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should seek treatment.”
    She hid her surprise. Saints—what had gotten into the man, that he was willing to speak of his condition; he hated to speak of his condition almost as much as she hated to speak of her intuition. Then she realized it was more properly what had gotten into her; whilst she had been avoiding the subject and wanting to throw things, he had been quietly considering what needed to be done in preparation for this baby. She grasped his hands, which were still making their stroking circuit, and kissed them both in turn. “Michael, I am so sorry I’ve been actin’ like a spoilt child. Forgive me, please.”
    “There is nothing to forgive. You have had a lot thrust upon you in a short space of time.”
    She smiled to herself at his choice of words, but let the opportunity to say something flippant pass. It was true; in recent months she’d married her boss out of hand, nearly been killed, killed someone, shot herself by accident, and had gotten pregnant to boot. For the love o’ Mike, what could she possibly do for an encore?
    Letting his hands go so they could go back to their rhythm, she thought about the question. He rarely referred in any way to his neurosis—or whatever it was—and he would surely hate having to speak of it to anyone else. “I am of two minds on the subject,” she admitted. “You are not a danger to me—quite the opposite. It affects no one else. What would you have them do? Start feedin’ you some vile drug, or try weanin’ you away from me?” This had actually crossed her mind more than once; unthinkable that he may wake one morning to find his fixation gone as quickly as it had come—and that he would regard his better half with the same incredulous disbelief that everyone else did.
    He gently turned her over so that she lay on her back, and leaned over her, his face very close to hers. Apparently, she had said something amusing. “You are remarkably foolish if you think I am going to leave you.”
    She twined her arms around his neck and broadened her accent, “Faith, m’lord, ’tis a sad, sad sight I’d be, what wi’ me poor belly and you not willin’ to do right by me.”
    “Knocker,” he said in imitation, and kissed her.

CHAPTER 5
    At first, he had been wary of her, even though she was just
a woman, and not very strong. She was mganga, and
although the new God said be not afraid, it was hard for
him to forget what the old gods said, in the old country.
After a few minutes, though, he decided she was good of
the soul, and it was she who was wary—it was not easy
to be mganga.
    T HE NEXT MORNING , A CTON PREPARED TO LEAVE FOR HIS CON- ference in Brighton and Doyle prepared to leave for work. Ordinarily, she was an early riser but in recent days she had been reluctant to rise from their bed, particularly because as soon as she stood on her feet she began to feel out of curl. She found if she took deep breaths and nibbled on a plain, refrigerated biscuit she could control the nausea, and tried to build some optimism based on this discovery. I’m to have a new attitude, she reminded herself; I’m to be a grown-up and not a balking donkey so that Acton will not be worried that I’m incapable of doing battle with the pretenders to the throne.
    Marta came in early to make up for leaving early the day before, and Doyle explained that Acton would be out of town and no dinner need be prepared as Doyle would forage on her own; the last thing she wanted was to spend an evening alone with the disapproving housekeeper.
    Marta replied, “Yes, madam,” because Acton was present, and Doyle smiled to herself; judging from the pillow talk the night before, the poor woman would have a long wait of it, if she was thinking that Acton would come to his senses anytime soon.
    “Timothy and Caroline would like to play cards on Sunday, if you’d like,” Acton said as he kissed her good-bye.
    Doyle smiled. “That would be grand, Michael.”
    She managed to dress for