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He doubted, though, that this would satisfy Otille. Then following Otille's advice - 'Experiment' - and wondering why it had never occurred to him to try before, he maintained his hold on the fields and shifted his focus into the darkness of the gros bon ange.

Bits of whirling blackness and jeweled fire hung in the silver cages. Tentatively, he pushed a forefinger against one of the fields, stroking it, and a thread of iridescent light no thicker than a spiderweb shot from his fingertip. He withdrew the finger, startled; but since the bird displayed no ill effects, its fires undimmed, he tried it again. Eventually nine threads of light connected his fingertips with the nine birds, and the refractions inside their bodies flowed in orderly patterns. The pressure of their fields against his hands increased, and when he involuntarily crooked a finger, one of the birds hopped down off its perch. He repeated the process, and soon, feeling omnipotent, the ringmaster of the magical circus, he had gained enough control to send them marching about the cages. Tiny jewelbox creatures hopping onto silvery feeders and swings, twittering and parading around and around.

Clea gasped, someone knocked over a chair, and someone else contributed slow, ironic applause. 'Thank you, Donnell,' said Otille. That's quite sufficient.'

He relaxed his control, brought the ballroom back into view and saw Otille smiling at him. 'Well,' he said, stung by the pride of ownership in her face, 'was that out of the ordinary enough?' Then he glanced down at the cages.

He had not killed the birds. Not outright. That would have been merciful compared to what he had done. The delicate hues of their feathers were dappled with blood, and freed from his control, their cries had grown piercing, stirring echoes in the sunlit upper reaches of the room. Their beaks were shattered, crimson droplets welling from the cracks; their wings and legs were broken; and the membranes of their eyes had burst and were dripping fluid. All lay flapping on the floors of the cages except for a parakeet, its legs unbroken, which clung to its perch and screamed.

'Papa,' said Otille. 'Will you and Downey take the undamaged ones to my office?'

Downey was frozen, grim-faced; Clea buried her head in his shoulder. Papa hesitated, eyeing Donnell nervously.

Three, no, four of the birds had quit fluttering, and Donnell sat watching them die, stunned.

'Simpkins,' said Otille. 'Take the others out to my car.'

'Yes, ma'am,' said Simpkins. He came over to the cages, and as he bent down, he whispered, 'Poor Dularde never knew what hit him, did he, brother?'

Sick of his snide comments, his contemptuous air, Donnell jumped up and swung, but Simpkins easily caught his wrist and with his other hand seized Donnell's throat, his fingers digging in the back of the Adam's apple. 'I ain't no goddamn parakeet, brother,' he said. He tightened his grip, and Donnell's mouth sprang open.

'Simpkins!' Otille clapped her hands.

'Yes, ma'am.' Simpkins released Donnell and hoisted the cages, once again bland and smiling.

Donnell headed for the door, holding his throat.

'Where are you going?' called Otille.

He didn't answer, intent on finding Jocundra, on washing away the scum of Otille and her pets. But he turned back at the door, waylaid by a thought. Why, while he was killing the birds, had their... their what? Make it their souls. Why not? Why had they showed no sign of injury? He stared at the bloody heaps of feathers, blinking and straining until the cages gleamed silver. They were empty. Then movement caught his eye. Up above Simpkins' head rising and falling and jittering like jeweled sparks in a wind, the souls of the slain birds were flying.

Near the end of the second week, Jocundra ran into the Baron in the hall outside his room. He was adjusting his doorknob with a screwdriver, muttering, twisting the knob. He had never said a word to her, and she had intended to pass without greeting, but he called out to her and asked to borrow her for a few seconds.

'You just stand there,' he commanded. 'Give that doorknob a twist to the right when I tell you, then step inside quick.'

He went into the room and began prying with the screwdriver at a narrow ceiling board. 'Someone,' he said, grunting, digging at the board, 'someone been sneakin' round, so I'm rigging myself a little security.' He was wearing jeans and a ripped New Orleans Saints jersey, and his arm muscles bunched and rippled like snakes. His eyes, though,