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right temple just a little. His mind presented a vision from his nightmares: a scaly clawed hand about to dig in and rip his head open. The scent of Madame Flaubert’s cologne mingled with the imagined stench of a reptilian, toothy maw; he wanted to retch and could not move.

“You may go,” she said again, somewhere near his left shoulder. Evidently Sam had not gone; Ford hoped fervently he would stay, but he could not move even a toe to signal him.

“Sorry, Madame,” said Sam, sounding more determined than sorry. “I think it would be better for us all if I stayed.” Something in his tone made Ford wish he could smile, a hint of staunch rectitude that implied Madame Flaubert had known—proclivities, perhaps? At the thought of her hands on his body, he actually shuddered.

“Your voice hurts him,” Madame Flaubert said. Quietly, venomously, a voice to cause the same shudders. “You saw that twitch. You had better go, or I will be compelled to speak to your mistress.”

No sound of movement. Ford struggled again with his eyelids, and felt one almost part. Then that hand drifted down his forehead and he felt a thumb on his lid.

“Madam gave me permission; she agreed it was best.”

An actual hiss followed, a sound he had read about but never heard a woman make. The thumb on his eyelid pressed; he saw sparkling whorls. Then it released, with a last little flick that seemed a warning, and the hand fell heavily on his shoulder.

“I can’t imagine what she means by it.” Now Madame Flaubert sounded almost petulant, a woman wronged by false suspicions.

“She has such . . . such notions sometimes.” A soft scrape, across the room; the sound of someone settling in a chair. “She has not forgotten why you are here. Nor have I.”

Madame Flaubert sniffed, a sound as literary as the hiss, and as false. “You forget yourself, Sam. A servant—“

“Madam’s cook.” The emphasis was unmistakable.

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Madam’s cook—her loyal servant. Not Madame Flaubert’s. And she was someone he tolerated on his mistress’s behalf?

Ford wished he could think clearly. He knew too little about whatever loyalties might exist in such situations. If this were Fleet, those overtones in Sam’s voice would belong to the trustworthy NCO of a good officer. But he could hardly imagine his Auntie Q as a good officer. Or could he? And why was Madame Flaubert here, if neither Auntie Q nor her faithful servant wanted her?

“Well. You can scarcely object to my seeking healing for him.”

“As long as that’s all it is.” Sam’s voice had flattened slightly. Warning? Fear?

“Those who live by violence die of its refuse,” Madame Flaubert intoned. Ford felt something fragile touch his face, and had just decided it was a scarf or veil when Madame Flaubert drew it away. “I see pain in this aura. I see violence and grief. I see the shadow of wickedness in the past, and its unborn child of darkness ...” Her voice had taken on a curious quality, not quite musical, that seemed to bore into Ford’s head and prevent thought. He could almost feel himself floating on it, as if it were a heavy stream of honey.

“What’re you trying to do, make him feel guilty?” Sam’s voice cut through hers and Ford felt as if he’d been dropped bodily from several feet up. A spasm went through his foot; he felt the covers drag at it.’ Before Madame Flaubert could move, Sam’s strong hands were kneading it, relaxing the cramp.

“Don’t touch him!” she said. “You’ll interfere with the healing flow, if it comes at all with you here.”

“He’s been still too long. He needs massage.” Where Sam’s hands rubbed, Ford felt warmth, felt he could almost move himself.

“Impossible!” Her hand left his shoulder; he heard the rustle as she stood. “I can’t be expected to do anything with you treating his legs like bread dough, stirring his aura, mixing the signs. When you’re quite finished, you will have the kindness to inform me! If