"My dear Mr. Shayne!" said the woman who rose from her chair at his entrance into the room. "So very good to meet you." She came forward slowly and gracefully, offering her hand, and as Matthew took it and gave it the obligatory kiss he wondered if she was thinking of how she ought to kill him.

But she was smiling warmly enough. "Sit down, won't youi" She motioned toward the chair on the other side of the black-lacquered desk. "Opali" This was directed to the young girl who'd shown him in. "Take Mr. Shayne's hat and cloak, please. and bring him what would you like, siri Teai Coffeei a glass of brandyi"

"Tea would be fine. Very strong, if you please." He turned to glance at the serving-girl, who he imagined shot a look at his crotch. Matthew removed his newly-bought charcoal-gray cloak and dark green tricorn and gave them to the girl, who-and this was no imagining-rubbed her hip along his own as she turned to leave. Matthew thought she'd had much practice at this sort of thing, because she'd covered the maneuver with his cloak and it was over and done so quickly nothing was left but the tingle.

"Sit down, sit down!" said Mrs. Lovejoy, motioning toward his chair. She was still smiling, still warm, and perhaps she didn't want to kill him after all. Perhaps she knew nothing of any monster named Tyranthus Slaughter; perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for Slaughter's possession of the sixth thief trap that Oliver Quisenhunt had made and sold to her.

Perhaps, perhaps; but Matthew still intended to pass today as a young lawyer named Micah Shayne, and he intended to make it stick. Shayne after the name Faith Lindsay had given him, Micah after the first name of a very kind and energetic tailor on Spruce Street. The tailor had taken a look at the gold coin Matthew had offered and set to work altering a dark green suit left over in the shop when the young merchant it was going to had lost a substantial sum betting on dog-versus-rat fights out in the woods north of town. a little bringing in here and letting out there, and this dog was ready to fight.

Two more days had passed since Matthew's visit to the inventor's house. a shave and a hot bath had done wonders. also, his bruises had faded to mere murmurs of themselves, though they would still enter themselves into any conversation, and of course the plaster would remain below his left eye for awhile longer. Last night, in his room at Mrs. angwire's boarding house on Fifth Street, he had unwound the leather from his palms and feet and found everything sufficently healed. His thoughts went to Greathouse's condition; he hoped the great one had been so fortunate. But now he had to think only about tomorrow, and his meeting with Gemini Lovejoy.

Thus this cool, sunny morning he had secured a horse from the Fourth Street stable, ridden along a pleasant pastoral route with its gentle wooded hills, its rich farmfields, its wide pastures and meticulous stone walls, and just past the Speed The Plow tavern turned his mount onto a well-kept road toward the northwest. Soon enough he saw straddling the road a huge wrought-iron arch, painted white, with the word Paradise in blue letters above his head as he passed beneath. He had obviously arrived at someone's idea of Heaven.

"I presume we shall be feeling the first touch of winter soon," said Mrs. Lovejoy, having seated herself across from him.

"I'm sure," said Matthew.

"I do enjoy the autumn. The crispness of the air makes one feel so fresh, so alive, after the doldrums of summer."

"absolutely alive." He had seen her gaze drift over the bruises and the plaster.

"You have a letter for me, theni"

"Yes, madam, I do." Matthew retrieved the envelope from an inner pocket of his coat. On the envelope, Quisenhunt had written To My Dear Gemini Lovejoy, Concerning Mr. Micah Shayne. It never hurt to have a proper introduction. Matthew gave her the envelope. Mrs. Lovejoy opened it with one quick snap from a brass blade on her tabletop and, as the lady read the letter, Matthew attempted to also read the lady.

She was probably in her mid-forties, and very handsome in the way of a lioness. Matthew of course had never seen a lioness but he had read descriptions of them. Mrs. Lovejoy fit the bill. The proud crown of tawny hair that was pulled back from her face and arranged in a display of curls about her shoulders was probably more appropriate for the male lion, but there it was nonetheless. The gray was not so outspoken yet, though it had begun to announce itself at the temples. She was not a small woman, nor was she oversized; she had big bones, and she made no attempt to hide them by wearing a gown with voluminous folds and frills. She was dressed simply, in a very beautiful indigo-dyed gown with a puff of tasteful cream-colored ruffle at the throat and cuffs, and on her feet were sensible black shoes decorated with black ribbons.

