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considerably. “I must ask: does Gaston bear his father any ill-will?”
    I took a deep breath and answered as truthfully as I could. “He does not feel so at this time. However, if the man does something foolish…”
    “Like show him a whip,” Striker said, and threw his hands wide in apology when I turned to him.
    “Just so,” I said. “Aye, if his father does something that magnificently stupid, then… well, then only the Gods can know. I will meet with the man first to determine his motives. I do not feel that Gaston should meet with him alone, if possibly at all, depending on the circumstances.”
    Theodore seemed relieved by this, but he quickly frowned and studied Striker speculatively before shifting his attention to me. “I feel there are pieces to this matter that…”
    “The Marquis is responsible for Gaston’s scars,” I said. “Personally responsible. Gaston forgives him, as he feels he gave his father just cause.”
    “Good Lord,” Theodore sighed.
    I did not spare Pete and Striker a glance: they already knew that aspect of the matter. None knew why, of course, but that was not a thing I felt they ever need know.
    “He must not kill the Marquis,” Theodore said seriously. “And neither must you. Such a thing would cause a diplomatic incident beyond Modyford’s ability to mitigate.”
    “I understand,” I said solemnly, and I did. Killing a nobleman of any nation was not a thing to be done lightly.
    “If such a thing is to occur, it would be best if you left Jamaica,”
    Theodore added sadly.
    “I do understand that,” I assured him, and then I slipped outside.
    I found Gaston sitting in the shade of a tree with the dogs. He was a good distance from the house, enough so that he would not have heard the end of the conversation there. He pawed angrily at the tears upon his cheeks as I approached.
    “What is Theodore?” I asked as I sat before him. “He is neither wolf nor sheep.”
    At first he frowned with annoyance that I should pose such a question under the circumstances, and then he smiled with understanding.
    I continued. “I do not feel he is a mythical being, born to be one thing and yet another. Nor do I feel he is a common docile form of livestock.”
    “He is a raven,” Gaston said.
    “How so?” I could not picture Theodore taking flight in any manner.
    “He is intelligent, observant, and barristers feed off the dead and are the harbingers of doom,” Gaston said, without any seeming insult in the last.
    I smiled and nodded as I thought of Theodore the Raven. “As always, I feel you have seen the truth of the matter.”
    Gaston sighed and met my gaze. “I cannot remember how to don the mask, Will. I can recall what it felt like to wear it. How safe it was: that no one could see my thoughts, like painting my eyes with the Caribbe mask. But I cannot find that place in my heart where I need go.”
    “My love,” I sighed. “I do not think the place you go to don the mask is in your heart. I feel it is alien to it.”
    He thought on this. “But, I am not without compassion when I tend the sick, and I wear a mask then, too.”
    “Oui, but it is a different one, I feel. You are at your finest then. Well, perhaps not, not for me anyway, as there is brusqueness and remove to your manner when you are healing and mending that I would not have aimed at my person in other situations. But, oui, you are in control then, and yet not so removed as you sometimes were when wearing the other mask. But, as we have discussed, it is because your Horse is…
    much engaged with the matter at hand. Or rather, it finds its concerns of the moment secondary to the needs of the man you are healing. But…
    As we have also discussed, we are centaurs, both Horse and Man, and we need to walk through this world as such. We cannot hide one half or the other in the cave: it does us little good, and it is not truth.”
    “But Will,” he said earnestly, “Sane men do not cry. Grown men do not