Frederick sighed one more time. You couldn't win, not if you were colored. You couldn't even break even-not a chance. And they would hunt you with hounds if you tried to run off to the north, where Negroes and copperskins were free. They weren't sure to catch you, but they had a pretty good chance.

He'd never had the nerve to flee. Things weren't too bad where he was. He could tell himself they weren't, anyhow. The top circle of hell wasn't supposed to be too bad, either. Good pagans went there, didn't they? The only thing they were missing was the presence of God. Frederick nodded to himself. Yes, that about summed things up.

The first carriage rattled up to the big house before ten in the morning. A black man in clothes as fancy as Frederick's drove it. A frozen-faced Negro in an even more splendid getup-he looked ready to hunt foxes-rode behind. When the carriage stopped, he jumped down and opened the door so Veronique Barker could descend.

Like Clotilde Barford, she was from an old French family that had married into the now-dominant English-speaking wave of settlers who'd swarmed south after France lost its Atlantean holdings ninety years before. Henry Barford wasn't a bad fellow. By everything Frederick had ever heard, Benjamin Barker was a first-class son of a bitch.

Sure enough, Clotilde had changed into her new gown by the time Veronique arrived. The mistress swept down to greet her guest in blue tulle and a cloud of rosewater almost thick enough to see. "So good to have you here, dear!" she trilled. Then she switched to bad French to add, "You look lovely!"

"Oh, so do you, sweetheart," Veronique answered in the same language, spoken about as well. Frederick could follow them-his own French was on the same level. Here in the southern Atlantean states, most people had at least a smattering, though English gained year by year.