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Strachan." S.T.
flipped it open.
    As he paged through it, he began to smile wryly. The bright watercolors
inside were enchanting, the humorous and naive figures of a young country lady
painting her family and daily life. Each sketch was carefully titled and
commented upon in ink. "Emily falls off her donkey! (Must work on perspective)";
"Edward N. displays his ingenious electrifying machine to Emily, Anna, and Mum.
Anna swooning. (Staircase shown too wide but expressions good.)"; "Assembly at
Hexham. Captain Perry teaching Anna a graceful step."; "Stuck in deep mud.
Castro barks most rudely at John Coachman. (Study proportions of equine hind
leg)"; "Papa asleep in the library after a difficult day cutting roses with
Mum."; "Wassail, Wassail! Emily, Leigh, and Castro meet Papa and Edward N.
returning with the Yule log."; "The Lord of the Manor curing a sick piglet by
chasing it round the yard. Anna and Leigh looking on." "Emily falls off a
stile."; "Papa preparing Sunday's sermon."; "Emily, Anna, and Leigh save the
kittens! (Dog very poorly done.)"
    The sketch of the valiant rescue showed the three girls in their aprons and
bonnets brandishing sticks and brooms at something that resembled a spotted pig
with fangs. S.T. grinned. In the background of a hayrack, five splotches with
feet seemed to represent the threatened kittens.
    A folded clipping from the
London Gazette
lay between the last page
and the backing. He smoothed it open.
    By Proclamation of His Majesty the King,
it read in grandiose
lettering, above a long list of declared outlaws. S.T. found himself two-thirds
down the page.
"Styled the Prince of Midnight, betimes in French, le
Seigneur du Minuit. Passing Six Feet in height, Green Eye 'd his Brown Hair Gold
Favour'd, a Gentlemanly Air, Excellent Address and Brows of Uncommon upward
Curl. Mounted upon a Fine Black Stud, Sixteen hands, no Markings. Whoever can
discover the Person aforesaid to His Majesty's magistrates shall have three
pounds reward.
    "Three pounds?" S.T. said in shock. "Only three bloody pounds?"
    It had been two hundred in his glory days, and he'd been at the top of the
list when last he'd seen one of these thieftakers' handbills. No wonder he'd
never been disturbed in his lair at Col du Noir.
    Three pounds. What a melancholy thought.
    He slid the sketchbook back inside and stood up. Still nursing his cut
finger, he folded the dress, stuffed it in, and shouldered the valise, shaking
his head at the wonder of this gently bred young girl making it across most of
England and all of France. Alive. Alone. In search of him.
    By nightfall, he'd spooned two bowls of soup into her. After a little rally,
in which she'd cursed him feebly and called for both her parents, she seemed to
grow worse, weaker and more lethargic. Sometimes he had to stare at the bed for
long moments to make sure she was breathing.
    He wished she'd just die and get it done with. In the dim firelight, he sat
in his chair with his head resting against the stone wall, waiting. It came to
him that he would have to bury her. He tried to think of where he ought to do
it—God, some place that he'd not have to pass every day—he wouldn't be able to
bear that. He thought of what it would be like, alone in the castle, without
Nemo, and felt a deep black well of despair open inside him.
    He got up and bathed her forehead. She didn't wake, didn't even move, and he
stared down at her in silent panic until he saw at last the faint rise and fall
of her breasts.
    Asleep, warmed by the faint firelight, her face seemed softer. More human. He
could imagine her smiling. He thought of the silk dress and slippers; envisioned
a fine withdrawing room and a silver tea set, tried to put her in the setting .
. .
    S.T. knew those drawing rooms. He knew those ladies. Intimately. Their
courage might extend to a rendezvous in the garden at midnight, an affair in the
dressing room or the shadows of the back stairs: he'd