Barbara Hambly - Benjamin January 2 - Fever Season

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Benjamin January

Book 2

Fever Season

Barbara Hambly

For Laurie

Special thanks to the Staff of the Historic New Orleans Collection for all their help;

to Kate Miciak for her assistance and advice in redirecting the story;

to O'Neil deNoux; and, of course, to George.

NOTE ON TERMINOLOGY

As in my previous book of this series, A Free Man of Color, I have employed, as far as possible, the

terminology of the 1830s, which differs considerably from that in use today. In the 1830s, as far as I can

tell, creole was generally taken to mean a native-born white descendant of French or Spanish colonists. If

a person of African parentage was being referred to, he or she was specified as a creole Negro, that is,

born in the Americas and therefore less susceptible to local diseases than Congos-African-born blacks.

There was a vast distinction between black and colored. The latter term had a specific meaning as the

descendant of African and European ancestors. Sang mêlé was one of the French terms: "mixed blood."

Any colored person would have been deeply offended to be referred to as "black," since black meant

"slave"; and the free colored had worked long and hard to establish themselves as a third order, a caste

that was neither black nor white. Likewise, they were careful to distinguish between themselves and

slaves of mixed race and between themselves and freedmen, whatever the percentage of African genetics

in their makeup. Given the economics of the time and the society, this was a logical mechanism of

survival. That they did survive and thrive, and establish a culture of amazing richness that was neither

African nor European, is a tribute to the stubborn and wonderful life force of the human spirit.

?One

In fever season, traffic in the streets was thin. Those who could afford to do so had left New Orleans

with the ending of Lent; those who could not had all through the long summer hurried about their business

as if Bronze John, as they called the sickness, were a creditor one could avoid if one kept off the streets.

Midday, the molten September heat raised steam from the water in the French town's cypress-lined

gutters and the rain puddles in the soupy streets. Mephitic light filtered through clouds of steamboat soot

from the levees and gave the town the look of a grimy but inexplicably pastel-walled hell. Only those

whose errands were pressing walked the streets then.

So it took no great cleverness on Benjamin January's part to realize that he was being followed.

Charity Hospital, where he'd spent the night and all the morning among the dying, lay on the uptown side

of Canal Street, the American side. It was against January's nature to spend more time on that side of

town than was absolutely necessary, to say nothing of the fact that Americans seemed to regard all free

persons of color as potential slaves, money on the hoof going to waste that could be going into their

pockets in the big markets along Baronne and Levee Streets. Americans made no distinction, as the

French were careful to do, between African blacks-be they slaves or freedmen-and the free persons of

color whose parents had been both colored and white. Not, January reflected wryly, that it made a great

deal of difference in his case.

But even in fever season, when men and women, black and white and colored, were only hands to hold

off Bronze John from one another-to carry water and vinegar and saline draughts, to fan away the

humming swarms of mosquitoes and flies-he felt uneasy uptown.

Maybe that was why he realized so quickly that someone was dogging his steps.

His head ached from twenty-four hours without sleep. His senses felt dulled, as if someone had carefully

stuffed his skull with dirty lint soaked in the stinking fluids of the dying; his very bones weighed him down.

His last patient that day had been a nine-year-old girl who'd walked the twelve streets to the hospital

from the levee where she'd been selling oranges. Her mama, she said in English, before delirium claimed

her, would whale her for not staying on to finish the day. The child had died before she could tell anyone

who her mama was or where that lady could be found.

As of that morning, no newspaper in the town had yet admitted that there was an epidemic at all.

The fever had first come to New Orleans in January's sixteenth year. In those days you never heard

English spoken at all, though the city already belonged to the United States. He'd been studying medicine

then with Dr. Gomez and had followed his teacher on his rounds of the hospitals; it seemed to him now,

twenty-four years later, that the ache of grief and pity never grew less. Nor did his fear of the fever itself.

He wasn't sure exactly what it was that made him realize he was being stalked.

A glimpse from the corner of his eye as he dodged across Jackson Street among the ambulance wagons,

the produce carts, the drays of sugar and indigo on their way to the levee from the inland plantations

along the lake. A horse lurched to a stop, tossed its head with an angry snort. A driver cursed in Spanish.

Steps away, Freret Street lay deserted under the hot weight of brazen sky, but January knew he wasn't

alone. He quickened his stride.

