“Unfortunate,” said Julian, with a smirk that was right in character. “Ah, speaking of a golden goose!”

The food was arriving on three rolling carts, the first of which supported a green platter on which a very large cooked goose—its skin crisped to what really was a shade of gold—was being offered to the guests. Matthew’s sigh of relief was a windstorm when Montague’s attention shifted from the so-called crimes of Count Pellegar to the feast being rolled across the gray stone floor. He noted also that Julian’s eyes closed for a few seconds, as if steeling himself for the next confrontation that he had to talk his way out of.

But any confrontations could wait. Soon on the table along with the cooked goose were platters of steamed carrots and turnips, fried potatoes, creamed corn, yams and asparagus as well as smaller plates of smoked salmon, fried cauliflower with mustard sauce, steamed mussels and a loaf of freshly baked dark bread covered with sesame seeds. The servants stood ready to pour more wine and attend to whatever was needed.

Weighty wig or not—and horrific circumstances or not—Matthew decided to eat as best as his stomach could manage in its current crimped state of tension. The others apparently the same, for the feast began to be whittled down by knives and forks and there was only the occasional comment from Miles Merda to interfere with the noises of gluttony, of which Matthew noted Montague and Krakowski were tied as most obnoxious.

Then came another noise … that of heavy boots striding from the passageway between the parlor and the dining room, and suddenly he was there.

To say that Vice Admiral Samson Lash was bearlike was to say that Lioness Sauvage was knee high to a cub. At six feet four inches tall and with a barrel-shaped frame, the man filled his space and more. He was as much an element of fire as Matthew had ever seen, even considering the fiery Hudson Greathouse. This man’s sharp blue eyes even seemed to be throwing fire as he stopped before the table and scanned the assembly. His nose was large and hooked, his forehead a battering-ram, the black beard that trailed down over the front of his medalled naval uniform was painted with orange and red flames, his mass of curly black hair hung shaggily about his monuments of shoulders, and his thickly veined hands bore knuckles that Matthew thought could knock a chunk of marble from the fireplace. The man was as scary as hell.

And there he stood, those huge hands on his hips, the fiery eyes peering at one and then the other. At last his broad mouth grinned and the teeth seemed to shoot flame also as they reflected the leaping firelight.

“Guests!” he boomed. “Honored guests! My hearty welcome to you all!”