“Ah! You suspect, do you? Or think you know?”

Ford edged farther away, telling himself that even in his present state he had to be a match for any woman like Madame Flaubert. He didn’t believe it. She was big and probably more powerful than she looked. As if she’d read his thoughts, she nodded slowly, still smiling.

“Silly man,” she said. “You should have had the sense to wait until you were stronger. Of course, you weren’t going to be stronger.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. His back was against the cabin bulkhead. She was between him and Ae door, holding up a purple stone and rubbing it slowly. He could feel every square centimeter of his bare skin. After all, how much protection were pajamas?

“All I have to decide,” she gloated, “is whether it should look like a heart attack or a stroke. Or perhaps a final spasm of that disgusting intestinal ailment you brought aboard.”

He was supposed to be able to kill with his bare hands. He was supposed to be able to take command of any situation. He was not supposed to be cowering in his pajamas, terrified of the touch of an overdressed fake spiritualist with a poison ring. It would sound, if

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anyone ever heard about it, like something out of the worst possible mass entertainment.

He clenched one hand in the expensively fluffy pillow Auntie Q had provided the invalid. He could use that to shield his hand. What if this murderous old bag had put poison on his bedclothes, too? He felt cold and shaky. Fear? Poison?

“It’s a pity,” Madame Flaubert said, letting her eyes rove over him. “You’re the handsomest young man we’ve had aboard in years. If you’d only been reasonably stupid, I could have had fun with you before. Or even let you live.”

“Fun? With you?” He could not hide his disgust, and she glared at him.

“Yes, me. With you. And you’d have enjoyed it, my pretty young man, with the help of my . . . my special arts.” She waved, indicating all her paraphernalia. “Tfou’d have been swooning at my feet.”

Ford said nothing. He could not reach any of the call buttons without coming within her reach, and he knew the cabins were well sound-proofed. Could he make it to the bath suite and hold the door shut? No. Too far, and around furniture. She’d get there first. If he’d been well and strong, he was sure he could do something. But another look at those glittering eyes made him

wonder.

Her dog yipped suddenly and dashed to the door. Ford drew breath to yell, if it opened. Madame Flaubert backed slowly from the bed, to press the intercom

button.

“Not now,” she said. “No matter what. . . ignore!” Ford leapt and yelled at once. His feet tangled in the bedclothes and he fell headlong to the floor between the bed and the ornate wardrobe with its mirrored doors. He saw Madame Flaubert’s triumphant grin, distorted by the antique mirrors, and rolled aside in time to avoid one swipe with the stone. Her dog broke into a flurry of yips, dancing around her feet with its fluff of a tail wagging. Ford threw his weight against her knees, whirled, and tried again for the bath suite. White-hot pain raked his back, then his vision darkened.