If he walked down Canal Street, among the hip-high weeds, strewn garbage, and dead dogs of what

French and Americans alike called the "neutral ground," he would be spared at least some of the stenches

of the cemeteries. There seething corpses lined the walls three-deep, like bales on the levee, waiting for

tomb space and the men to bear them in. But though he was an accredited member of the Paris College

of Surgeons who had practiced at the HStel Dieu in that city for six years, January was perfectly well

aware that he looked like a field hand: six feet, three inches tall, powerfully built despite the dust of gray

that now powdered his short-cropped hair, his skin as glossy black as his African father's had been. That

was one reason why it was only in the fever season that he practiced medicine. The rest of the year he

played piano to earn his bread. It was an injustice he'd accepted, upon his return to New Orleans from

Paris, nearly a year ago.

And things had changed in the city since his departure in 1817.

So he followed Rue Villere downstream, past shabby cottages and grubby shacks in rank jungles of

weed, the stench of untended privies, of gutters uncleaned for weeks, and of sties and coops, neglected

by their owners, thick as fog around him. An unpaved path, mucky from the morning's rainstorm, led him

toward the river.

He was definitely being followed. He didn't want to look back; he couldn't tell by whom.

Rue Douane, the first street of the French town itself, was usually alive with cart and foot traffic. Today,

there were only two women in the faded calico of poverty, hur rying with bowed heads. Those, and the

dead-carts that lurched toward the cemeteries with their stiffened cargoes wrapped in cheap Osnaburg

sheets and their throbbing armies of attendant flies. Like the Americans uptown, the householders here

burned piles of hair and hooves from the slaughteryards or smudges made up with gunpowder, to clear

the disease-ridden miasma from the air. The smell was foul-charnel house and battlefield rolled into one.

The Four Horsemen, January thought, coughing, would bear that smell on their wake when they reaped

the plain of Armageddon with their swords.

He cut across Rue Douane midway between two streets, mud sucking his boots. Just before he sprang

across the gutter he glanced back. He saw no one.

What do I do? he wondered. What do I do?

The houses on the other side of Basin Street were mostly small, but built better than those that bordered

the swampy town pastures. Neat cottages of plaster and brick lined Rue des Ramparts and Rue

Burgundy, pale yellows and celery greens, pinks and sky blues under the savage light. For years, wealthy

bankers and planters and brokers had been buying their quadroon and mulatto mistresses dwellings like

these, along the back edge of the old town. These days just as many belonged to respectable craftsmen

and artisans, clerks and tailors, whose wives and families turned their eyes from their sisters and cousins

and neighbors of the demimonde.

His mother's protector had bought her such a house, when January was eight and his full-sister,

six. The daughter his mother had subsequently borne to St. Denis Janvier had recently been given the

deed to such a house herself, by a fat, indolent Creole named Viellard.

Most stood empty now, shuttered tight in the hot glare of morning. When Bronze John came calling, a lot

of people, no matter how strait their circumstances, came up with the money to remove for the summer

to one of the hotels or cottages on the shores of the lake, where the air was cleaner, in Milneburgh or

Mandeville or Spanish Fort. Those who hadn't done so from fear of the fever, which came nearly every

year-or from the horrible combination of summer decay and summer insects-reconsidered the matter

when the first cases of the cholera were diagnosed.

As he walked along Rue Burgundy, January counted off houses. After sixteen years' absence he was just

coming to know these people again. The yellow cottage belonged to his mother's dressmaker; the

two-and-a-half-story town house occupied by Dr. LaPlante and his family (currently residing at his

cottage in Milneburgh); the pink cottage owned by the perfumer Crowdie Passebon. The planks that

ordinarily bridged the deep gutter from the unpaved street to the brick banquette were one and all

propped beside the high brick steps. If anyone was home, no one was receiving visitors. Narrow spaces

gapped between house and house, pass-throughs, leading back to the yards behind where slant-roofed

outbuildings, of a sort January had never seen in any other city, housed kitchens, laundries, storerooms at

ground level and slave quarters above. Each house, even the cottages, was an enclave; each a little

fortress walled into itself. In New Orleans there was no such tangle of alleys as had cut and twisted

through the inner arrondissements of Paris, enabling a man to duck inconspicuously from one street to the

next.

But January had been brought up on this street and knew the quirks and features of any number of those

hidden courts. As he approached the pale green cottage belonging to his mother's bosom-bow Agnes

Pellicot, he found his muscles growing tense.

