The tears returned in full flood.

"Don't cry, Angelique," Hoag said softly, tenderly, every fiber concentrated, watching for telltale signs of looming disaster. "All's well, life will go on and you're fine now, truly fine."

He was holding her hand. With a handkerchief she brushed away the tears. "I would like some tea."

"At once," Hoag said, his ugly face filled with relief. This was the first she had spoken since this morning, properly, coherently, and first moments back were vital indicators. Almost cheering he opened the door, for though her voice was a thread, there was no hysteria in it or under it or behind it, the light in her eyes was good, face no longer puffy from tears, and her pulse he had counted while holding her hand was firm and strong at ninety-eight counts per minute, no longer jumping around nauseatingly.

"Ah Soh," he said in Cantonese, "bring your Mistress fresh tea but not a sound, say nothing and then leave." He sat near the bed again.

"Do you know where you are, my dear?"

She just looked at him.

"May I ask a few questions, if you're tired, tell me and don't be afraid. Sorry but it's important for you, not me."

"I'm not afraid."

"Do you know where you are?"

"In my rooms."

Her voice was flat, eyes blank. His concern increased. "You know what happened?"

"Malcolm's dead."

"Do you know why he died?"

"He died on our marriage night in our marriage bed and I'm responsible."

Warning bells sounded in the back of his mind.

"You're wrong, Angelique, Malcolm was killed on the Tokaido, months ago," he said, his voice calm and unshakable. "Sorry, but that's the truth and he'd been living on borrowed time ever since, not your fault, never your fault, it was the will of God, but I can tell you this with all my heart, we, Babcott and I, we have never seen a man more peaceful, more at peace in death, never, never, never."

"I'm responsible." "The only part you're responsible for was the joy in the last months of his life. He did love you, didn't he?"

"Yes but he died and--" She almost added, and so did that other man, I don't even know his name but he died too, he loved me too and he died too and now Malcolm's dead an-- "Stop it!"

The snarled harshness jerked her from the brink.

Hoag began breathing again, but he knew this had to be done and done quickly or she was lost, like others he had seen. He had to rid her of the devil lurking somewhere in her mind that was waiting to break out, waiting to pounce, to turn her into a gibbering lunatic, at least to harm her radically.

"Sorry. You've got to get this correct. You are only re--" In panic he just caught himself before using that word, changing it to, "answerable for his joy. Repeat it for me. You are only ans--"

"I am responsible."

"Say it after me: I am only answerable for his joy," he said carefully, more of an order, noticing with alarm her abnormal pupils. She was brinking again.

"I am resp--"

"Answerable, God dammit," he said with pretended anger. "Say after me, I am only answerable for his joy! Answerable for his joy!

Say it!"

He saw the sweat break out on her forehead and again she said the same and again he cut in, repeated the correct word, "answerable, answerable for his joy!" and again she said the other and again and during this Ah Soh brought the tea but neither saw her and she fled in terror as again and again Hoag ordered Angelique and she refused until suddenly she shrieked in French, "All right, I'm only answerable for his joy but he's still dead dead dead ... my Malcolm's deadddddddd!"

He wanted to hold her and tell her that all was well and that she could sleep but he didn't, judging it was too soon. His voice was hard but not threatening and he said in his good French, "Thank you, Angelique, but now we will speak English: Yes, I'm terribly sorry too, we all are that your lovely husband is dead, but it's not your fault. Say it!"

"Leave me alone. Get out!"

"When you say it: not your fault."

"Not... not, leave me alone!"

"When you say it. Not your fault!"

She stared at him, loathing the tormentor he was, then again shrieked at him: "Not my fault, it not my fault, it's not my fault, not my fault, now are you satisfied, Get out gettout!"

"When you tell me you understand your Malcolm is dead but you are in no way responsible!"

"Gettout!"

"Say it! God dammit say it!"

Suddenly her voice became like the howl of a wild beast. "Yur Malcolm's dead yur Malcolm's dead he's dead, he's dead he's dead but yu're not not resp not responsible in no way any God-cursed way not resp in any way any way not responsible... not respon ... not..." As abruptly as she had begun her voice changed to a whimper, "not responsible, I'm not, I'm truly not oh my darling, I'm so sorry, so sorry, I don't want you dead oh Blessed Mother help me, he's dead and I feel so terrible so terrible oh Malcolm why did you die I loved you so much, so very much... oh Malcolm..."

This time he held her quiet, tightly, absorbing the tremors and weeping and the racking sobs. In time her voice trailed away, the sobbing lessened, and she sank into fitful sleep.

Still he held her, gently but firmly, his clothes stuck to him with sweat and did not move until the sleep was deep. Then he eased away. His back was sparking with pain and he stood carefully, tortured, his muscles in spasm. When he had managed to ease his shoulders and neck he sat to regain his strength.

That was a near one he thought, the pleasure that he had won this time eliminating part of his pain, seeing her as she was, young and beautiful and safe.

His memory rushed him to Kanagawa to that other girl, the Japanese sister of the man he had operated on, as young and beautiful but Japanese. What was her name? Uki something. I saved her brother to wreak more havoc on this poor child. But I'm glad she escaped. Did she?

Such a beautiful woman. Like my own darling wife that was. How terrible and thoughtless of me, how insane to take her from India to an early London death.

Dharma? Fate? Like this child and poor Malcolm. Poor them, poor me. No, not poor me, I've just saved a life. You may be squat and ugly, old boy, he thought, taking her pulse, but Christ Almighty you're a bloody good doctor, and bloody good liar--no, not good, just lucky. This time.

Thursday, 11th December

Thursday, 11th December: "'afn, Jamie," Phillip Tyrer said sadly. "Sir William's compliments, here are three copies of the death certificate, one for you, one for Angelique, and one for Strongbow to go with the body. The original he thought should go by diplomatic pouch to the Governor's office for the Chief Coroner Hong Kong who'll register it then pass it on to Mrs. Struan. Ghastly, isn't it, but there you are."

"Yes." Jamie's desk was piled with incoming mail, and documents concerning affairs to be arranged. His eyes were red from tiredness.

"How's Angelique?"

"I haven't seen her yet but Hoag was here first thing. He said to leave her alone until she made the first move, that she was better than expected. She slept for fifteen-odd hours.

He thought she should be well enough to travel tomorrow and recommended the sooner the better. He'll go, of course."

"When's Prancing Cloud rescheduled for?"

"Tomorrow. Evening tide. Strongbow will be here any moment for sailing orders. You'll have mails to go with her?"

"Definitely. And a pouch. I'll tell Sir William. Still cannot believe Malcolm's dead. Dreadful. Oh by the way, the Norbert inquest's been fixed for five. Would you like a bite of supper afterwards?"

"Thanks, but not tonight. Let's do it tomorrow, all being well. We'll confirm after breakfast." Jamie wondered if he should tell Tyrer about the machinations of his samurai friend, Nakama, and the meeting with the local moneylender--that Nakama wanted private from Tyrer and Sir William. Nakama's suggestion had intrigued and he welcomed the opportunity of talking direct to a local businessman, however minor.