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chance to camp out in this beautiful weather.”
    Since Whitney was both smaller and younger, she supposed she should leap. But somehow she couldn’t. Instead, she resignedly stretched out her arms and let Paddie pile on the mildewy tent and a flannel blanket that smelled of mothballs, then stood there shaking her head while Paddie trudged off to the bedroom for a pillow.
    “Arghhh! That son of a toad!”
    Whitney dropped the tent and ran. Paddie was letting loose with a string of unladylike but appropriate expletives and holding a sheet of orange construction paper in one large hand. Peering over her shoulder, Whitney saw the source of Paddie’s fury. It was a drawing, done in black ink. In the middle of the page was a caricature even more unflattering than the real Victoria Paderevsky. Gathered around the unhappy figure, pointing their fingers, smirking, laughing, were a dozen of the famous established conductors of the world.
    “There’s your proof, Victoria,” Whitney said softly, her stomach twisted.
    Paddie drew in a deep breath. “Do you think I would show this to anyone?” she demanded hoarsely. “Laugh at the fat lady, all! Come, laugh! See how she jiggles! The fat lady who dares to do music. No!”
    “Victoria—”
    She crumpled up the horrible drawing. Her tiny eyes were shining with determination, and, for an instant, Whitney thought she saw the hurt. “I will not be cowed. I will not be ruined. I will fight. I will do music! You must help me, Whitney. Help me.”
     

Chapter Three
     
    Whitney decided to pitch her tent between two stately old citrus trees on the edge of a narrow, sandy road. Paddie had warned Whitney away from the small lake behind her cottage: The owner of the groves lived on the other side and there was no point in pushing her luck by camping out too close to the main house. Whitney had quite agreed, but the groves were immense, divided by a confusing web of paths and roads, and she wasn’t sure exactly where she was. So she just dropped her things and hoped for the best. If the crocodiles didn’t get her, she figured the snakes and the fire ants would.
    That would be a delightful obituary, she thought, pounding in the final stake with a crumbling brick. Naturally Paddie hadn’t offered to help carry anything. Once she had gotten over the shock of finding the drawing, she had cheerfully arranged the tent, a flashlight, blanket, horn, leather satchel, canvas bag, and suitcase in Whitney’s outstretched arms, hooking things on her fingers and shoulders, assuring her she’d be just fine out there in the Florida wilderness. Twice on her journey Whitney had dropped everything.
    After pitching the tent, she collapsed onto a bed of clover and wild flowers, having checked first for snakes and ant nests. She leaned against her suitcase and sighed at the clear night sky. The full moon cast eerie shadows and gave a silvery tint to the sandy road and the citrus blossoms— great white flowers glowing against the dark, waxy leaves. Whitney had no idea if she was parked under a grapefruit or an orange tree, but supposed it didn’t matter. She sighed, tired but keyed up.
    Was Harry out here somewhere, buried under an orange tree, held prisoner in a snake pit? Whitney shuddered and checked her thoughts. She noticed every sound and every movement in the still, warm, sweet-scented night.
    And remembered the noises and lights Paddie had thought were a part of the plot against her.
    No, Whitney thought, I must be a mile from the cottage…I won’t get the creeps.
    Finally, she got out her horn and played a few soft warm-ups. Whole notes, mostly, in the lower two octaves of the horn’s four-octave range. Peaceful sounds. Her mind wandered. She thought of Harry. He loathed almost as many people as Paddie did. But, unlike Paddie, people liked him. He was portly, bald, brilliant, and irreverent— but he was a virtuoso horn player, not a conductor, and he was a man in a man’s profession, not a