“Connection?” Kit’s mind raced, tried to link what he knew of Poiterin to the Scotts, and failed.

“You haven’t heard any talk.”

“No,” Kit said, letting his anger rise to the surface. “I don’t listen to women’s gossip, and the men I do business with hardly sit around discussing the affairs of an Indian woman. What is it you want, exactly?”

“I want to know if you had any part in Poiterin’s attack on Hannah Bonner.”

Kit was sure he had misunderstood, but saw by Savard’s expression that he hadn’t.

“Poiterin? It was Poiterin who beat and raped her and left her for dead?”

The words hung in the air, almost visible.

Savard said, “You know he is capable of it.”

Kit closed his eyes. Poiterin was one of the most valuable and volatile of his network, superbly placed and a source of excellent information, but unpredictable and prone to fits of rage. Kit had seen him shoot an expensive horse for nothing more than balking, and according to rumor he was guilty of far worse things. He had heard some of them over the last months. Smuggling, piracy, slave running—that Poiterin was a man of no loyalties and no morals was clear, but then Kit supposed that there were few saints who had ever taken up treason.

A vague memory came to him of the journey that had brought him first to Barataria. Men deep in their cups, telling stories. Lafitte’s name had come up, and the men who had sworn him allegiance. Stories of Mac Stoker and his son, of Anne Bonnie and the old days, of rich merchantmen taken after hard battles, feuds and vendettas and stolen children.

There had been some story about a child taken from a white woman as a souvenir, Kit remembered now. An infant taken home to a grandmother, as a man might take a string of pearls to a lover who needed to be wooed after too long an absence.

“Was it Poiterin who took the boy to Pensacola?” The question had been asked before Kit could stop himself.

Savard looked grimly satisfied. “Maybe you’re not as dumb as you seem at first. I’ll ask you straight out one last time. Have you taken any part in Poiterin’s campaign against the Bonners?”

“I knew nothing about it.” And if I had known, Kit asked himself, what could I have done?

“You know now. He’s a liability to you.”

Kit met Savard’s sharp eyes. “You have a proposal for me.”

Savard nodded.

“And if I don’t accept your terms?”

One shoulder lifted and fell. “I’d prefer to handle this myself.”

Kit understood the man perfectly. He could agree to whatever he was going to suggest, or he could die right here. Savard wouldn’t risk taking him to the Cabildo for questioning, because Kit knew things about the Bonners that could easily be misconstrued in such anxious times.

“Go on,” Kit said. “I’m listening.”

It was Clémentine who first discovered Hannah’s removal to Ben’s two small rooms above the kitchen. As soon as the older woman realized that she couldn’t bully Hannah into moving back to the Savards’ more comfortable apartment above the clinic, she changed direction. Within an hour Ben Savard’s apartment had been transformed.

Clémentine’s two daughters, silent in their work as their mother required of them, moved through the two small rooms like spirits. They tightened the bed ropes, replaced the mattress, and remade the bed with fresh linen that smelled of lilac water. A new cloth was spread over the table, dishware and a small tea service appeared on the rack on the wall, and new wax candles replaced the tallow ones that had suited Ben Savard well enough. All of this was done while Hannah sat near the hearth, half dozing in its warmth.

Then the Savards came too. Julia brought her books and newspapers and the report that Jennet would be back tomorrow. Paul Savard insisted on examining her. With obvious reluctance he declared her well enough to be out of his immediate sight.

Hannah said, “All this fuss. Whatever has got into Clémentine, do you think?”

Dr. Savard looked at her closely. “It’s not just Clémentine,” he said. “They’ve taken your part.”

“Who has taken my part?”

He glanced toward the door. “Before the attack, they were watching you and keeping their distance. Now you’re one of them. You’ve got a common enemy.”

He hadn’t answered Hannah’s question, and she said so. “You’re being very mysterious. It’s not like you.”

“I’m being cautious. That’s very like me.” After a moment he said, “I believe you’ve met Clémentine’s mother. She’s called Maman Zuzu.”

“Oh.” Hannah cleared her throat. “I see. I didn’t realize.”

“Because they weren’t ready to trust you. Now they are.”

It was hard to imagine that anyone might have suspected that Hannah was working with Honoré Poiterin, but that seemed to be what Dr. Savard meant. If that was true, she had paid a very high price to earn the trust of women like Clémentine and her mother. She might have asked more questions, had Luke not come in with news of the grand review on the Place d’Armes.

“More talk,” said Dr. Savard. “And crowds. If we don’t have an outbreak of yellow jack it will be a miracle of the first order. What of the speech? Did he do it, are we under martial law?”

“Effective immediately.” Luke rubbed his eyes. He looked as though he had slept very little in the past days.