Agnes and her daughters had departed, like January's mother, when the first cases of cholera were

rumored in June. But the cottage, given to Agnes by her protector with a sizable annuity-when they had

terminated their relationship upon the occasion of his second marriage, had undergone a number of

remodelings in the years before Agnes owned it. One of these had included the erection of an outside

stairway up the rear wall of the building and the enlargement of one of the attic gable windows to form a

door.

That door was kept firmly locked, but the window of the gable beside it had only a catch. He might be

perilously close to his forty-first birthday, but January was fairly sure he could make the short scramble

across the roof to effect an entrance.

Whether he could do so with sufficient speed to trap his pursuer was, of course, another question.

He counted steps in his mind, tallied details. The possibility that whoever dogged him might be armed

tugged uncomfortably; so did the thought that there might be more than one of them.

He carried his medical bag, part of his persona as surgeon, like the tall-crowned beaver hat or the

threadbare black wool coat that became a portable bake oven in heat like this. Casually he brought the

bag up under his arm and fumbled at the catch like an absentminded man trying to open it while

pondering something else, just as he turned into the pass-through that led to the Pellicot yard. The

moment he was out of sight of the street he bolted down the narrow space like a spurred horse, tearing

off his hat as he ran, clutching the black leather satchel tight. He whipped through the wooden gate and

shucked his coat as he darted across the dusty yard, flung himself up the outside stairs as though the

Platt-Eye Devil of childhood legends ran behind. At the top he paused only long enough to find his

longest-bladed scalpel, then tossed bag and hat and coat on the topmost step to make the quick, careful

scramble across twenty feet of roof to the other gable.

With the back edge of the scalpel it was ridiculously easy to Hip the window catch. All these cottages

were built the same, and he knew the layout of the Pellicot attic was identical to that of his mother's

home. Two chambers and a perilously steep wooden stairway that led down through the cabinet tacked

onto the back of the house, a little pantry-cum-warming room opening in its turn into the rear parlor,

which served as a dining room. Within moments January crossed through the dining room, through the

archway to the front parlor, and flipped the catch on the shutters of the tall French doors that looked

onto the street. Stepping out, he closed the shutters silently behind him and rounded the corner of the

house into the pass-through again.

"You wanted to have a word with me?"

The woman-girl-who stood peeking cautiously through the gate into the yard spun, her hand flying to her

mouth. She blundered back against the fence, catching the gate for support. January said, "There's no

way out, that way."

He walked down the passage, more wary that she'd try to bolt past him or that someone else might come

in behind, than from any fear that she might be armed. As he got close he saw that her clothing was plain

but very well cut. The dark red cotton gown, high waisted and with narrow sleeves made down to the

wrists, was the kind a young girl of good family might wear. By the fit of the bust, it hadn't been made for

her. The headcloth mandated by law for all black or colored women was- dark red too, but tied as a

servant, or a country-bred slave, would tie it. His younger sister Dominique had tried to initiate him into

the intricacies of the proper tying of tignons into fanciful, seductive, or outrageous styles in defiance of the

law, but without much success. January knew a confection when he saw one, though, and this wasn't a

confection. It was a headcloth, the mark of a slave's humility.

"Why did you follow me?"

"Are you M'sieu Benjamin Janvier?" The girl spoke the sloppy Creole French of the plantations, more

than half African. Any town mother would have whaled the life out of a girl who used vo for vous, at least

any mother who'd have been able to afford that dress.

"That's me." He kept his voice as unalarming as possible. At his size, he was aware that he was alarming

enough. "And I have the honor of addressing . . . ?"

She straightened her shoulders in her red dress, a little slip of a thing, with a round defiant chin and a

trace of hardness in her eyes that may have been fear. Pretty, January thought. He could have picked her

up in one hand.

"I'm Cora . . ." She hesitated, fishing, then went on with just a touch of defiance, ". . . LaFayette. Cora

LaFayette. I needed to speak with you, Michie Janvier. Are you a music teacher?"

"I am that," he sighed.

After ten years he still didn't know whether to feel amused or angry about having to work as a musician.

There were free men of color who made a living-and a good living-as physicians and surgeons in New

Orleans, but they were without exception light of skin. Quadroon or octoroon, they were for the most

part offspring of white men and the women for whom they bought these pastel houses along this street.