Matthew watched her read. She was devouring every word, and had one hand up to rest her chin upon. He could envision her, like a lioness, reclining on her throne of rocks on some african hillside, and peering into the ruddy distance for the dust trail of a weaker beast. He'd already noted that her eyes were clear green, wide-set and slightly almond-shaped, and that her jaw was square and firm and her forehead high as would befit a regal cat. Her nose was long and sharp-tipped, her mouth large enough to gnaw a bone or two. Dear God, he thought, he was thinking with Hudson Greathouse's brain. as yet Matthew hadn't gotten a close look at her teeth, and wasn't sure he wanted to. She blinked slowly, taking her time. He saw she wore no rings, but on both wrists were filigreed gold bracelets.

With the help of one of the coins Slaughter had left him after the Lindsay massacre, Matthew had made sure he would himself stand up to scrutiny. The new suit, the new cloak, the new tricorn all were necessary for the deception. The investigation, as it were. On his feet were a pair of black boots that his tailor friend had found for him from a shoemaker friend, at a reasonable price. The moccasins had had their day; when Matthew had taken them off they'd been nearly ready to fall apart.

"Mr. Shayne," the woman suddenly said, as if just to repeat the name. She didn't divert her attention from the letter. "How is my friend Oliveri"

"He's fine. Did you know that Priscilla will be having her baby in four monthsi"

"Yes, I did. I saw her at the market oh that was late august." She put the letter aside with a brief and unrevealing smile. "Here's our refreshment."

Opal the hip-grazing crotch-glancer had returned, bringing a silver tray that bore his cup of tea. He accepted it and the linen napkin that was also offered. In the exchange of tea and napkin he caught Opal staring right at him, her pink lips slightly parted, and he wondered who really was the lioness in the room. She was wearing a gray muslinet gown and a shapeless gray mob cap that did nothing for a woman's charm and perhaps was meant so. Under the cap Opal's hair was jet-black and the eyes that stared so piercingly into Matthew's were a bright blue almost crackling with their heated appraisal. She was the proverbial mere slip of a girl, slim and wiry and standing maybe two inches more than sixty even in clunky black heels. Matthew saw small metal rings stuck through her lower lip and her right nostril. She scared the hell out of him.

"Thank you, Opal," said Mrs. Lovejoy, who was returning the letter to its envelope. "I won't need you here any longer. Go to the laundry house and help there."

"Yes, mum." Opal gave a quick curtsey to both of them and took the tray back through the doorway again.

"always something to be done," the woman explained. "The washing, the cooking, the general maintenance. But it's my life now, Mr. Shayne. My calling."

"and an admirable calling it is, according to Oliver." He winced inwardly, and cautioned himself that it was better not to be so very damned eager.

"Sometimes admirable, sometimes just difficult." She tilted her head slightly, as if to examine him from a different angle. "I want you to understand that Paradise is very expensive. My guests-I always refer to them as my guests, for that's how much I respect them-require the best in food, care and consideration. But before I quote you a one year's fee, which would be our least expensive arrangement, let me ask you to tell me the particulars of your situation."

Matthew paused for a drink of tea, and then he forged ahead. "I am opening a law office after the first of the year. My wife and I will be-"

"In Philadelphiai" she asked. "Your officei"

"Yes. My wife and I will be moving down from New York. We have one son and another child on the way."

"Congratulations."

"Thank you." He brought up a frown. "The problem is my grandfather. He's quite aged. Seventy-two years. Come December," he chose to add, just for the sake of texture. He felt he was drawing a picture, as much as Berry ever did. "My grandmother has been dead these last few years, my father passed away on the voyage over, and my mother well, my mother met a new gentleman in New York, they married and returned to England."

"This world," she said, with no expression.

"Yes, a trying place. But the situation is that my grand-father-"

"What's his namei"

"Walker," Matthew replied.

"an active name for an active mani"

"Exactly." Matthew offered a fleeting smile. He decided then was the time to touch the plaster under his eye. "Unfortunately of late he has been too active."

"I was wondering. My pardon if you caught me looking." Now there was a quick show of teeth, then gone. The clear green eyes did not smile, Matthew noted. Ever.

