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hand through his hair. His heart felt fluttery and sick. “You still got that bottle in your bag?”
    Boz fetched his saddlebag from the hearth. “Nerves touchy?”
    “Damn right they are.” Trace took the whiskey bottle, pulled the cork. Two long draws and he was gasping.
    “You sure you wanna do that?”
    “This was your idea.” The liquor hit his stomach like hot tar and spread. “Keep by the door. Make sure nobody comes in. And take this.” He pulled the Colt from his hip and passed it over. “In case I’m not in my right mind.”
    Boz looked alarmed. “What d’you think’s gonna happen?”
    “I don’t know,” Trace admitted. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doin.” He eyed the breakfast table, with the two empty coffee mugs, and got an idea. He rearranged the dishes, placing a mug before each chair, and poured a small measure of whiskey into the other one. “No, stay there,” he said, when Boz started forward. “Don’t interfere, and don’t come close or try to talk to us.”
    “Us? Is—somebody there?”
    “If you’d quit yappin for a minute—”
    “Sorry.” Boz fell quiet. Trace continued to drink, faster than was good for his stomach. The sun was golden on the empty chair opposite him. Trace cast his eye around the room, got up and went to the dressing table, brought back the silver hand mirror and a small round velvet box that proved to be full of jewelry. Aware of Boz’s anxious gaze, he pulled out a tangle of chains, rings, eardrops. Most of it was brass or silver, but here was a pair of garnet earrings that looked like real gold, and a signet ring, sized for a man—
    “Those are mine.”
    Trace looked up, shoulders tensing despite the whiskey. The little girl sat across from him, empty black eye sockets accusing.
    “These are yours?” Trace held up the earrings.
    She nodded.
    “What about this?” He lifted the signet ring.
    “Maman say it belong to my papa. He was the soldier.”
    “So was I,” Trace said. “Bayonet almost took my leg off.”
    She wrinkled her nose and looked at his wrist. “How do you hurt yourself?”
    “Burned myself. Had an accident. Do you have a burn there, too?”
    She made a queer hopping motion that made him think she had sat on her hands. “Not now. I take it off.”
    “Did Mr. Mereck put it there?”
    “I take it off. Mereck, he leave. I tell him to go.” The face and diction were childish, but the mannerisms, the voice, were disturbingly adult. Her brow was furrowing, and Trace began to feel violence prickling around the edges of his alcohol-diluted senses.
    “Was he angry?”
    “He want me to keep his box. I tell him no. I tell him to go. Murderer! Liar! ” Her face contorted with the force of her shriek, and Trace could see the blackness inside her, all the way down the back of her throat. The childish shape was merely a shell, a vessel for that dark rage.
    “Where’s the box now?” He knew he was playing with fire, he sensed the danger in provoking this thing, but oddly enough he wasn’t fearful of it. On the contrary he felt strong, bold, the way a greenhorn might feel after a few drinks. But this wasn’t bottle courage—he was clear-headed and sharp. His mind flashed back to Seminary, when he and the other students had been forced to kneel before the altar cross for hours, and a sort of swooning release had come over him, as if he was simultaneously leaving his body and being filled with holy fire—
    A crafty look crossed the child’s face. “Tu comprendes,” she said, baring her teeth in a grin. “You know how it feels … so good … so sweet…” She ran her hands over her arms and throat, gurgling with pleasure. “I can teach you … show you. M’sieu say you need a spirit guide—I can show you tous les mystères… ”
    “Of the universe, yeah, I heard. I’m only interested in the one mystery, thanks.”
    “La boîte damnable! Idiot! You want to be the dog, the slave for this witch?”
    “I’m