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passion for old implements of violence. She claimed they nicely complemented her executive personality. There were times when Hugh was inclined to agree.
    Charlotte had been thrilled with the scheme to strand Mattie on St. Gabriel. Long convinced that Mattie desperately needed a vacation, she had talked her niece into taking one at a plush resort just a bit beyond the Hawaiian Islands. And as long as she was going that far, Charlotte had said casually, she might as well hop over to Purgatory and pick up a valuable medieval sword from a collector named Paul Cormier.
    Nobody had mentioned that the route to Cormier's island was via St. Gabriel.
    “Hugh?”
    “Yeah?”
    “Who is Christine?”
    Hugh frowned, “Christine Cormier? Paul's wife. She died a couple years ago. Why?”
    “He thought I was her there at the end.”
    Hugh shut his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “Damn. Paul was still alive when you got there?”
    “Only for about three or four minutes. No more. He told me there was no point calling for help.”
    “Christ.” Hugh leaned his head back against the wall. He remembered the great red wound in his friend's chest and the blood that had stained the floor and Mattie's clothing. “Was that the first time you've ever had to, uh…”
    “Watch someone die? No. I was with my grandmother at the end. But that was so different. She was in a hospital and the whole family was there.” There was a long pause. “She was a famous ballerina, you know.”
    “I know.”
    “I still remember her last words,” Mattie said.
    “What were they?”
    “‘Pity the younger girl never showed any signs of talent.’”
    Hugh winced. “She was talking about you?”
    “Uh-huh. Aunt Charlotte said Grandmother might have been one of the finest prima ballerinas who had ever lived, but that didn't change the fact that she had all the sensitivity of a bull elephant. Even on her deathbed.”
    Hugh was silent for a moment. He'd seen enough of her multitalented family to guess that Mattie, the only one without any artistic bent, had probably always felt like a second-class citizen. Her decision to forge a career as an art gallery owner had been viewed by the other members of the clan as a final admission that she had not inherited any of the family's brilliant genes. Only Charlotte had understood and sympathized.
    “I'm sorry you had to walk in on Cormier like that,” Hugh finally said.
    “I felt so damned helpless.”
    Hugh smiled to himself in the darkness. “Paul was probably terribly embarrassed.”
    “It's hardly a joking matter, for God's sake.”
    “No, I didn't mean it as a joke.” Hugh tried to think of how to explain. “You had to know Paul. He was a gentleman to his fingertips. Took pride in it. He would never have dreamed of inconveniencing a lady. When I saw him a couple of months ago, he gave me a long lecture on how to deal with women. Said my techniques were lousy.”
    “Did he really? Mr. Cormier was obviously a very perceptive man.”
    “That's my Mattie. Sounds like you're pulling out of the shock. What did you say when Paul called you Christine?”
    Mattie shrugged as she stared at the moonlight crawling slowly up her rumpled silk shirt. “I did what people always do in a situation like that. I held his hand and let him think I was Christine.”
    Hugh studied her intently. “What makes you think everyone does things like that?”
    “I don't know. Instinct, I suppose. There's so little you can do to comfort a dying man.” She moved around a little, obviously trying to get more comfortable. “He wasn't hallucinating all the time, though. At one point he warned me to get out of there. Then he said someone would come. Maybe he meant you. And then he made a little joke. It was amazing. Imagine someone being able to joke about his own death.”
    “What did he say?”
    “He said something about intending to reign in hell, I think. You know that famous quote from Paradise Lost ? ‘Better to reign