She gasped. “I can’t wear nothin’ like that. That’s a white lady’s dress.”

“You shut your mouth and do like I tell you,” Sour Billy said. “Julian wants you pretty, girl.” Then he left her and went through into the main part of the house.

He found Julian in the library, sitting quietly in darkness in a great leather chair, a brandy snifter in his hand. All around him, covered with dust, were the books that had belonged to old Rene Garoux and his sons. None of them had been touched in years. Damon Julian was not a reader.

Sour Billy entered and stood a respectful distance away, silent until Julian spoke.

“Well?” the voice from the darkness asked at last.

“Four thousand,” Sour Billy said, “but you’ll like her. A young one, nice and tender, beautiful, real beautiful.”

“The others will be here soon. Alain and Jean are here already, the fools. The thirst is on them. Bring her to the ballroom when she is ready.”

“Yes,” Sour Billy said quickly. “There was trouble at the auction, Mister Julian.”

“Trouble?”

“A Creole sharper, name of Montreuil. He wanted her too, didn’t like being outbid. Think he might get curious. He’s a gambler, seen a lot around the gaming rooms. Want me to take care of him some night?”

“Tell me about him,” Julian commanded. His voice was liquid, soft and deep and sensuous, rich as a fine cognac.

“Young, dark. Black eyes, black hair. Tall. A duelist, they say. Hard man. Strong and lean, but he’s got a pretty face, like so many of them do.”

“I will see to him,” Damon Julian said.

“Yes, sir,” said Sour Billy Tipton. He turned and went back to his rooms.

Emily was transformed when she slipped into the brocade gown. Slave and child alike vanished; washed and dressed properly, she was a woman of dark, almost ethereal beauty. Sour Billy inspected her carefully. “You’ll do,” he said. “Come, you’re goin’ to a ball.”