bay. And yet she had no one to turn to. If only she had looked at Peter's card.

Her only hope was to find Samuel, someone who might not even want to be found.

Of course, there was always Donald Schillings.

As much as she didn't want to go, she changed into one of the dresses Beatrice bought for her, pulled her hair up into a ponytail, and then painted on some red lipstick.

On her way downstairs, she heard laughter coming from the family room and leaned over the railing. Angellee and Felece were just walking out the back door with a tray of food and a six-pack of beer.

"Wait up you, guys!" She ran the last few steps and approached the girls as they poked their heads back inside.

"I was wondering if either of you know Peter, if you know his last name."

"Well, let's see," Angellee said, thoughtfully, "I know of two Peters that come in."

"This Peter was here a number of weeks back, maybe four. He was tall, long hair... in a ponytail."

"Oh, yeah that Peter," Angellee said. "Well, I've talked to him several times, but I don't know his last name." She looked at Felece. "How 'bout you?"

"Nope, me neither."

"Sorry," Angellee said, "maybe one of the other girls can help you."

"Sure, thanks anyway."

The two girls started off, but Emily stopped them again. "Say, uhm. How well do you guys know Donald Schillings?"

Angellee smiled as she stepped inside. "Mr. Schillings? Well, he's the king around here." She leaned back dreamily with one foot against the wall. "You see, he's what you'd call a... well, an enigma, in a beguiling sort of way. You might have noticed how everyone sort of stands at attention whenever he comes around. Oh, but, he doesn't mess with any of the girls, which is a disappointment to some of us... peculiar to others. But then I guess it keeps up the suspense, probably makes him more interesting, a little more mysterious."

"I see. Well, thanks anyway."

Emily watched Angellee walk out, and then went to meet Donald, bewildered and wondering how she could've been so wrong about a person.

When she reached the parlor, he was pacing and smoking like a man with a lot on his mind.

He noticed her standing by the doorway. "Hello, Emily."

"Hi." She watched him put out his cigarette and then walk into the hallway. He didn't seem as serious as the last time she saw him, although as much as she tried, she couldn't squeeze into that good feeling Angellee had about him.

After they settled in the limousine, he poured two glasses of champagne and handed one to her. She took a drink, letting the cool sparkling liquid tingle inside her mouth and flow down to warm that empty spot that was waiting. Nothing had changed there. Maybe the champagne didn't do for her what brandy did, but it was a good start.

He topped off her drink and set the bottle back in its ice-filled bucket.

"I know you're in a tight spot at the moment, Emily, and I'm going to be blunt with you. It's for your own good." He took a drink and then slipped an arm on the back of the seat. She tensed until she realized it wasn't going to end up around her.

"I've been alive many years longer than you have. And I speak from experience when I say that young women in the spot you're in are far too often snuffed out like a match in a windstorm." He tapped his fingers on the back of the seat. "Now, as for you, it's simple. All you need to do is relax and let me help you. As I see it, you don't have any other viable options."

He was probably right. Still, with him as the hero of the Palace, in Angellee's mind anyway, she just couldn't get comfortable with the idea of him being her savior. She certainly didn't want to be indebted to him. What really had her curious, was why he was interested in her in the first place. He hadn't even tried to go up to her room. She wondered if he knew that her money and necklace had been stolen. Several times, she turned to him for an answer, but she couldn't bring herself to ask him.

The limousine rounded a bend and turned into a restaurant parking lot that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. She moved closer to the window, trying to get a better view.

When they stopped, she quickly slipped from the car and went to the drop-off where she stood breathless, unbelieving at the mass of water churning and rolling for as far as the eye could see. The sheer energy of the waves was exhilarating, one after the other climbing higher and higher as they rushed to shore and exploded into the rocky cliffs below. Her breath burst at the same time, goosebumps chilling as they were at the wondrous sight. How could she forget, if only true, Michael's wish to see this moment. She longed to go down and walk barefoot in the sand, realizing she would never feel this exact way again.

"Let's go," Donald said, standing next to her.

His interruption was disappointing, but the excitement was there to recall and so she did as they walked inside.

The restaurant was luxurious, with an entire wall of windows overlooking the ocean. After the glass of champagne she consumed on the way over, and all of this beauty and extravagance, the world seemed better a for the time, at least.

A waiter arrived carrying a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. "Would you like to start with the usual, Mr. Schillings?"

Donald nodded, and the waiter uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount. After a swirl of the glass, a sniff, taste, and a motion from Donald, the waiter filled his glass, and then Emily's.