In his way, St. Denis Janvier had been as much an optimist as his mulatto placee's son had been,

concerning the chances a man with three African grandparents would have of earning his living in

medicine in New Orleans or elsewhere, Paris training or no Paris training.

Cora LaFayette looked down, small face a careful blank, rallying her words, desperate to get them right.

January relaxed a little and smiled, folding his big arms in their sweat-damp muslin sleeves. "You followed

me all the way from Charity Hospital to ask what I charge for lessons?"

Her head carne up, like a deer startled in the woods, and she saw the gentle teasing in his eyes.

Something eased, very slightly, in the corners of that expressionless little mouth.

But she did not smile. She dwelled in a country where smiles had been forgotten years ago. "Do you

teach the daughters of a lady name Lalaurie? Great big green house on Rue Royale?"

January nodded again. He glanced around him at the narrow tunnel they stood in, between Agnes

Pellicot's house and that of Guillaume Morisset the tailor, also out of town. The slot of shadow stank of

mud and sewage where mosquito-wrigglers flickered among the scum. "You want to go somewhere a

little more comfortable, Mademoiselle LaFayette? The town's half closed up, but at Breyard's Grocery

over on Rue Toulouse I can get you a lemonade."

Eyes that seemed too big for that pointed, delicate face raised quickly and as quickly darted away. She

shook her head, a tiny gesture, and January stepped past her, still cautiously, to push open the gate that

led into the Pellicot yard. The French doors into the house were shuttered, as were the doors of the

service building at the back of the yard. The brick-flagged porch below the slave quarters' gallery was a

slab of blue-black velvet. January led the girl to the plank bench outside the kitchen where Agnes's cook

Elvire would sit to shell peas or pluck fowl, and said, "Wait here a minute for me, if you would,

Mamzelle."

She stiffened, panic in her eyes.

"I'm just going around to latch the door. I'll be back." He was conscious of her, bolt upright and

motionless as a scared cat, on the bench as he crossed through the yard again, down the blue tunnel of

passway, and out to Rue Burgundy. He stepped back through the French doors into Agnes Pellicot's

parlor and latched them; and on the way through the cabinet pantry to the stairs, he found a cheap horn

cup on a shelf beside the French china dinner service. This he carried in his waistcoat pocket up the

stairs, through the attic, out the window, across the roof, and down the outside stairs, marveling that he'd

made that circuit earlier at a dead run. It was a wonder what you could do with a good scare in you.

When he returned to the yard Cora LaFayette was gone. He saw her a moment later just within the gate

to the pass-through out to the street, poised to run.

He waited in the middle of the yard, as he'd have waited not to startle a deer in the cypress swamps

behind the plantation where he'd been born. In time she came away from the gate and hurried to the

bench again, keeping close to the wall.

Runaway, he thought. And making more of it than she needed to. Did she really think that with the fever

and the cholera stalking the streets, with the town half-empty and fear like the stench of the smoke in the

air, that anybody would be chasing a runaway slave?

He filled the horn cup from the coopered cistern in the corner of the yard and held it out to her. Cora

drank thirstily, and he sat on the other end of the bench, laying coat, hat, and satchel down beside him.

Aside from her dress, which was not a countrywoman's dress, her hands and face were clean. She'd

been in town a little time.

"Do you know Madame Lalaurie?" he asked her, when she set the cup aside. "Or know of her?"

The girl shook her head. "That is, I know she's a rich lady, if she's got a big house like that, and bought

slaves." She looked down at the toes of her shoes, black and red, to match the dress, with frivolous

white lacings. "She bought a houseman, only a week or so ago, name of Gervase, from my master-that

used to be my master, before he freed me," she added hastily. "Michie . . ." She hesitated, fishing around

for corroborative detail again. If her name were LaFayette her master's would probably be, too, so she

said, "Michie Napoleon LaFayette: But Michie LaFayette, he set me free, and I come to town looking

for Gervase. We were married, me and Gervase. Really married, Michie Janvier, by a priest and

everything."

Her dark eyes were childishly earnest, looking into his, but he saw in the flinch of her mouth, heard in the

inflection of her voice, that she lied. Not that it was his business. There were a lot of men who didn't want

their people to marry, or even to become Christians. But it wasn't any of his affair, though as a Christian

he hoped this girl had at least been baptized. He asked, "So why didn't you try to see Gervase yourself?"

