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Calliope sat beside Madison, her dark eyes moist. Andrew thought how beautiful she was, how much love she had for this lucky Billy. “Mr. Madison, many of us sacrificed for the Revolution. But we won our freedom. And this man has been jailed merely for coveting that liberty for which we all paid the price of so much blood. That liberty we have proclaimed so often to be the right and worthy pursuit of every human being.”
    “Miss Calliope,” said Madison. “How appropriate the name. I declare, you would challenge my old friend Hamilton for persuasiveness. I must reward such ardency, if I can. But what man is this whom I can so affect?”
    Calliope laid her hand lightly on his sleeve. “Your valet, Billy.”
    “Ah.” Madison sat straighter. “I see. You’re an Abolitionist then, Miss Calliope? That’s what inspires your words so.”
    “I’m a Negress, Mr. Madison.” Calliope stretched her own neck to its most regal. “That’s what inspires my words so.”
    Madison blinked several times. Then he took Calliope’s hand into his own. “I had no notion. It’s as I’ve grown to understand. There is no difference among men, among races.” He looked at her pale gold skin a moment. “Say we make special arrangements for Billy. His case is not popular with my neighbors in Virginny. So say we send him someplace more accommodating. Philadelphia perhaps. Perhaps to work in a victualizing house, much like this one. For a good master, much like Mr. Gant. And say we draw him the contract of an indentured servant, so that at the end of seven years, his freedom is his own and he can live and work—and marry as he likes.”
    “Oh, sir.” Calliope brought Madison’s hand to her lips and kissed it. Andrew saw him flush all the way up his high forehead. “It’s just. It’s merciful. Can you send a letter on it today, since the Congress has just started?”
    Madison threw back his head and roared. “Priceless woman! I observe those tears are sincere, yet still you keep me timely. Of course I will send my letter today.”
    “I brought paper and pen for my own work,” volunteered Andrew. “But you can use some now if you wish.”
    Madison thanked him, and bent his head over the paper.
    When he’d finished his letter, which he folded and promised to hand to the secretary of the Congress for posting, he looked at Andrew. “You’ve been a quiet young man. What is this work you speak of?”
    “Astrology, sir—”
    “Oh,” Madison was enlightened. “You’re Smithson, the astrologer who wrote me the letter.”
    “Andrew!” said Calliope. “How considerate of you.”
    “Thank you, sister,” said Andrew. “And I still make the offer, Mr. Madison. To cast a chart for the Constitutional Congress.”
    “Yes, please.” Madison’s grey eyes warmed. “My plantation has prospered, Mr. Smithson, not nominally because of sage advice from several astrologers. June, 1787. We’re talking of a Cancer nativity for the Congress, are we not? Hmmm, a mutable sign.”
    “There are actually twelve celestial houses to consider, Mr. Madison,” said Andrew. He had his tables out and was noting any crucial aspects in opposition. “And each house has its say in the horoscope. None rules the other.”
    Madison nodded. “Like the thirteen states, each with their own constitutions.”
    “Well, yes,” said Andrew. “I’m not a political man, but that would seem reasonable. And though Cancer would be the sun sign, we really see a checking and balancing influence among the Sun sign, the rising sign, and the house in which the Moon falls. Three influences augmenting and mitigating each other.”
    “Checking and balancing—I like that. My Virginia Plan, I can let you know, says something similar. I propose three separate branches of Federal Government, each one checking and balancing the other ... Yes, yes, I will lay this out for Hamilton this morning. Oh, excellent. What a help you’ve been, Mr. Smithson!” Madison jumped up