"Just some after the execution. My back hurt-"

"And some last night to sleep, and some yesterday after a dinner party with bores, and some yesterday morning after a jolting carriage ride from the Marais unsettled your back. Madame, it is the cordial. La Dodee told me to watch you. I'm sure of it. You are hallucinating."

"And what business is it of hers to have you watch me? Everybody watches me! Whom are you working for, anyway? La Dodee and La Trianon? Or me?" I glared up at her from my seat on the bed.

"You, Madame," Sylvie answered, "but you know perfectly well that La Dodee gave you the tincture of opium against Madame Montvoisin's orders, and if you spoil your gift with it, her vengeance will be on La Dodee and me, for not telling her. And if I were you, I'd be a lot more worried about Madame than about imaginary things in the shadows. What will you do if she visits and sees your mirrors covered, eh? Me, I want to drink my soup without any worries." She flounced about to the other side of the bed and turned down the sheet, then fluffed up the pillows. I had a lot of pillows-the best goose down. They had lovely linen cases, too, embroidered with the arms of Morville, just like the sheets. The bed curtains were heavy blue brocade, the color of the sea on a summer day. All paid for by me. They pleased me every time I looked at them.

"I hardly take any. You know it's just for my back."

"Humph. I'll believe that when you show me who's been following you."

"You can't see people who follow you secretly." My eyes narrowed. How dare she insult me? She should be the first to understand what care I took with my cordial. I wasn't like those bored rich women who have nothing to do but give themselves opium dreams.

"Especially if they're imaginary. b.l.o.o.d.y mirrors, indeed!"

I crossed to the bedroom window and opened the tall shutters.

"So what do you call that?" I whispered. "My imagination?" The black, moonless night had swallowed the city. Here and there, the faint flicker of a candle showed between closed shutters in the tall, sealed stone houses. But in a doorway across the street, half lit by a puddle of faint light beneath one of La Reynie's new street lamps, a figure in a black cloak stood immobile, his wide, unplumed black hat pulled down over his face.

"Oh!" Sylvie was taken aback. "Have you seen him before?"

"This afternoon at the execution. He was watching me then, I'm sure of it. And later, he was standing outside the Hotel de Soissons, staring at me through the window."

"Who do you think has sent him?"

"It might be the Duc de Nevers. He's a ruthless man. Street a.s.sa.s.sins, bravos, kidnappers-he knows them all. He does whatever he likes, and there's not a law of G.o.d or man to stop him."

"But you've left out the Devil. Him, they all fear, those libertines. He'll not risk offending Madame-not directly, at any rate. She is the greater adept. I'll send Mustapha to her with a message tomorrow, and you shouldn't leave the house until he's gone-Ah, listen...company's coming." There was the crash and tinkle of a street lamp being shattered in the distance, the sound of horses on the cobblestones, and a bawdy drinking song being bellowed by two off-key voices.

"Neatly done! It counts double if you extinguish them with the first blow!"

"Gentlemen," whispered Sylvie, "or they'd flee before the watch arrested them for breaking the lamp."

"Oh, say, look-here's another." The arrogant voice rose from the darkened street. "With a Guardian of the Street Light poised beneath it, just like a gnome. Say, peasant, out of the way, unless you want to be run down. We've got a game going."

"The spirits of darkness tilt against the lamp of civilization, eh? There is no contest. Louts who put out lights will always outnumber those who light them." The voice sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it.

"How dare you address me that way, you street sweeping!" I could see that the mounted man had drawn his sword as he charged into the lantern's light, but the dark figure had vanished deftly into the shadows.

"Madame, come away from the window, or they will want you as a witness." I could feel Sylvie pulling at my dressing-gown sleeve. The other windows on the street remained resolutely closed.

"Shh!" I said as I blew out the candle to darken our window. There was a clatter and an animal shriek as the black-cloaked figure lunged from the shadows and with one arm gave a vicious yank on the horse's heavy bit, causing the animal to rear and fall backward onto its rider. Now something had shattered the street lamp and sent its lighted wick and a shower of flaming candle wax onto the struggling horse and rider. The second rider dismounted and hastened to the aid of the first.

"Philippe, you are on fire-quick!" He batted at the blaze with his hat.

"Peste-I'm tangled in the stirrup leather," came the cry.

