His mistress didn't jump up and start screaming. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned on Frederick. Soup soaked her hair. Half her curls had given up the ghost and lay dead, plastered against the side of her head. A green slice of scallion garnished her left eyebrow. Another sat on the end of her nose. Imperiously, she brushed that one away. She couldn't see the other, so it stayed.

She pointed at Frederick. He noted with abstract horror that the soup had made the dye in her almost-up-to-date fashionable gown run; blue streaked the pale flesh of her arm. "You God-damned clumsy son of a bitch!" she snapped: a statement of the obvious, perhaps, but most sincere.

"Mistress, I-" Frederick gave it up. Even if he hadn't had most of the wind knocked out of him, what could he possibly say?

The crash and the screams made slaves from the Barford estate and those gathered under the trees rush into the dining room to see what had happened. One of them laughed on a high, shrill note. It cut off abruptly, but not abruptly enough. Whoever that was, he'd catch it.

And so would Frederick. Veronique Barker fixed him with a deadly glare. "You'll pay for this," she said. She wasn't his mistress, which didn't make her wrong.

II

The morning after: one of the more noxious phrases in the English language. It must have seemed pretty noxious to Henry Barford. He'd come downstairs the afternoon before to view the catastrophe. Unless you were dead, you couldn't help coming to take a look at something like that. He hadn't been dead, but a wobble in his walk said he'd already been tight. He'd looked, shaken his head, and gone back to his bedroom. And he'd finished the serious business of getting drunk.