The evening news carries a report of Santos's catamaran being found, floating upside down, off the shore of Miami Beach. The commercial fishermen who recovered the boat repeat for the cameras that they saw no signs of anyone floating nearby. Both Jorge's and Casey's pictures are flashed on screen. Tapes of Mrs. Santos weeping over her missing son and the Mortons stoically appealing for boaters to help search for their daughter run for days on every broadcast.

At the office, Arturo gloats, and says, "Good riddance. At least that's one problem that's solved itself."

Jeremy approaches me later, asks, "Peter? Did you have anything to do with their disappearance? Not that it matters, as long as they're out of the way."

I give him a blank stare until he retreats from my office.

We keep our prisoners in the house while the search goes on, let them rest and heal in their cells. At first we dress them in my old clothes, Elizabeth's being far too small for Casey Morton. They look almost comical as they shuffle along, barefoot, in chains-my shirts and pants too baggy, too loose, too long for both of them.

Elizabeth grunts when she sees them. "My slaves back in Jamaica were better dressed than these two. At least they had shoes," she mindspeaks.

"Your shoes are too small and mine are too large," I say.

"We'll have to buy them new ones and new clothes on the mainland."

Casey continues to be the passive one, silently following orders, shuffling from room to room as she cleans, never complaining about her chains. But she proves useless in the kitchen. "I don't eat meat," she explains when Elizabeth tells her to prepare steaks, blood rare for us and however Santos and she like for them. "And I hardly ever cook." Morton points to Santos. "He's the one who's good at that."

"You'll have to eat what we give you," Elizabeth says. "You're too thin for your own good." She instructs Santos on what to prepare, ignores his grumbling that the chains get in the way.

When the food is ready, she insists that Casey eat her entire steak, and sits next to her at the oak table in the great room, prodding her to continue eating.

"I wouldn't force her to eat so much," Santos says. He needs no such encouragement, wolfing his meat down almost as quickly as Elizabeth and I do ours. Then we all three sit and wait as Casey takes one small bite after another.

Santos puts his feet on the chair across from him, slouching in his seat, like any other man relaxing after a good meal. He looks around the room, notices the blue ceramic pitcher on one of the shelves. "Hey, Boss, that's what your wife poured for us, when we first came here, isn't it?"

I nod.

"What is it? I've never heard of anything like that."

"Peter, there's no need to tell him about it," Elizabeth mindspeaks.

"And there's no harm in it either," I reply. "What good would the knowledge possibly do for him?"

She sighs and turns her attention back to Casey, nagging her to take yet another bite.

"It's a family recipe," I tell him. "Elizabeth makes it herself."

Santos knits his eyebrows, looks from the pitcher to me and back to the pitcher. "Why?"

I smile at him. "Sometimes it's useful. You saw what it did to you."

He shakes his head grimly.

Elizabeth says, "Good. You're finished."

We both turn to see Casey's plate empty. The blonde sits still, her eyes glazed, her white skin paler than usual.

"She hasn't eaten meat since she was twelve years old," Santos says.

Casey nods, then belches, and leans over to her side and begins to wretch, spewing Elizabeth's hard work all over the floor.

Santos glares at Elizabeth. "See, I told you. If you hadn't made her stuff herself…"

My bride shakes her head, shouts, "Stop!" at Morton, who continues to empty her stomach.

"Do something," Elizabeth says to me.

She looks so bewildered, so frustrated, I have to stifle an indulgent grin. I hold my hands up. "We can't control their stomachs," I mindspeak.

"Clean it up!" she yells at Santos.

The Cuban gets up to do as he is told. He turns to me, says, "I warned her," and I nod. Elizabeth glares at me. If she could, I'm sure she would make me clean it up too.

As the weeks pass, I become used to sharing our home, letting Santos and Morton lighten my burdens. Elizabeth and I go on shopping forays to Good Will and the Salvation Army, bringing home armloads of clothes for our prisoners. I let Jorge make up grocery lists and we stock the kitchen and freezer with all types of foods and condiments that would never tempt my bride or me.

Growing a little more tired of her pregnancy each day, Elizabeth spends more time in bed. She only ventures outside during the day to oversee Casey as she works in the garden or to accompany me when I go to the mainland. She takes to napping early, every evening, before we hunt.

I find I enjoy having Santos work by my side. The man likes to talk and, as long as we avoid any discussion of his sister, has a seemingly endless catalogue of stories about his coworkers and ex-girlfriends. To my delight, I learn he likes to play chess-the only human game Father deigned to play-and we fall into the habit of playing a game each evening, after dinner, before I lock him and Morton back in their cells.

Elizabeth and I never leave the two unsupervised outside their cells. It becomes routine for me to unlock their doors each morning and lock them again each evening. As time passes without any resistance on their part, my bride and I both decide to lessen the amount of chains Santos and Morton must bear. In their cells, I reduce their load to a single chain attached to an iron ring set in the wall, but long enough to allow them to range the width and breadth of their confines.

Casey learns to surrender control of her diet and finally eats as my bride wishes. Slowly her body thickens and curves appear where bones once were noticeable. Elizabeth too continues to grow bigger, the child strong and kicking within her. Even at night, after my bride has changed into her natural state, her new girth can't go unnoticed. "Do you still desire me?" she surprises me by asking one night.

"I thought you didn't want to anymore."

Elizabeth shakes her head. "I didn't before. I do now. Mum told me I might-for a while-after the baby grew some. Do you still want to, Peter?"

"Of course," I say and I find myself making love to her again as often as when we first met.

Sex, I find, is on Santos's mind too. He brings up the subject one afternoon, shortly before the end of January, when I have him follow me outside to help me do routine maintenance in one of the arms rooms.

Even though I can't imagine any way the man will ever have an opportunity to try to break into the room, I make Santos face away before I approach the narrow crack in the stone on the arms door's side. I check to make sure his eyes are elsewhere before I thin my arm and work it into the crevice, feeling for the release lever, smiling at the loud click as it opens.

After my arm regains its shape, I allow the Cuban to turn. Jorge whistles when I lift the crossbar and throw open the room's thick oak door. I watch as he examines the ancient weapons stored on the shelves, the extra cannons in the back of the room, the bags of shot, the sealed, lead canisters filled with gunpowder. "Did you once have an army out here?" he asks.

I grin and shake my head. "Not an army," I say. "But my ancestor believed in maintaining a strong defense. That's why he kept so many rifles and cannons here."

Santos picks up one of the longarms, examines it and puts it back in place. "Muskets, Boss," he contradicts me. "These have smooth bores. That makes them muskets. If the barrels had grooves cut inside them, then they'd be rifles."