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forward to seeing more of you," he said.
    Later, de Laussat took Guy aside. "Has he offered you a post?" he asked.
    " Non ."
    "He will. Either with himself or perhaps he'll arrange for a place on General Wilkinson's staff. I could see he was impressed with you. Work with the Americans. You have a flair for politics and Louisiana will need you. Fight for what she needs, don't merely fight against the Americans as so many of your friends are doing."
    Guy stared at the prefet .
    "You know I'll be returning to France in a few months," de Laussat said, clapping Guy on the left shoulder. "I can't stay to help Louisiana make the change, but you'll be here. I haven't pushed you, for all would be suspicious, then. The Creoles. The Americans. With no reason to be, but men are like that—seeing deviousness where none is intended and missing the obvious threat. Work from the inside, Guy, don't stand on the outside, complaining. And good luck."
    Guy drifted through the courtyard, let himself out onto the banquette and walked aimlessly, his thoughts a blend of disbelief and excitement.
    Did he want to be on the Americain staff? Being de Laussat's aide had been rewarding but Claiborne wasn't French. He'd had a favorable impression of the governor but still—work for an Americain American? He was a Creole, after all.
    Non , wait, since yesterday he was also an Americain . No, an American, as Claiborne would say. Like it or not. Many Creoles would condemn whatever Claiborne did, right or wrong. He was no more eager to be a United States citizen than they, but the fact remained that they all were.
    It wouldn't do any harm to work with the governor. Perhaps it would do some good, as de Laussat seemed to think. He admired the prefet , had learned something of diplomacy from him. Certainly his advice was worth considering.
    Very well, if Claiborne approached him with an offer—and that was still to be seen—he'd take him up on it.
    Guy took a deep breath, looked around and found he was nearing the rue des Ramparts. He stopped abruptly. Without realizing where he was going he'd headed toward Aimee's cottage. He turned on his heel to go back to the ball. He didn't want to see Aimee again. Not yet.
    As he approached the house where the party was going on, he could hear laughter, music and the agreeable noise of merrymaking. He stood for a moment outside the gates, listening, feeling a strange sense of being set apart, of actually being an outsider.
    A ridiculous notion. Guy shifted his shoulders uneasily, feeling pain stab through his right arm. He'd known those inside all his life. There were few strangers except for the Americans. He belonged if anyone did.
    He pushed open the small gate, crossed the lighted courtyard and went into the house, eager to banish his uncomfortable feeling, to take a drink, to plunge into the party mood. Glass in hand, he looked for Senalda and saw her dancing. With Nicolas.
    Rage tensed his muscles. He took a step toward the couple, then stopped. This damnedable sling. The wound had seemed trivial once Dr. Goodreau had stopped the bleeding, but it was slow to heal. The doctor had suggested leeches, but Guy had refused. Certainly he was incapable of challenging Nicolas at the moment.
    Deliberately, Guy turned from the dancing, his eyes scanning the gaming tables. He headed for one, then stopped. He had little heart for the dice tonight, he felt drained of vigor. Slowly he turned his back on the tables and walked away, again finding his way to the courtyard.
    The night was so chilly few couples braved the cold. He sat on an iron bench beneath a large fig tree, staring down at the flagstones between his feet. I'll be the St. John of this courtyard, he told himself wryly. The notion failed to amuse him.
    The year was ending, another would soon begin. He felt like old Father Time himself tonight. Where were his friends, Gabriel, Rafe, Andre, that they didn't rally round and help him shake his dark mood?
    "Have you