Fishy was in the hall when Margaret reached her floor. Margaret was gratified to see that as soon as Fishy recognized who it was, she shed the bowed posture of slavery and looked her full in the eye. “Ma'am, you can't bring no gentleman to this floor.”

Margaret calmly unlocked her door and pushed Calvin inside as she answered. “I can assure you, he's not a gentleman.”

Moments later, Fishy slipped into the room and closed the door behind her. “Ma'am, it's a scandal. She throw you out.” Only then did she look at Calvin. “What's wrong with this one?”

“Fishy, I need your help. To bring this man back to himself.” As briefly as she could, she told Fishy what had happened with Calvin.

“He the one send my name back to me?”

“I'm sure he didn't realize what he was doing. He's frightened and desperate.”

“I don't know if I be hating him,” said Fishy. “I hurt all the time now. But I know I be hurting.”

“You're a whole woman now,” said Margaret. “That makes you free, even in your slavery.”

“This one, he gots the power to put all the names back?”

“I don't know.”

“The Black man who take the names, I don't know his name. Be maybe I know his face, iffen I see him.”

“And you have no idea where they take the names?”

“Nobody know. Nobody wants to. Can't tell what you don't know.”

“Will you help me find him? From what Balzac said, he lurks by the docks.”

“Oh, it be easy a-find him. But how you going a-stop him from killing you and me and the White man, all three?”

“Do you think he would?”

“A White woman and a White man who know that he gots the names? He going a-think I be the one a-tell you.” She drew a finger across her throat. “My neck, he cut that. Stab you in the heart. Tear him open by the belly. That's what happen to the ones who tell.”

“Fishy, I can't explain it to you, but I can assure you of this– we will not be taken by surprise.”

“I druther be surprise iffen he kill us,” said Fishy. She mimed slitting her own throat again. “Let him sneak up behind.”

“He won't kill us at all. We'll stand at a distance.”

“What good that going a-do us?”

“There's much I can learn about a man from a distance, once I know who he is.”

“I still gots a room to finish cleaning.”

“I'll help you,” said Margaret.

Fishy almost laughed out loud. “You the strangest White lady.”

“Oh, I suppose that would cause comment.”

“You just set here,” said Fishy. “I be back soon. Then I be on your half-day. They have to let me go out with you.”

Denmark spent a fruitless morning asking around about a White man who suddenly went empty. He'd knock on a door, pretending to be asking for work for a non-existent White master– just so the slave who talked to him had a story to tell when somebody asked them who was at the door. The slaves all knew who Denmark was, of course– nobody was more famous among the Blacks of Camelot than the taker of names. Unless it was Gullah Joe, the bird man who flew out to the slaveships. So there wasn't a soul who didn't try to help. Trouble was, all these people with no name, they had no sharp edge to them. They vaguely remembered hearing this or that about a White man who was sick or a White man who couldn't walk, but in each case it turned out to be some old cripple or a man who'd already died of some disease. Not till afternoon did he finally hear a story that sounded like it might be what he needed.

He followed the rumor to a cheap boardinghouse where yes, indeed, two White men had shared a room, and one of them, the Northerner, had taken sick with a strange malady. “He eat, he drink, he pee, he do all them thing,” said the valet who had cared for their room. “I change him trouser three times a day, wash everything twice a day.” But they had left just that morning. “French man, he gots a letter, he pack up all, take away that empty man, now they be both all gone.”

“Did he say where he taking the sick man?” asked Denmark.

“He don't say nothing to me,” said the valet.

“Does anybody know?”

“You want me to get in trouble, asking question from the White boss?”

Denmark sighed. “You tell him that Frenchman and that Northerner, they owe my master money.”

The valet looked puzzled. “Your master dumb enough a-lend them money?”

Denmark leaned in close. “It's a lie,” he said. “You say they owe my master money, then the White boss tell you where they gone off to.”

It took a moment, but finally the valet understood and retreated into the house. When he came back, he had some information. “Calvin, he the sick man, he gots a sister-in-law here. At a boardinghouse.”

“What's the address?”

“White boss don't know.”

“White boss hoping for a bribe,” said Denmark.

The valet shook his head. “No, he don't know, that the truth.”

“How'm I going to find her with no address?”

The valet shrugged. “Be maybe you best ask around.”

“Ask what? 'There's a woman with a sick brother-in-law named Calvin and she living in a boardinghouse somewhere.' That get me a lot of results.”

The valet looked at him like he was crazy. “I don't think you get much that way. I bet you do better, you tell them her name.”

“I don't know her name.”

“Why not? I do.”

Denmark closed his eyes. “That's good. How about you tell me that name?”

“Margaret.”

“She got her a last name? White folks has a last name every time.”

“Smith,” said the valet. “But she don't look big enough for smith work.”

“You've seen her?” asked Denmark.

“Lots of times.”

“When would you see her?”

“I run messages to her and back a couple of times.”

Denmark sighed, keeping anger out of his voice. “Well now, my friend, don't that mean you know where she lives?”

“I do,” said the valet.

“Why couldn't you just tell me that?”

“You didn't be asking where she live, you ask for the address. I don't know no number or letter.”

“Could you lead me there?”

The valet rolled his eyes. “Sixpence to the White boss and he let me take you.”

Denmark looked at him suspiciously. “You sure it ain't tuppence to the White boss and the rest to you?”

The valet looked aggrieved. “I be a Christian.”

“So be all the White folks,” said Denmark.

The valet, all anger having been stripped from him long ago, had no chance of understanding pointed irony. “Of course they be Christian. How else I learn about Jesus 'cept from them?”

Denmark dug a sixpence out of his pocket and gave it to the valet. In moments he was back, grinning. “I gots ten minutes.”

“That time enough?”

“Two blocks over, one block down.”

When they got to the door of Margaret Smith's boardinghouse, the valet just stood there.

“Step aside so I can knock,” said Denmark.

“I can if you want,” said the valet. “But I don't see why.”

“Well if I don't knock, how'm I going to find out if she be in?”

“She ain't in,” said the valet.

“How you know that?”

“Cause she over there, looking at you.”

Denmark turned around casually. A White woman, a White man, and a Black servant girl were across the street, walking away.

“Who's looking at me?”

“They was looking,” said the valet. “And I know she can tell you about that Calvin man.”

“How do you know that?”

“That be him.”

Denmark looked again. The White man was shuffling along like an old man. Empty.

Denmark grinned and gave another tuppence to the valet. “Good job, when you finally got around to telling me.”

The valet took the tuppence, looked at it, and offered it back. “No, it be sixpence the White boss want.”

“I already paid the sixpence,” said Denmark.

The valet looked at him like he had lost his mind. “If you done that, why you be giving me more? This tuppence not enough anyway.” Huffily, he handed the coin back. “You crazy.” Then he was gone.