They glared at each other for a long moment. Then Poll felt his stomach drop at the site of a single tear trembling on the lower lashes of her eye.

Attie? Crying? The world but fair to turned itself inside out. What was next? Green sky and blue grass? Rain falling upward?

Miranda declaring that she'd made a terrible mistake and flinging herself into Poll's arms instead?

And then he recalled Elektra at that age. The tears, the tempests. Perhaps Attie had more in common with ordinary girls than any of them had realized.

"Oh, you wretched little beast," he whispered tenderly. "What's wrong?"

She stayed very still, only weaving slightly in her seat with the swaying of the carriage. Her green eyes burned like foxfire in the shadow of her seat.

Her lips parted and for a moment Poll almost expected his little sister to spill out all her thoughts, to open up her soul and let go of her tightfisted grip on years of rage and precociousness and the pain caused by knowing far more than a child should ever have to understand about the world.

Silly Poll. He been gone too long, it seemed. He'd forgotten.

Attie leaped to stand on Poll's seat and bang her skinny fist on the driver's trapdoor. "Stop! I want out of this carriage now!"

IN THE SMALLER BUT vastly more pretentious carriage rolling behind the first, Button and Cabot rode in an awkward silence. Unlike the shop, the carriage was too small, to intimate for them to operate with the same unruffled distance.

There had been a desultory commentary on the changing landscape, but that was sparse conversational fare after so many miles. Button had delivered every scrap of cheerful gossip he could dredge from his memory, even though he suspected that Cabot already knew it all. Cabot always knew what everyone was up to. He had many friends, some high, some low, some very unusual indeed.

Button meticulously arranged every fold of lace dripping from the frankly ridiculous cuffs of his favorite shirt. They were too much. Everything about him was buoyantly, flagrantly too much — which was just the way he liked to present himself. "Part of my mystique," he would remind himself. "We must sell the mystery, mustn't we?"

Yet there was no one to play to on this journey. There was no one to entertain, to confabulate, to misdirect and astound. There was only the man riding opposite him.

Beautiful, astonishing Cabot.

Button had always managed to convince himself that his feelings for Cabot were purely the pride of the mentor for an exceptional protégé. The master to an excellent student.

His age made him immune to Cabot's devastating good looks, of course. Cabot was an incredible help. Cabot smoothed the tedious road of business, leaving Button free to invest his time and joy into the creation of beautiful gowns. Cabot impressed the clientele. It was an excellent business partnership. Button had even convinced himself of it.