"Where is he? I'll find him if it takes all night." The first voice sounded menacing in the dark. I could hear the metallic slither of an epee being drawn.

"My plumes...ruined. My ankle-ugh-it might be broken. But I swear I pinked him. He can't be far..." I could hear the grunts of someone attempting to a.s.sist another to mount and the clatter of feet.

"Halt, Messieurs. You are under arrest."

"Ha...the watch...no, police archers. Stand your ground, you. It is we who are the aggrieved parties. A knave attacked us here-"

"Madame, where are you going?" whispered Sylvie.

"Sylvie, I think I know that man." I was already half downstairs, with Sylvie and Gilles close on my heels.

At the foot of the stairs, I could hear the sound of labored breathing even through the heavy door. Someone was hidden in the dark arch of the doorway, leaning against the door itself. I lifted the bar, and he tumbled in. Wordlessly, Gilles dragged him in and swiftly and silently I rebarred the door.

"...breaking three street lamps, that's the charge, as if you didn't know already..." The argument in the street was growing louder.

"...knave, have you any idea of who I am?"

"...if you don't come quietly, you'll be cooling your heels in the Bastille for a good long time, that I promise you..."

"So, Monsieur d'Urbec," I said, leaning over the prostrate figure, "you have chosen an unusual hour to spatter blood on my doorstep." From the dark at my feet came the familiar voice.

"It is clear my injuries have proven mortal, since one encounters the dead only in the afterlife, Genevieve Pasquier."

As the gentlemen, horses and all, were taken into custody, I could hear Sylvie say, "They'll be out and back at it tomorrow." She had poked her head almost between mine and d'Urbec's, the better to listen in.

"Enough of that, Sylvie. Don't lean so close. When you're sure they've gone away, I want you and Gilles to bring a m.u.f.fled lantern down here and clean up any bloodstains. If they come back in the morning, I don't want them trailing him into this house."

"Understood, Madame."

"So, Monsieur d'Urbec, I knew you were hurt when you pitched a rock at the light. It meant you couldn't get far and needed the dark. So I a.s.sumed I'd find you in the doorway. Correct?"

"You always had a superior command of logic, Mademoiselle Pasquier. Though of course I could not be sure you had recognized me." He was struggling to get up.

"Can you mount the stairs una.s.sisted?"

"I think...perhaps not. I believe I may have hit my head when you opened the door so precipitously."

"Lean on Gilles, here, and be careful of the stairs in the dark."

Upstairs, by the light of new lit candles, Gilles cut away his shirt as I tried to stop the bleeding. He winced as I pressed harder on the wad of rags I held in each hand over the double wound. Even so, the blood kept welling up, running between my fingers, onto my dressing gown, onto the floor. His breathing was uneven, gasping, but still he didn't cry out. The orange light of the candles flickered across the livid galley mark on his shoulder. Had he cried out then? I wondered. I could feel Gilles's calm eyes taking in the whole scene.

"Messy, but not serious. It went in clean and came clear out the other side. The rib deflected it from anything important. I've seen worse when I was in the army. If there's no gangrene, he'll be all right in no time."

"The army? You were in the army, too, Gilles?" I asked. Gilles was certainly a man of surprises.

"Why, any number of times," he answered calmly. "The grenadiers, the musketeers, the infantry. I've been in them all. Mind you, only for a few weeks each. Such dull people. And so stingy with the enrollment bonus. Why, they scarcely keep you drunk for a month. A man's patriotism should be more greatly appreciated, I say. Instead of thanking me for my devotion to the military life, they sent me for a sea-air cure." D'Urbec clutched at his side, his hands over mine in the sticky mess as he tried to laugh.

"You're lucky they didn't shoot you, my friend," he gasped. "That's the new requirement for excessive patriotism of your sort." Gilles chuckled. D'Urbec's eyes hunted around the room, studying the gilded woodwork, the luxurious hangings, as Gilles ran a bandage around his ribs.

"Not so tight," he complained. He had changed greatly. He was thinner, hardened. His jaw was grimmer, his cheekbones prominent, his eyes rimmed with dark circles. His black hair lay close to his skull, and he hadn't shaved for weeks. The student in him had died; in its place was something strong, dark, and bitter.