Speaks the Nightbird

misery. Did they promise you a mansion in Charles Town? A statue in your honor? What exactly did they promise, Mr. Winston?'

Winston reached with a feeble hand for the blue bottle, brought it to his mouth, and took a long swallow of courage. When he lowered the bottle, he blinked away tears and said, 'Money.'

'Considerably more than Bidwell was paying you, yes?'

'More than... I could hope to earn in two lifetimes.' Again he drank copiously from the bottle. 'You don't know what it's like, working for him. Being around him... and all that he has. He spends on wigs alone every year an amount I might live on as a prince. And the clothes and food! If you knew the numbers, you would understand and be sickened as I am by the man's philosophy: not a shilling more for a servant's needs, but spare no expense for the master's desires!'

'I won't defend him, but I will say that such is the right of a master.'

'It is the right of no man!' Winston said heatedly. 'I have an education, I am literate, and I consider myself reasonably bright! But I might as well be a slave, as far as he's concerned! I might even be the better for it!' He laughed harshly. 'At least Bidwell cares enough about Goode to have bought him a fiddle!'

'The difference is that Goode is a slave and you're a free man. You can choose your employer. Then again...' Matthew nodded. 'I suppose you have.'

'Oh, be as smug as you please!' Winston turned upon Matthew an expression of the deepest disgust. 'Look at my house, and look at his! Then look in the ledgers and see who directs the course of his monies! I do! He pretends to be such a sterling businessman, but in fact he is skilled at two things: intimidation and bluster. I ought to be a partner in his enterprises, for what I've encouraged! But it has been clearly and plainly shown to me by his actions that Bidwell takes good opinions and presents them as his own.'

He held up a finger to mark his point. 'Now, failed ventures... that's a different cart. Failure is always the fault of someone else... someone who invariably deserves to be banished from the kingdom. I have seen it happen. When Fount Royal fails—and it will, regardless of how many houses I flamed and how long the witch roasts on her stake—he will begin to fire his cannons of blame at every possible target. Including this one.' He thumped his chest with his fist. 'Do you think I should sit at his beck and call and await a further slide into poverty? No. For your information—-and whatever you choose to do with it—I did not do the approaching. They approached me, when Paine and I were on separate tasks in Charles Town. At first I refused... but they sweetened their offer with a house and a position on the Shipping Council. It was my idea to set the fires.'

'And a clever idea it was, ' Matthew said. 'You hid behind Rachel Howarth's skirts and the Devil's shadow. Did it not trouble you in the least that these fires were ascribed to her?'

'No, ' he answered without hesitation. 'If you'll read that document you hold, you'll find there's no charge there concerning the setting of fires. She fashioned the poppets, committed the murders, and consorted with Satan of her own accord. I simply used the situation to my benefit.'

'Simply?' Matthew echoed. 'I don't think there's anything simpleminded about you, Mr. Winston. I think coldly might be a better word.'

'As you please.' Winston offered a bitter smile. 'I have learned from Bidwell that one fights fire with fire and ice with ice.' His eyes narrowed. 'So. You have a bucket. I presume you were hiding out there?' He waited for Matthew to nod. 'Who else knows?'

'If you are considering violence as a solution, you might think otherwise. Someone else does know, but your secret is in no current danger.'

Winston frowned. 'What, then? Aren't you going to go running to Bidwell and tell him?'

'No, I'm not. As you've pointed out, the fires were incidental in the charges against Madam Howarth. I am hunting a smarter—and colder—fox than you.'

'Pardon my dulled wits, but what are you talking about?'

'Your grievance against Bidwell is not my concern. Whatever you choose to do from this point is not of interest to me, either. As long as there are no future conflagrations, I might add.'

Winston let go a sigh of relief. 'Sir, ' he said, 'I bow gratefully before your mercy.'

'My mercy has a price. I wish to know about the surveyor.'

'The surveyor, ' Winston repeated. He rubbed his temples with both hands. 'I tell you... I can hardly recall the man. Why do you care to know about him, anyway?'

'My interest is a personal matter. Do you remember his name?'

'No. Wait... give me a moment...' He closed his eyes, obviously trying his best to concentrate. 'I think... it was Spencer ... Spicer... something similar to that, at least.' His eyes opened.

'The man was bearded?'

'Yes... a heavy beard. And he wore a hat.'

'A tricorn?'

'No. It was... a loose-brimmed shade hat. Much like any farmer or traveller might wear. I remember... his clothing was rustic, as well.'

'You took him walking around Fount Royal. How much time would you say you spent with him?'

Winston shrugged. 'The better part of an afternoon, I suppose.'

'Do you recall his description?'

'A beard and a hat, ' Winston said. 'That's all I can remember.'

'And probably all you were meant to remember.' Winston gave him a questioning look. 'What does this concern?'

'It concerns the manipulation of memory, ' Matthew answered. 'Something I think my fox knows a great deal about.'

'If you are making sense, I am unable to follow it.'

'I believe I have information enough. Thank you for your time.' Matthew started toward the door, and Winston stood up.

'Please!' Winston's voice held a note of urgency. 'If you were in my position... what would you do? Remain here—and await the end—or go to Charles Town and try to salvage what I can of a future?'

'A difficult question, ' Matthew said after a short consideration. 'I would agree that your present is precarious, and since you have neither love nor loyalty for Bidwell you might as well seek your fortune elsewhere. However... as much a dog you think Bidwell to be, your masters in Charles Town are probably mongrels of similar breed. You might have known that, judging from the voracity with which they have eaten your soul. So... flip a coin, and good luck to you.'

Matthew turned his back and left Edward Winston standing forlorn and alone in the midst of his self-made chaos.

twenty-seven

HIS THOUGHTS STILL CLOUDED by Winston's betrayal, Matthew was ascending the stairs to look in upon the magistrate when he almost collided with Mrs. Nettles, who was descending with a tray upon which sat a bowl of pap. 'How is he?' Matthew asked.

'Not verra well, ' she said, her voice low. 'He's havin' some trouble even swallowin' the mush.'

Matthew nodded grimly. 'I have my doubts about whether the bloodletting is doing any good.'

'I've seen it do wonders, though. That afflicted blood's got to be rid of.'

'I hope you're right. I'm not sure his condition isn't being hastened by all this bleeding.' He started to slide past her up the stairs, which was a precarious maneuver due to her formidable size and the lack of a railing.

'Just a moment, sir!' she said. 'You have a visitor.'

'A visitor? Who?'

'The child, ' she said. 'Violet Adams. She's in the library, waitin' for you.'

'Oh?' Matthew instantly went back down the stairs and entered the library. His quick entrance startled the little girl, who was standing before the open window studying a bishop she had picked up from the chessboard. She jumped and backed away from him like a cornered deer.

'Forgive me, ' Matthew said in a calming tone. He showed one palm in a non-threatening gesture, while he held the rolled-up decree at his side. 'I should have announced myself.'

She just stared at him, her body rigid as if she might either decide to flee past him or leap through the