The travelers numbered seven. My analytical mind went to work at once, studying each person as if we sat at a negotiating table. The two young women, maybe teenagers, were identical twins, ebony skinned and beautiful. The third woman was fiftyish, tall and elegant, almost courtly.

Of the men, two were young, one middle-aged, one old.

The white-haired old man stood out most. He had the face of February, full of frost and darkness. He was dressed in a tattered, cream-colored toga, stained with sweat and dirt; his heavy beard was unkempt, combed and shaped only by wind and sun and rain. He stared at me as I drew near. I felt the blood rising in my face and reached to hide the twitch.

One of the twins greeted me in a language I didn’t understand, her soft cheek lines erupting into a smile. I nodded awkwardly. Her brown eyes flashed curiosity.

“Her name’s Malaiki,” said a freckled young man whose chestnut hair formed into corkscrew curls. “Her sister’s Salama. I’m Mason.” He extended his arm and shook my hand eagerly. I liked him.

“You look ready for a change of clothes,” he said, trying not to stare at my attire. “We can take care of that.”

I nodded, grateful they asked no questions.

Mason introduced me to the others. Quon was a brown-skinned, wiry young man with a haircut that reminded me of Moe in the Three Stooges. He seemed quiet, easy to ignore. David, middle-aged, with a Clark Gable mustache, was sharp looking, fit, and stylish. I picked him as the natural leader. I’d need to get to know him, to position myself.

“And this is Victoria.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the tall stately woman said, nodding in a way that suggested a curtsy without bending the knees. She touched an earring by her silver hair. Her mouth was delicate, her complexion like a china doll’s. Her pants and blouse were elegant. In another era I could picture her attended to by servants. A classy lady.

Finally Mason pointed to the old man. His egg-shaped head was buried under flowing white hair and a beard except for a four-inch bald spot on the crown. What should have been growing there had been rerouted through his ears and nose. Definitely not a candidate for the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly.

“Shadrach,” Mason said. “We call him Shad—and sometimes other names.”

Mason winked, confirming what I’d sensed. The old man was a few sandwiches short of a picnic … maybe more than a few. I looked at Shadrach’s gaunt, red-blotched cheeks, flaring nostrils, and blurry eyes, yellowed by infringing cataracts. The lights were barely on, and I got the impression nobody was home. I didn’t offer him my hand—I figured whatever he had might be contagious.

Shad asked in a gravelly voice, “What shall we call you, child of clay?”