At around eleven, after a particularly gay mazurka, Aeneas came to the dais with a tray of lemonade. "What's that?" Pritchard loomed at once from among the potted palms. "Who told you to give these men anything?"

"Mrs. Pritchard did, sir." The cook's English wasn't good, but he took great care with it, as if he feared the consequences of the smallest mistake.

"Mrs. Pritchard-" The Colonel turned to his wife, who, probably anticipating the objection, had positioned herself not far away. "I thought I made it abundantly clear that I'm paying these men in coin, after they have satisfactorily completed their duties, and not by permitting them to make themselves free with my substance."

"It's such a very hot night, Colonel," she said soothingly. Her English was just as awkward-and just as wary-as the cook's. "And, you understand, it is what is done..."

"It is not 'done' in this house..."

During their low-voiced altercation Aeneas stepped back beside the piano where January sat and whispered, "There's a boy back in the kitchen asking after you, Michie January. Says he's got to see you. Says he's your nephew."

"Gabriel?" January looked up, trying to cover the fact that his arms were too weak from the strain of playing to reach for the lemonade. It was far later than his sister Olympe would ever have permitted any child of hers to be on the streets.

Panic touched him at the recollection of the drums, the blood...

"That's what he says his name is, yes, sir. He says he has a message for you, but he wouldn't tell me what." January glanced at his employer. Pritchard was already looking over at him, clearly expecting the next dance to start up. "I don't think I'm going to be able to get over there until the end of this."

Equally impossible, of course, that the Colonel would consent to write out permission for any of his servants to escort the boy home.