“Good to know. Thank you, sir.”

A slender mixed-race woman who was more white than anything else chose this moment to descend the staircase and enter the lobby, a vision in pink taffeta and ivory lace, with her hair tufted up and fastened with elaborate combs. “Mr. Calais,” she said to the Texian, “you surely do look comfortable, sir.”

“Couldn’t be happier, Miss Quantrill!” he assured her, though when he reached for his scotch, it was barely beyond his fingertips. The girl upon his right knee retrieved it for him and leaned so that he could squeeze her close and take a swallow at the same time. “And these men here, they’re looking for Josephine.”

Kirby and Cly both came to their feet, and Troost announced, “He’s looking for Josephine. I’m just looking.”

She gave them both a demure smile that showed no teeth. To Troost, she said, “You’ll be the easiest to assist. My name is Marylin, and I’ll be happy to make any arrangements you require. But as for you, sir,” she told the captain, “Miss Early isn’t here right now.”

“That’s what your friend said. Any chance you know when she’ll be back?”

Before Marylin could answer, a second woman slipped up behind her. The dark-haired beauty was wearing maroon that bordered on brown, and every inch of her shimmered. Kirby Troost’s eyes went wide, and he opened his mouth. Then he closed it.

She swished forward, taking in Troost’s gaze and discarding it in favor of catching Cly’s. Unabashedly she appraised him from head to foot, and when she felt she’d seen everything she needed, she declared, “Je suis Ruthie Doniker, and I manage the house for Miss Early while she is out. Are you Captain Cly?”

“Yes … yes, ma’am. I am. Josephine sent for me.”

“Oui, I know. For a while, she thought you would not come.”

He hunkered, even though the ceiling accommodated his height. “I do apologize — I tried to reply to her telegram sooner, but I had a hard time getting hold of the taps until a few days ago.”

“Your message reached us, but she was called away suddenly. She has left instructions. Could you come upstairs with me, monsieur?”

Marylin gave Ruthie a look Cly couldn’t decipher, but he thought it might mean, Trust me. And she turned with more swishing to ascend the stairs.

“You won’t be needing me, will you?” Troost asked with optimism dripping from every word.

“I don’t guess so.”

So the captain left him there, in the company of Marylin Quantrill, the Texian Mr. Calais, and the two women on his lap who were spoken for; Cly followed the stunning, slim-bodied woman up the stairs while trying to neither knock his head nor stare too hard at the swaying bustle that covered her backside.

By way of making conversation he asked, “Does she — does Josephine, I mean — still keep an office up here?”

“She does, oui, monsieur. And that is where we are going.” Ruthie paused on the stairs and looked back at him, appraising him afresh, though the captain didn’t know why. She turned and continued upward, added, “Madame said that she knew you, a long time ago.”

“That’s right.”

“She said you are a very good pilot.”

“I don’t get any complaints.”

“She said you were the tall man, and I should know you that way.”

“Many men are tall.”

“She said that in any room, filled with any group of men, you were the tall one.”

As she said this, he swung his head to avoid an old wall sconce that had not yet been fitted for gas, but still held a candle that had melted down to a thumb-sized nub.

On the third floor, the stairs emptied into a walkway, just as Cly remembered, and he followed Ruthie to Josephine’s office. The office was not quite the same as the last time he’d seen it, but he would’ve recognized her touch anywhere. New curtains, in burgundy instead of green. Two new chairs — no, two old chairs with new striped upholstery. And the desk she’d inherited from someplace or another, half as big as a bed and ornately carved at the corners — where cherubs held harps and the wings of angels curved gently downward to the lion’s-paw feet.

Gaudy, she’d called it once. But she’d never replaced it.

Behind this desk sat an attractive colored woman with a curvy body and kind eyes. She wore a beautiful blue dress in some high style that hadn’t yet made it to the West Coast, and when she gracefully rose to meet Andan Cly, the tiny bells sewn into her sleeves made a delicate tinkling sound. Ruthie introduced them by declaring, “Captain Cly, Hazel Bushrod.” And in French she said, “Hazel, this is the airman Josephine sent for.”

Hazel ducked her head in a discreet bow, and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’m sorry Miss Early isn’t here right now, but I hope I can help you all the same.”

“Miss … Bushrod? Is that right?”

“Yes, and no, I didn’t make it up or acquire it on the job,” she said, the kindness in her eyes hardening briefly into something else. “It was my father’s name, and now it’s mine. And if you have anything further you’d like to say—”

“No, no, ma’am. It’s an unusual name, that’s all. I’ve never heard it before.”

“Well, now you have. And if we’re finished with the subject, I’d like to invite you to pull up a seat.” She sat back down, her skirts and those tiny silver bells conspiring to make music. She crossed her legs beneath the desk, unleashing a new round of rustling, and the rubbing together of fabrics and thighs.

Ruthie pulled up one of the striped chairs and offered it to Cly, who sat gingerly upon it. Then she drew up the second one and positioned it beside Hazel’s, so that the captain could not escape the feeling he was about to be interrogated, quizzed, or possibly sentenced.

He didn’t recognize either of these women. They hadn’t been with Josephine back in the old days, which stood to reason, given that neither of them appeared to be older than her mid-twenties. A decade before, they would’ve been young for such a life, by Josephine’s business standards.

Cly shifted in his seat, attempting to get comfortable without damaging the furniture, which looked delicate on the surface but bore his weight without creaking. “I suppose Josephine told you, she called me here about a job.”

Hazel said, “How much did she tell you about it?”

“Almost nothing. She wants me to fly something from the lake to the Gulf.”

“Did she say what she wanted you to fly?”

“No.”

“And did you think it was strange?” she asked, reaching into a drawer and withdrawing a collection of papers without taking her eyes off the captain.

“I did,” he admitted. “But I needed to make a big supply run for my town anyway. And say what you will about Texians — I’m sure they’re none too popular in this house — but they know their way around a machine shop. And I need one, because I’m having some work done on my own bird.”

Ruthie and Hazel considered this response and exchanged the kind of gaze that old friends can sometimes share — squeezing a whole conversation into an instant’s worth of facial tics, blinks, and small frowns. When the moment had passed, Ruthie rose from her seat and went to shut the door. Then she returned to her position beside Hazel, and the pair of them turned their full and absolute attention upon Cly, who could scarcely recall having felt so uncomfortable in his life.

“I get the feeling this is trickier than I thought. Stranger than I thought.”

Hazel said, “Miss Early told us you weren’t stupid, and so far, so good. Yes, what we have to tell you — what we have to ask you — is tricky and strange, and I want you to understand how much danger you could put us in, simply with one wrong word.”

“Danger? For you?”

“For us,” Ruthie said. “For the Garden Court. For Josephine.”

Hazel folded her hands on the desk and said, “Dangerous for you, too, once we tell you everything. So first I must ask, and I expect you to answer me truthfully: Have you now, or have you ever, owed any loyalty to the Republic of Texas or to the Confederate States of America?”