He was getting nothing from her. Feeling nothing. But what had he expectedi He swept his gaze around the room, as if trying to gather his next confession of the trials of this world, especially those of a young lawyer who needs to get rid of an uncomfortable cyst that pains his progress. The house, on the outside painted white with a light blue trim the exact color of the Paradise lettering, was simply a nice two-story dwelling that any lady of means might have owned. The furnishings were tasteful, the colors restrained, the windowpanes spotless and the throw rugs unsullied by a dirty boot. He wondered if Tyranthus Slaughter was lying upstairs in a bedroom right this moment, nursing his injuries. For Matthew had come to the conclusion that Lovejoys of a feather might well lie down together.

"Not long ago he struck me," Matthew continued. "Several times, in fact, as you can see. He's angry about his situation, I know, but things are as they are. He's not companionable with people, he's surly, he can't work, and I have to say, I don't like my wife and son being with him, much less the idea of a new baby coming."

"and who's with him nowi Your wife and son alonei"

"No. He's in the custody excuse me, the possession of friends in New York."

Mrs. Lovejoy looked him directly in the eyes, again revealing nothing with her own. "He sounds like a difficult case."

Matthew didn't know whether her cool, polished demeanor made him go faster than he'd intended, or if he wanted to shake her up. He said, "Honestly, I'm afraid he might take a knife some night and slaughter us in our beds."

There was no reaction whatsoever. The lacquered surface between them held more expression than the woman's leonine face.

"In a manner of speaking," Matthew went on, a little flustered.

She lifted a hand. "Oh, I understand. absolutely. I see many situations like this. an elderly person who is not used to being dependent, now finds the choices limited due to illness, waning strength or changing circumstances, and very often anger results. You and your wife have the demands of family and profession, and therein lies the problem. You say Walker will be seventy-two in Decemberi" She waited for Matthew to nod. "Is he a strong mani In good physical healthi"

"I'd say, for the most part, yes." He was still looking for some reaction, for something. Now, though, he wasn't sure he would know what it was if he saw it.

Mrs. Lovejoy picked up her letterblade and toyed with it. "I have found, Mr. Shayne, in my five years at this occupation-this calling-that the more physically aggressive guests are the ones who unfortunately tend to " She cast about for the proper word. "Dissolve, when placed in a situation of being controlled. In time, they all dissolve, yes, but those like your grandfather do tend to go to pieces first. am I making sense to youi"

"Perfect sense." He was beginning to wonder what the further point of this was.

Maybe it showed in his own eyes and came across as boredom, for Mrs. Lovejoy leaned toward him and said, "Men like your grandfather rarely last more than two years here, if that. Now: we would wish to make him comfortable, and as happy as possible. We would wish to feed him well, to keep up his strength, and give him some kind of challenge. We do have gardening activities, a greenhouse, a library and a barn they can putter around. We have women who come from town to read to them, and to tell stories. Your wife will wish to inquire about the Bluebirds once you're settled, I'm sure. They do all sorts of charitable deeds."

She reached out and patted his hand, very professionally. "Everything is taken care of here. Once you sign the agreement, it's all done. Your life is your own again, so that you may give it to your family and your future. and as for worrying about your grandfather's future let me say that we hope, as I'm sure you do, that he lives many more happy years, but but when the day of God's blessing occurs, with your approval your grandfather will be laid to rest in Paradise's own private cemetery. He can be out of your mind and cares, Mr. Shayne, and you will know that for the remainder of his days he has received the very best treatment any guest of Paradise can be given. For that is my solemn promise."

"ah," said Matthew, nodding. "That sounds hopeful, then."

"Come!" She stood up with a rustle of fabric. "Before we venture into the area of money, let me show you exactly what your coin would buy."

Matthew got his cloak and hat, and in a few minutes was walking beside Mrs. Lovejoy along the gravel drive that went past her house into the property. It was an aptly-named place, because it was certainly beautiful. There were stands of elm and oak trees brilliant in the sunshine, a meadow where sheep grazed, and a green pond where ducks drifted back and forth.

