He backed her against the house. The boards were sharp and warm against her spine. Across the street, a gang of idle men and boys watched. She could feel their eyes, hear their giggling laughter. For the first time, she feared for her physical safety—this man might do anything, and she was in the one place in the whole city where she could count on no help from anybody.

“Listen here, schoolteacher. This story has been a hundred years in the making. Two hundred. A millennium. Smoldering, burning from the inside out, gutting the foundations like a coal fire deep underground. About time it got some air. About time it burned in daylight.”

“My God, you want to put a match to it.”

He was a black shadow looming over her. “I want to burn the sin out of this wicked city.”

She was astonished. “People will die.”

“People will always die, praise the glory of Jesus!”

Gray Ellen felt a sudden sharp chill in her stomach. She held her breath. His eyes had gone cold as stars. Beads of perspiration jeweled his flawless yellow complexion. She could hear the quick beating of her own heart. She said, with all the control she could muster, “What do you want from me?”

“Come inside, teacher,” he whispered, taking her hands. She felt his cool fingers playing with hers. “Give me succor in the hour of my trial.”

She wrenched away and lurched along the clapboard wall, the boards cutting her back. The wall was the only thing keeping her up. “How dare you!” she wanted to shout, but what came out of her mouth was an inarticulate yelp. How had this happened? Had the whole point, from the schoolhouse until now, been only seduction? Were all the high-sounding words about social justice just a ruse to get her into bed?

As he stepped close again, she flailed at him with her balled fists.

He backed off, palms out, to show he meant no harm. “Teacher, teacher, calm yourself. I just want to be your friend.”

“Get away! I don’t need friends like you!”

The men across the street were still watching. One of them was pointing. Nobody was laughing.

He smiled and clasped his hands in front of him, bowed his head, watched her. “Teacher, don’t tell me your heart is pure. Don’t tell me you do not lust, as I do.”

“Goddamn you,” she said. Her hair was a mess, all unraveled on her shoulders and neck.

“His prerogative,” Grant observed pleasantly. “But you were looking and talking like—”

“I was what?” Now, anger was overcoming fear. “Who do you think you are?”

“You heard me.”