"'nite, Missee" interrupted her. Ah Soh was walking ponderously for the boudoir couch.

The last time her maid had slept there, even with the bedroom door closed, her snores had been deafening, further disturbing her.

"No, Ah Soh, no sleep here! You go, come back chop chop with coffee-ah, morning, heya?"

The woman shrugged. "'nite, Missee."

Angelique bolted the door after her and in the warm light, completely and peacefully alone at last, lazily twirled to a hummed waltz. In a moment her ears caught the muted notes of the piano. Ah, it's Henri, she thought, recognizing his touch. He's a good player, better than Vervene but not to be compared with Andr`e.

Chopin. Soft, delicate, romantic.

She swayed in time with the lovely melody, then caught sight of herself in the tall mirror. For a moment she studied herself, this way and that, then cupped her breasts higher as she and Colette used to do, pouting this way and that to see if that made them seem more desirable or less.

A sip of champagne, the bubbles tickling, the music and the alcohol nudging her. A sudden excited impulse and she let the peignoir fall, then slowly slid her nightdress higher and higher, coquetting the mirror image, admiring the legs and loins and hips and breasts and now full nakedness of the other person, posing this way and that, using the bunched nightdress to obscure or to reveal.

Another sip of champagne. Then she dipped a finger into it and put the liquid on her hardened nipples as she had read the great Parisian courtesans would do, sometimes using sweet Ch`ateau d'allyquem there and in other places.

Curious that our two most famous courtesans in the center of the world are English.

She chuckled to herself, possessed by the night and the music and the wine. When I have birthed one or two sons and am say twenty-one and Malcolm has a mistress and I am ready for my special lover, that's what I'll do--for his pleasure and mine, and before that for Malcolm's.

Another sip and another and then finished, languidly licking the last drop, then, watching her mirror, curling her tongue around the glass, toying with it. Chuckling again, putting the glass back on the dressing table, letting it fall unnoticed to the carpet, ears only tuned to Chopin and his underlying passions--eyes fixed on the mirror, now the reflected image close, brazenly intimate.

Lazily she leaned forward and turned down the wick, shadows kinder now, then moved back a little, the mirror person still there, lovely, voluptuous. Fingers moving with a life of their own, straying, caressing, heart picking up tempo, fluttering with growing pleasure. Eyes closed now, imagining Malcolm tall, strong, very strong, sweet-smelling, leading her into the bedroom, laying her on the coverlets, lying with her, as naked as she, his fingers wandering, fondling.

Ori had eased the door of the cupboard open in the other room and moved noiselessly and now stood in the deep shadows near the half-open doorway watching her, heart pounding in his ears. It had been easy for him to hide among the cases and hanging dresses and crinolines, easy to slide further into hiding to become invisible when the maid opened the cupboard door and closed it again. Easy to hear the final bolts ring home and to judge when Angelique was truly alone.

In the bedroom half light she lay on the sheets, eyes closed, a little shudder from time to time, face in shadow, body part in shadow, shadows dancing as the small flame moved with the air currents. It seemed to him he waited an eternity. Soundlessly, he stepped out of the darkness to the threshold. The door clicked closed. The distant music cut. Her eyes opened and focused and she saw him.

Some sense told her that this was him--the murderer from the Tokaido, father of the child that was never to be, who had violated her but had left no memory of pain or ravishment, only erotic half dreams, sleeping, waking--and that she was defenseless and tonight he would murder her.

Both were hardly breathing. Motionless. Waiting for the other to move. Still in shock, she saw his youth, not much older than she, a little taller, sheathed sword-knife in his belt, right hand on the hilt, neat short beard and hair, broad shoulders and narrow hips, rough shirt, flapped breeches, strong calves and legs and peasant sandals. Face in shadow.

This's another dream, surely it's a dream, no need to be afraid...

Bewildered, she propped her head on one hand, motioning him to move into the light.

Momentarily fused into the same unreal, dreamlike state as she, his feet obeyed and when she saw the chiselled features, so different and alien, the dark eyes so filled with craving, she opened her mouth to say, Who are you, what's your name, but he thought she was going to scream so he leapt forward in panic, the naked blade violently at her throat.

"No, please," she gasped, backed into the pillow, and when he did not understand she shook her head, petrified, eyes pleading, every part of her shrieking, You're going to die, there's no escape this time! "No--please."

The fright slid off his face and, standing over her, heart thundering as hers was thundering, he put a finger to his lips, warning her to be silent and not to scream, not to move. "Iy`e," he whispered hoarsely, adding, "No!"

A drop of perspiration slid down his cheek.

"I... I won't, won't make a sound," she muttered, terror confusing her. She pulled the sheet over her loins. At once he ripped it away. Her heart stopped. But in that second she knew, a primeval instinct in mind had propelled her to a different plane and she felt herself possessed by a latent, newfound knowledge. Her horror began to slide away. Inner voices seemed to whisper: Be careful, we can guide you.

Watch his eyes, don't make a sudden move, first the knife...

Heart pounding, she watched his eyes and put a finger to her lips as he had done, gently pointed at the blade and motioned it away.

He was like a coiled spring, expecting her to dart for the door any second and scream--he knew he could silence her easily, but that did not fit into his plan: she was to flee for the door in his time not hers and scream and scream to wake the enemy, then he would slash once and make sure and then he would wait and when they arrived he would shout, "Sonno-joi" turning the knife on himself and, spitting in their faces, die. That was his plan-- one of many he had considered: taking her wildly then killing her and then himself, or just killing her silently at once as he should have done before, however much he wanted her now, leaving the Tokaido characters on the sheets as before, then to escape through the window. But she was not reacting as he had expected. Unwavering eyes, her hand motioning the blade away, sky blue eyes asking, not begging, tension there, but no terror now.

Uncanny half smile. Why?

The blade did not move.

Be patient, the voices whispered to her...

Again she gestured the point away, unhurried, willing him. His eyes narrowed even more. With an effort he tore them away from hers to surge over her to be inexorably drawn back. What is she planning? Warily he lowered the dirk and waited, ready to lunge.

He was standing close to the bed. Leisurely her hands began to unbutton his shirt, then froze.

The cross at his neck flickered in the light, her cross. The suddenness that the lost forever was miraculously found again, elated her strangely and, dreamlike, she watched her fingers touch it, trembling slightly, weirdly pleased that he had taken it to wear it, part of her around him forever as part of him was around her forever but even the cross, her cross, did not deflect her.

Gently she eased the shirt off, down his right arm, over the knife, tightly held and a constant threat. Her intent look drifted over him, the shoulder wound, freshly healed, muscled body.