Mrs. Lovejoy continued to talk as they walked. Presently there were twelve male and sixteen female guests, she said. The men and women were housed in separate facilities, because-she said-snow on the roof did not necessarily mean the fireplace had gone cold. Their ages were from the late-sixties to the eighties, the eldest being eighty-four. The guests had been brought from Boston, New York, of course Philadelphia, Charles Town and many smaller towns between. Word-of-mouth was building her business, she said. as life moved faster and responsibilities increased, many people were-as she said-stuck between a rock and a hard place regarding aged parents. Sometimes the guests resented being here, but gradually they accepted their situation and understood it was for the greater good of their loved ones. Oh, there were the rowdy guests and the guests who cursed and fought, but usually they calmed down or they didn't last very long.

a doctor was within a thirty-minute ride, she assured him. also, the doctor made several visits each week to check ailments and general health. a minister came on Sunday afternoons to lead worship in Paradise's church. Seven workers, all female, did the cooking, the washing, kept everything scrubbed and fresh and all the rest of it. Very upright girls, every one. "Here's our laundry house," Mrs. Lovejoy announced, as they came around a bend.

There stood a tidy-looking white brick building with two chimneys spouting smoke and a pile of wood stacked up alongside it ready to be burned under the wash kettles. The door was wide open, and three young women wearing the gray gowns and mob caps stood beside it chattering and laughing; they also, Matthew quickly saw, were taking snuff up their noses from a snuffbox. When they saw Mrs. Lovejoy they went stiff-backed and the laughter died. Two of the girls turned away and rushed inside, where the heat was probably stifling, to continue stirring the laundry with kettle poles. The third seemed to realize too late that her friends had abandoned her. She had been left holding the snuffbox.

Before the girl could retreat into the laundry house, Mrs. Lovejoy said sharply, "Opal! Bring that to me." and then, under her breath to Matthew: "I have told them such nasty habits will not be tolerated. Pardon me while I apply the whip."

Opal held the snuffbox behind her as she approached, as if that would do any good. In her eyes there was a mixture of trepidation and whati Matthew wondered. Barely-repressed hilarityi Opal's mouth was twisted tight; was she about to laugh in mum's facei

It was never to be known. at that moment came the crunch of hooves on gravel. Two horses pulling a wagon came trotting along the drive from the direction of Mrs. Lovejoy's house. Matthew and the woman stepped aside as the wagon approached. Guiding the reins was a heavy-set, bulky-shouldered young man maybe Matthew's age or just a little older. He was wearing a gray monmouth cap, a russet-colored shirt, brown breeches and stockings and wore a brown cloak over his shoulders. His hair looked to be skinned to the scalp, from what Matthew could see. He had a broad, pallid face with fleshy lips and his scraggly black eyebrows met in the middle.

"May I help youi" Mrs. Lovejoy asked.

"Need talk," the young bulk said; something was wrong with his mouth or tongue, for even that simple sentence was garbled.

"I am with someone," she said crisply.

He balled up a formidable fist and rapped three times on the wagon's side.

Mrs. Lovejoy cleared her throat. "Opali Would you continue Mr. Shayne's tour of our Paradisei and please do something with that snuffbox. Mr. Shayne, I'm needed for the moment. I'll meet you back at my house in oh fifteen or twenty minutesi" She was already going around to climb up on the seat. Matthew followed her to do the gentlemanly thing.

"Not necessary," she said, but she let him help her.

as Mrs. Lovejoy took his hand and stepped up, Matthew glanced into the rear of the wagon. Back there, among dead leaves and general untidiness, was a scatter of workman's odds-and-ends: some lumberboards of various lengths, a pickaxe and shovel, a couple of lanterns, a pair of leather gloves, a wooden mallet, and underneath the mallet a dirty burlap bag that-

"Mr. Shaynei" came the woman's voice.

He brought himself back. "Yes!"

"You can let go of my hand now."

"Surely." He released it and stepped back, but before doing so he glanced one more time at what he'd thought he'd seen, in case the problem with his vision fading in and out had become a problem of seeing what was not there.

But it was there.

"Later then," said Mrs. Lovejoy. "Take care of Mr. Shayne, Opal."

"Yes, mum, I shall."

The wagon moved off, heading deeper into the property. an interesting wagon, Matthew thought as he watched it follow the drive and disappear beyond a stand of trees. Interesting because of the dirty burlap bag that was lying underneath the mallet.

The bag that had 'Sutch a' across it in red paint. If he could have picked the bag up and shaken out the folds, wrinkles and dead leaves he would have read its full declaration: Mrs. Sutch's Sausages and, below that, the legend 'Sutch a Pleasure'.