"I did!" She spread out her child-small hands, with the roughened skin of washing-up on the fingers and

backs. "I tried. I went to the house on Rue Royale, and they always keep the big gate there shut. That

coachman of Madame's there, he wouldn't let me in. I asked him." There was anger in the set of the little

mouth. "He just smiled at me nasty and said Gervase was busy and Madame wouldn't have her people

taking time off from their work to chat with girls in the street. I told him I was his sister," she added

naively, and sighed.

January forebore to mention how many "sisters" and "cousins" and "brothers" came loitering around to

speak to servants in the twilight. Only the slackest of mistresses would permit such dalliance, and

Madame Delphine Lalaurie was known for the silent efficiency of her servants. "So you want me to talk

to Gervase?"

Cora nodded. "If you would, M'sieu. After the second time that coachman-that Bastien-turn me away, I

watched the house, and I saw you go in. The cripple-man selling water across the street, he say you was

the music teacher for Madame Lalaurie's two girls. He say you also work at the Charity Hospital during

the fever season, so when I . . . I couldn't wait for you to come out of the house, I look for you at the

Hospital."

Where there was too much of a crowd for you to want to come up to me, thought January, studying that

wary, triangular face. It didn't surprise him that the water seller would know everything about him. In

New Orleans, the vendors who sold everything from strawberries to fire irons through the narrow streets

knew everything about everyone.

But that, too, was none of his business. This girl's lover had been sold, and she had run away to see him

again. For all his mother's talk about the unruliness of blacks (not that his mother was so much as a

half-shade paler than Cora LaFayette) he could not blame her for it. "What would you like me to tell

Gervase?"

Her smile transformed her like spring dawn, not just her face but her tense little body as well. Joy became

her. Then she swallowed, again, thinking hard and contemplating once more the toes of her

red-and-black shoes. "Could you ask him if there's a way we can see each other? If there's a way he can

get out? Just for an evening, I mean, M'sieu. They keep that gate closed tight all the time. I'll meet you

here," she went on quickly. "If that's all right with you, Michie Janvier. Tomorrow night?"

"Wednesday," said January. "Wednesday afternoon. I teach the Lalaurie girls Tuesdays and Fridays, and

I'm working at the Hospital Tuesday night."

"Wednesday afternoon." She got to her feet, her smile coming and going, like a child fearing to hex a

wish. "'I'll be here, Michie Janvier. Thank you."

She looked so fragile, standing poised in the brazen sunlight, that it was on January's tongue to ask her if

she had a place to stay. But if she were a runaway, he thought, she wouldn't tell him. And if she were a

runaway it was better that he didn't know. Still he felt a pang of worry for her, as she darted away like a

small rusty damselfly into the dark beyond the gate.

He shrugged his coat back on, shifting his wide shoulders beneath it, shirt gummy with sweat. As he

donned his hat again, tucked his bag under his arm and crossed Agnes Pellicot's yard, he thought of his

own room behind his mother's house, his own bed, and a few hours' sleep without the stink of death in

his nostrils, without the whimpers of the dying in his ears.

Mostly the runaways went back home. They had nowhere else to go. Their families and their friends

were all on the home place, wherever the home place was, like the villages in Africa from which their

parents and grandparents had come. He remembered someone-his father?telling him about how in old

times there'd been whole villages of escaped Africans in the ciprfere, the cypress swamps that lay behind

the line of river plantations. They'd raised their own food, hunted, and set scouts, hidden from the eyes of

the whites. But that was long gone even in his childhood.

Still, at Bellefleur where he'd been born, there were a couple of the hands who ran off two or three times

a year, to live in the woods for a few days or a week. They never went far.

Maybe that was because they knew they wouldn't get more than a beating. A beating was worth it, as far

as they were concerned. It was the price they were willing to pay for earth and peace and silence of

heart. Try as he would, January could not recall whether his father had been one of them.

He let himself out the gate. Cora LaFayette-or whatever her name actually was-had vanished from the

empty street. January strode quickly toward his mother's house, sweating in the penitential coat. Twice he

looked around, as if he half expected to see the black, tall, smoky form of Bronze John himself stepping

through the thin scrim of gutter steam. But he saw only Hèlier the water seller, with his buckets and his

yoke on his twisted back, calling out hopefully, "Water! Water! Clean cold water!" to the shut and bolted

houses.

Benjamin January prayed that when he slept, he would not dream.

