"Yes, that's wise. I've one more. Give me a couple of minutes." Weary from all the writing and the stress of the last few days, and grinding awareness of how exposed Yokohama was, Sir William shook off his headache, thought a moment, made sure the nib was clean, chose his most official letterhead and wrote firmly: Dear Mrs. Struan. I'm sending this by special dispatch via Prancing Cloud for special reasons, both formal and personal.

First I would like to offer my deepest condolences on the unhappy demise of your son whom I numbered amongst my friends as well as colleagues. Second, the circumstances and facts of his marriage and death were established under oath in an official Inquest, a copy of whose findings are enclosed.

To the best of my belief the shipboard marriage is legal--I have asked the Solicitor General for a formal ruling.

To the best of my belief Mrs.Angelique Struan had nothing whatsoever to do with the death of her husband, and was in no way responsible--a fact supported by medical evidence of Doctors Hoag and Babcott (and part of the Inquest documents) that you will no doubt receive in person.

To the best of my belief your son died as a result of wounds suffered during the unwarranted attack on the Tokaido and was, in effect, murdered then. The King, or daimyo, who ordered these attacks has not yet been brought to justice. I assure you he will be.

To the best of my belief, and personal observation, your son was in love with Mademoiselle Richaud to the point of obsession, and pursued her for marriage in every way he could conceive. She reciprocated his affections in exemplary, ladylike fashion. She is a brave young woman and anything to the contrary are lies spread by scoundrels.

Lastly, to the best of my belief, your son wanted to be buried at sea like his grandfather. His ...

Sir William hesitated a moment, continuing to be careful in his choice of words. He formulated his thought, then continued with his firm strong hand: His widow pleaded strongly that this should be done, here, wanting to grant him his wish (we have found no will yet, nor a formal letter to that effect) but it is my belief that this was what he wanted. I overruled his widow's request and decided his remains should be sent to Hong Kong to you. Again he hesitated as variations presented themselves, then wrote, I strongly recommend this request be granted. I am, Madam, your obedient servant.

For a moment he reflected, then went to his sideboard and poured a brandy, drank, and sat down again. Now he read the letter carefully.

Twice.

He made a couple of edits and changes and rewrote the letter, signing it Her Britannic Majesty's Minister to the Japans. Again he reread it. Now he was satisfied. The key changes were: after She is a brave young woman he had cut out and anything to the contrary are lies spread by scoundrels as inviting the question "what lies?"' adding, in its place, and I commend her strongly to your benevolence. After buried at sea he eliminated like.his grandfather, not knowing the truth of that claim.

"Much better," he said aloud. "Takes the sting out of it." Rather like that, I commend her to your benevolence, he thought, though what those two will finally do to each other only God knows. A week ago I would have wagered it was no contest but now I'm not so sure.

Thankfully he opened his desk diary and added the name Tess Struan to today's long list of letters sent by Prancing Cloud. An entry on Tuesday, 9th, leapt at him: "Malcolm Struan married Angelique Richaud aboard Pearl with Ketterer's connivance." It was written in Russian as was the whole diary--a lifetime habit insisted on by his Russian mother--both to keep it private from most eyes, and also to maintain his fluency. That reminded him. His fingers opened his new, 1863 diary and he put a question mark on January 11th, adding a note: January 11th We should know about now if A is carrying or not.

Malcolm's child would simplify her life considerably, he thought gravely.

He had decided to do what he could for Angelique because of her dignity yesterday, and at the wharf today, because of the pleasure she had given him with all the dancing and laughter and the lightness she had brought to Yokohama, and because she was French, with all the latent panache that Frenchwomen had above all others.

He smiled. Indeed, Angelique, you're French. And we're British, and no fools--and that is why we rule the earth and the French don't.

"Phillip!"

Seratard and Andr`e were at the window.

Prancing Cloud let go fores'les, tops'les and topgallants and royals and now, with full sail and the wind aft, she raced into the deep. Many others were watching too, envying her, jealous of her, wanting to sail or to own or to captain such a craft. Many wondered about her cargo, about the Angel who would leave tomorrow and what life here would be like without her, and about the fate of the letters aboard.

Andr`e said, "Will Ambassador de Geroire agree, Henri?"

"Yes. He owes me many favors, our mission here becomes more effective every day, and the private visit you've promised with Yoshi, that I've promised him, is arranged. Isn't it?"

"I am assured so," Andr`e said, his throat abruptly dry. Raiko had sworn that he could count on it, that the secret battle plans he had passed over to her were already in the heads of trusted go-betweens in Yedo for negotiation and rewards. "First Yoshi has to arrive back, Henri, then we can make a date.

I'm promised he'll come aboard the flagship.

I've a meeting tonight, and the down payment will fix it."

"I've changed my mind about advancing the money. It's best to..." Seratard raised his voice as Andr`e started to protest, "it's best to wait. I've decided it's best to wait!"

He went and sat at his desk and motioned Andr`e to sit opposite, not angrily but with a smoothness that invited no opposition. "As soon as I know for certain he's back you can pay these... these go-betweens."

"But I promised them the money tonight, you agreed."

"So explain I don't trust them,"

Seratard said with a deprecating smile. "Let them prove themselves. I was saying, de Geroire will make her a Ward of the State, Andr`e, and so becomes part of State policy, eh?"

Tonight Andr`e hated Seratard, hated him because he was dangerous and devious and knew too much, remembered too much, and was without feeling. At breakfast this morning Seratard had peered at him.

"What is it, Henri?"' "Nothing, there's a spot on your neck that wasn't there before and wondered if... How are you, Andr`e?"' This had sent him into a panic to his bedroom mirror, petrified that the first sign of his disease had manifested itself. Ever since he had begun with Hinodeh he had become achingly sensitive to the slightest mark or twinge or fever. Most evenings she would undress him in the light, telling him how much she enjoyed looking at him, touching him, massaging or caressing, her fingers and hands always sensuous, but, even so, certain she was seeking telltale signs. "None yet, not yet, thank God," he had muttered to his reflection, wet with relief that the slight abrasion was only an insect bite.

"Andr`e," Seratard was saying, "tonight at dinner, we must make plans with her. I recommended that, once she's a Ward of the State she should stay in the Embassy and..." A knock interrupted him. "Yes?"

Vervene opened the door. "A message from Vargas, Monsieur. Madame Struan regrets she is not well enough for dinner."

Seratard snapped, "If she's well enough to see a coffin off she could certainly spare us time. Thank you, Vervene." Then to Andr`e, "We must see her before she leaves."

"I'll see her first thing in the morning, don't worry. But there's a rumor she might delay.

Hoag's supposed to have advised against a sea voyage, for medical reasons, and certainly Heavenly Skye is openly opposed."