With the others it had been very different.

Excitement minimal. Much banter and deft professionalism. Quickly consummated, and usually in a sak`e haze to blur their age. Now there was limitless time. She was young, and out of his world. His ache increased. And the throb.

Wind creaked the shutters but there was no danger there nor was there any in the house. Everything quiet. She lay half on her stomach. A deft, soft push, and another, and obediently she moved onto her back, her head comfortably to one side, hair cascading. Deep sigh, snug in the embrace of the mattress. A small golden cross at her throat.

He leaned over and put the tip of his razor-sharp sword-knife under the delicate lace at the neck, lifted slightly and settled the blade against the tension of the garment. The material parted willingly and fell away. To her feet.

Ori had never seen a woman so revealed.

Or been so constricted. The throbbing intensified like never before. The tiny cross shone. Involuntarily her hand stirred lazily and went between her legs, resting there comfortably. He lifted it away, then moved one ankle from the other.

Gently.

Just before dawn she awoke. But not completely.

The drug was still with her, dreams still with her, strange violent dreams, erotic and crushing and wonderful and hurting and sensuous and awful and never before experienced or so intense. Through the half-opened shutters she saw the eastern horizon blood red, weird suggestive cloud formations there that seemed to match etchings in her mind.

As she moved to see them better there was a slight ache in her loins but she paid it no attention, instead letting her eyes dwell on the pictures in the sky and allowing her mind to drift back into the dreams that beckoned irresistibly. On the threshold of sleep she became aware she was naked. Languidly she pulled her nightdress around her and the sheet over her. And slept.

Ori was standing beside the bed. He had just moved out of the warmth. His ninja clothes were on the floor.

And his loincloth. For a moment he looked down at her lying there, considering her a final time. So sad, he thought, last times are so sad. Then he picked up the short knife-sword and unsheathed it.

In the room downstairs Phillip Tyrer opened his eyes. His surroundings were unfamiliar, then he realized that he was still in the temple at Kanagawa, that yesterday had been terrible, the operation awful, his part despicable. "Babcott said I was in shock," he muttered, his mouth parched and bad-tasting. "Christ, does that excuse me?"

His shutters were ajar, a wind creaking them. He could see the dawn. "Red sky in the morning, shepherd's warning." Will there be a storm? he wondered, then sat up in the camp bed and checked the bandage on his arm. It was clean, without fresh bloodstains and he was greatly relieved. Apart from the throb in his head and some soreness he felt whole again. "Oh God, I wish I'd acted better." He made an effort to remember the aftermath of the operation but it was hazed. I know I cried. It didn't feel like crying, the tears flooded.

With an effort he pushed the gloomy thoughts away. He got out of bed and shoved the shutters open, strong now on his legs and hungry. Nearby there was water in a jug and he splashed some on his face and rinsed out his mouth and spat the water into the garden foliage. After he had drank a little he felt better. The garden was empty, the air smelling of rotting vegetation and low tide. From where he was he could see a section of the temple walls and the garden but little else. Through a gap in the trees he caught a glimpse of the guard house and two soldiers there.

Now he noticed that he had been put to bed in his shirt and long woolen underpants. His torn, bloodstained coat was over a chair, his trousers and riding boots, filthy from the paddy, beside it.

Never mind, I'm lucky to be alive. He began to dress. What about Struan? And Babcott--soon I'll have to face him.

There was no razor so he could not shave. Nor was there a comb. Again never mind. He pulled on his boots. From the garden he could hear the sound of birds and movement, a few distant shouts in Japanese, and dogs barking. But no sounds as in a normal town, an English town, no morning cries of "Hot Cross Buns-O" or "Fresh water-O" or "Colchester oysters, morning fresh, for sale for sale-O," or "Direct from the press, the latest chapter by Mr. Dickens, only a penny, only a penny" or "The Times, the Times, read all about Mr. Disraeli's great scandal, read all about it..."

Will I be dismissed, he asked himself, his stomach surging at the thought of returning home in ignominy, a disaster, a failure, no longer a member of Her Illustrious Majesty's Foreign Office, representative of the greatest Empire the world has ever known. What will Sir William think of me? And what about her?

Angelique? Thank God she escaped to Yokohama--will she ever talk to me again when she hears?

Oh God, what am I going to do?

Malcolm Struan was also awake. A few moments before some sixth sense of danger, a noise from outside, had wakened him, though lying here it felt as though he had been awake for hours. He lay on the camp bed, aware of the day and the operation and that he had been severely wounded and that the chances were that he would die. Every breath caused a sharp tearing pain. Even the slightest movement.

But I'm not going to think about pain, only about Angelique and that she loves me and... But what about the bad dreams? Dreams of her hating me and running away. I hate dreams and being out of control, hate lying here, loathe being weak when I've always been strong, always brought up in the shadow of my hero, the great Dirk Struan, Green-eyed Devil. Oh how I wish I had green eyes and could be so strong. He's my lodestone and I will be as good as him, I will.

As always the enemy Tyler Brock is stalking us. Father and Mother try to keep most of the facts from me but of course I've heard the rumors and know more than they think. Old Ah Tok, more mother to me than Mother--didn't she carry me until I was two and teach me Cantonese and about life and find me my first girl?--she whispers the rumors to me, so does Uncle Gordon Chen who tells me facts. The Noble House is teetering.

Never mind, we'll deal with them. I will. That's what I'm trained for and have worked for all my life.

He moved the blanket aside and lifted his legs to stand but pain stopped him. Again he tried and again failed. Never mind, he told himself weakly.

Nothing to worry about, I'll do it later.

"More eggs, Settry?" Marlowe said, as tall as the Dragoon officer but not as broad in the shoulders. Both were patrician, sons of serving senior officers, well formed in the face, weathered, Marlowe more so.

"No thanks," Settry Pallidar said.

"Two's my limit. Must confess that I think the cooking here is vile. I told the servants I like my eggs well done not phlegmy but they've sand for brains. Actually, damned if I can eat eggs unless they're on toast, on good English bread. They just don't taste the same. What do you think's going to happen, about Canterbury?"

Marlowe hesitated. They were in the Legation dining room at the vast oak table that could seat twenty, brought from England for just this purpose. The corner room was spacious and pleasing, windows open to the garden and the dawn. Three liveried Chinese servants served the two of them.

Places laid for half a dozen. Fried eggs and bacon in silver salvers warmed by candles, roast chicken, cold salt ham and mushroom pie, a side of almost rancid beef, hardtack biscuits, a dried apple pie.

Beer, porter and tea. "The Minister should ask for immediate reparations and the murderers to be handed over at once, and when there's the inevitable delay, he should order the fleet against Yedo."