The other man shook his head; the auction was over. Montreuil was smirking at Emily with anticipation. Sour Billy waited three heartbeats, until the mallet was about to fall. Then he set aside his absinthe glass and said, “Thirty-seven hundred,” in a loud clear voice.

Encanteur and girl both looked up in surprise. Montreuil and several of his friends gave Billy dark, threatening looks. “Thirty-eight hundred,” Montreuil said.

“Four thousand,” said Sour Billy.

It was a high price, even for such a beauty. Montreuil said something to two men standing near him, and the three of them suddenly spun on their heels and strode from the rotunda without another word, their footsteps ringing angrily on the marble.

“It seems like I won the auction,” Sour Billy said. “Get her dressed and ready to go.” The others were all staring at him.

“But of course!” the encanteur said. Another auctioneer rose at his desk, and with his mallet summoned yet another fancy girl to the attention of the crowd, and the French Exchange began to buzz again.

Sour Billy Tipton led Emily down the long arcade from the rotunda to St. Louis Street, past all the fashionable shops where idlers and wealthy travelers gave them curious looks. As he stepped out into daylight, blinking at the glare, Montreuil came up beside him. “Monsieur,” he began.

“Talk English if you want to talk to me,” Sour Billy said sharply. “It’s Mister Tipton out here, Montreuil.” His long fingers twitched, and he fixed the other with his cold ice eyes.

“Mister Tipton,” Montreuil said in a flat, unaccented English. His face was vaguely flushed. Behind him, his two companions stood stiffly. “I have lost girls before,” the Creole said. “She is striking, but it is nothing, losing her. But I take offense at the way you bid, Mister Tipton. You made a mockery of me in there, taunting me with victory and playing me for a fool.”

“Well, well,” Sour Billy said. “Well, well.”