"Is that okay?" she asked, when the young man left. "I'm not twenty-one, you know."

Donald picked up his menu, looking inside. "Yes, I know."

Apparently, Beatrice filled him in. The urge to ask him where her necklace and money were was almost too much to resist.

"Would you like me to order for you?" he asked when she had mulled over the complicated food selection.

She placed the menu on the table. "That's probably a good idea."

He picked up a basket of rolls and offered it to her. "They have the best prime rib in the state right here."

"Well, uhm, it's been a while since I've eaten beef."

"Don't tell me you're one of those, what do you call them, vegetarians?"

"I don't know about that. I guess it's mainly the cows and their big brown eyes so trusting as they're being fattened up just to be butchered. I do eat bacon sometimes, though."

"Interesting," Donald said thoughtfully, "coming from a country girl."

She wondered if he was trying to tell her something. She couldn't remember if he was even supposed to know that-if she had mentioned it during one of her drunken stupors.

A white candle burned within a spiraling silver ornament, augmenting the elegance of the perfectly white tablecloth. Light from the flames danced amongst the silverware and glistened against the china and willowy glasses. She took it all in until she felt his eyes on her.

"I have a proposition for you," he said.

"A proposition?"

"Yes. An offer."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you see, my wife died a little over a year ago and left me with two children. I'd like you to be their nanny. I have a cook, a number of housekeepers, and of course a butler. So you'd have nothing to concern yourself with except the children."

She might have been thrilled with his offer, although she couldn't help but wonder why he was so interested in her, a complete stranger. There must be hundreds of other girls willing to take care of his children. Stranger yet, if he knew about Claude, and it was apparent to her that someone did, why would he entrust them to her?

"Have they started school yet? Or are they even old enough?" she asked.

"They're old enough, all right. However, after my wife died, I decided to pull them out. I tried to send them to a boarding school. But until my uncle diea" He stopped as if he'd said more than he wanted to.

"Your uncle doesn't want them in boarding school?"

"No, that's not it at all." He gave her such a harsh look that she wished she hadn't asked.

"I'm sorry... it's really none of my business."

That made his eyes soften a little. "The main thing is that I found a tutor who comes in three or four times a week. No bureaucratic bull. No snoopy staff that way."

"If you don't mind me asking. Who's been taking care of them since their mother died?"

"They had a nanny. Sylvia," he said bitterly. "She left a while back. Some family problem." He took a drink of champagne, studying her as he set the glass down. "You know, Emily, I've tried out a number of young women for this position, but... Well, it's hard to find just the right help nowadays, someone that's not stuck in their ways. Someone that'll keep the children content. Pearl, the woman that's been in charge of the household for years, has been keeping an eye on them. But she's anxious to move back East with her family." He scratched his head. "I guess I'm in a little spot myself. Anyway, Emily, the pay will be one twenty-five a month, plus room and board."

Night was falling and floodlights above the outside window reflected a glimmering iciness that flowed across the lawn, down the cliff into the sea. The scene was breathtaking. She tried to imagine the excitement of living in a home with children. So why couldn't she just come out and say "yes"? Why was it easier for her to focus out the window?

"I can't see how anyone could ever get used to such a beautiful sight," she said, fascinated by how quickly the fog was rolling in.

He glanced out for a moment then back to her. "I see the ocean more as a resource."

She thought it was funny how they talked as if they were looking at two different scenes.

"I'll have someone pick you up in the morning," he said.

She heard the impatience in his voice and knew that this job, if she took it, would not be an ordinary one. "I should think on it."

When they arrived back at the Palace, there was music and laughter coming from the lounge as he escorted her to the staircase. "The car will be here at nine a.m.," he said. "Goodnight, Emily."

She walked up to the landing, waited around the corner for him to leave, and then headed down to the lounge to see if Peter was back.

Once inside the lounge, she stood by the waterfall and scanned the room for Peter. He wasn't there. Neither was Sam.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE.

It was still dark outside as Emily went to sit by the window to contemplate her options. The way she saw it, there were only three: The Palace of thieves, liars, and the lost; the streets without hope, and certain danger; or a place where two children longed for their mother. Finally, just before dawn, with her head in her arms across the table, she found sleep, knowing that when the sun came up she would be leaving with Donald Schillings.

At five to nine, she was a little nervous as she headed downstairs, although now there was an expectancy and an excitement too. Ever since she woke, she had been imagining herself and the children together like a real family. She would be the big sister and treat them with kindness. They would look up to her and treat her with respect. Maybe this was exactly what she needed. Now at least she would have something to occupy her time until she found Samuel Dimsmoore.