?Two

January drew the ragged sheet up over the face of the man on the floor before him and sat back on his

heels. Toward the end the man had begged for something, January didn't know what, in a language he

could not understand. Dr. Ker, the head of Charity Hospital, guessed he was a Russian, a sailor who'd

jumped ship hoping for a chance of making a better life for himself ashore.

Poor fool.

"You stupid dago, I'm doing this for your own good!" January turned his head at the sound. Emil

Barnard, a gangly young man who had styled himself "a practitioner of the healing arts" when he'd

volunteered his services to Dr. Ker, backed nervously from the cot of a man who'd been brought in that

afternoon. The patient's face was flushed the horrible orange of the fever, and black vomit puddled the

floor beside the rude wooden bed. The sick man was cursing weakly in Italian, swearing that no priest

should come near him, no murdering government spy.

"Own good, you understand?" yelled Barnard, more loudly. "You understand?"

It was quite clear, of course, that the Italian didn't understand. Probably even if he knew French when he

was in his right mind, the fever's delirium had sponged such knowledge from his screaming brain. All he

knew-he was shouting this over and over again now-was that he was in hell. In hell with all the murdering

priests.

January closed his eyes. He knew he should get up and go over to them-his Italian was good enough to

make himself understood-but exhaustion held him like a chain. Maybe they were in hell.

It was hot enough, God knew. In the long upstairs ward, the clotted black heat was imbued with the

stenches of human waste and fever-vomit and the peculiar, horrible stink that reeks from the sweat of

those in mortal fear. The long windows that gave onto the gallery were shut tight and heavily curtained in

the hopes of excluding the pestilence that rode the air of night, and January's face ran with sweat as if

he'd put his head in a rain barrel. Like hell's, the dark was smudged with fire. The lamps were too few

and burned the cheapest oil obtainable; smoke hung beneath the high ceiling and the smell of it permeated

clothing, hair, flesh. Like hell, even in this dead hour of the night, the room murmured with a Babel of

voices: German, Swedish, English...

Like hell, it was a place without hope.

"He thinks you're a priest." January got to his feet, slowly, like an old man. "He has no use for priests."

"An Italian?" Emil Barnard straightened indignantly. He spoke the singsong French of the Midi, with its

trilled vowels and rolled r's. "Absurd. They're all priest ridden, Romish heathens. You are mistaken." Yet

Barnard did look a little like a priest, in his long, old-fashioned black tailed coat and his shirt of

biscuit-colored calico that looked white in the lamp glare and smoke.

"He thinks that's the viaticum-the Host-you have . . . sir." In his days in Paris, January had called no man

"sir" unless he thought they deserved it: the physicians at the Hotel Dieu, the wealthy men who had hired

him to play, the Director of the Opera. It was hard to return to his childhood, to call even a

street-sweeper "sir" if that street-sweeper happened to have been born white, to look down or aside so

as not to meet their eyes. "What is it?"

"Onion." Barnard had a very long narrow face that was carefully shaved, light brown hair a trifle too curly

for Nature's unaided hand. "Placed near or under the bed of a sufferer from the yellow fever, it is a

sovereign remedy against the miasmatic influence of fever-air." He stepped aside a pace as a woman

came to mop up the Italian's vomit from the floor by the cot; he didn't even look down at her as he

continued his lecture. "The onion is a nearperfect remedy for all imbalances of the bodily humors. Its

wonderful absorptive powers will draw forth the febrile vapors from the lungs and gradually purify the

lymphatic and bilious systems. It was a common remedy among the great Indian nations that anciently

inhabited these countries, and was written of in papyri of Egypt in the reigns of the Pharaohs, long before

the birth of Christ."

"Get him away from me!" screamed the Italian. "Clerical scoundrel! Starver of babies! Thief of a poor

man's belongings! You stole the bread out of the mouths of my children and left them to die!"

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BenjaminJanuaryBook2?FeverSeason?BarbaraHambly?ForLaurieSpecialthankstotheStaffoftheHistoricNewOrleansCollectionforalltheirhelp;toKateMiciakforherassistanceandadviceinredirectingthestory;toO'NeildeNoux;and,ofcourse,toGeorge.NOTEONTERMINOLOGYAsinmypreviousbookofthisseries,AFreeManofColor,Ihaveemploye...

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Barbara Hambly - Benjamin January 2 - Fever Season

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