Jason was blissfully unaware of the disturbance or of being the object of his brothers' search. In fact, by now he was out of town altogether and back on the mountain. He checked briefly on the progress of the job; it seemed to be going very well without him, or his brothers. He wondered briefly at their absence but did not trouble over it, assuming they were around somewhere. Then he thought of his secret appointment.
     Having found the opera house closed, he had made a circuit of it to find an alternate means of entry. This had presented itself in the form of a low roof at the back, from which one could climb onto the main roof and reach a trap door, which was always unlatched (as Candy's brother could have told him, having thoroughly explored the building before it was ever completed). Through it Jason lowered himself onto one of the beams in the fly gallery and slid along it, legs astraddle, to the end, and then swung around to grab the end of one of the battens to which scenic drops were sometimes tied. Clutching the batten, he jumped off the beam and hung in space for a moment, his intention being to jump down from there to the catwalk that ran along the wall. But he failed to notice that the batten was not tied fast, and to his astonishment it went plummeting down toward the stage, taking him with it. By luck, it stopped a few yards short of the floor. The thwack of the ropes caused Roxana to look up. She saw him dangle in the air for a moment and then fall, to land a few feet away from her. "Mein Gott!" she said. Then her alarm gave way to merriment. "Where did you–"
     "Up there," said Jason, picking himself up.
     She looked aloft, still not understanding. "Then you are an angel."
     "The doors were locked," he said apologetically.
     "Ah, yes. Mrs. Siska–"
     On cue came the strident voice. "How did you get in?" Mrs. Siska demanded. "You must leave at once." She marched to the front, with McDermid behind her. "Those doors were locked on purpose."
     "Surely–"
     "Do you wish her to play badly?" Roxana looked at her hands in her lap. "Do you wish your neighbors to say, tscha, such a poor show, what is the good of an opera house? Of course not. You must leave her to do what she must do. And do not try to see her until her recital is done."
     Roxana caught Jason's eye. Without meaning to, he found himself sharing a furtive smile with her. "Of course," he said. But he did not move. McDermid began mounting the steps.
     Roxana quickly rose and took Jason's arm. "Thank you," she said, "my good angel." Then she whispered in his ear, "Lovers' Roost at one." That puzzled him at first–he took it for a general declaration of fact, and was thinking They do?–then the true import of the phrase penetrated. He was surprised and pleased. He made no further ado about going, and Roxana sat down again. "You see, I am good," she told Mrs. Siska. "I return to practice. All is well."
     "How'd you know about Lovers' Roost?" was his first question when she arrived. The Roost was a natural terrace on a spur of Bridal Veil Mountain, which once no doubt had been as dense with foliage as its surroundings, but which long use had reshaped into something resembling a formal garden, with lawns and winding paths amid the bushes.
     "One of your brides," said Roxana, "Miss Biddie, tells me this is where they meet their men in secret." She smiled. "As I do, yeah?"
     Jason led her up the path toward the mountainside. "I hope you don't imagine–the brides are very proper girls."
     She laughed. "Herr Bolt, in Germany the men and women do exactly the same as you do here. This is not one of your American inventions."
     "No, we just think of it that way because we're so good at it."
     Roxana considered. "This may be so. But in my homeland maybe we do even better." She looked pertly at him. Jason opened his mouth, but for once the words did not come. She laughed and looked away. Then her smile lessened. "My homeland," she repeated.
     "Romania?"
     "Now, Romania–before, Wallachia. And when I go to study the piano, it is Germany–now, German Empire." The last word was tinged with scorn. "So many changes. Some day, I think, my homeland will change again. The Turk will be–done out?"
     "Ousted."
     "Outed?"
     "No, ousted."
     She screwed up her face. "This cannot be." They both laughed.
     They had left the Roost and were now climbing into the woods. "You went to study," said Jason, "and now you practice. Seems like you're always practicing."
     She nodded. "Practice when I sleep." Shutting her eyes, she mimed an arpeggio. "But to cut the trees–you must practice this also, yeah?"
     "No, you just pick up an ax and whack away."
     She stopped. "Whack. Oust. These words were not in my English studies."
     "Nor mine." Jason halted. "Here we are."
     "Where?"
     Jason indicated. "The tree."
     "But they are all trees!" she said, laughing.
     "Ah, but this is the tallest of all. Haven't taken a yardstick to it, you understand, but I calculate it stands fifteen, twenty yards above the rest."
     Roxana looked up, squinting. "How can you say?"
     "Climbed it once," he said casually.
     "To the top?"
     "Nearly."
     "You are brave."
     "Stubborn. Somebody bet me I couldn't."
     "Ah. This is also why you went for the brides, yeah?"
     "Pretty near."
     Roxana moved closer to him. "And why you talk to me? Because Mrs. Siska says you must not?"
     Jason grinned. "Might be."
     "So, if someone tells you you cannot do a thing....This is what a criminal does!"
     "Ah," Jason said softly, "but they haven't caught me yet."
     Roxana looked past him, and her face sank. "I am afraid they have." Jason turned to see Mrs. Siska and McDermid coming up the path at the foot of the hill. Mrs. Siska shouted for Roxana to come down.
     Jason put his hand on the trunk. "This won't change," he said. "It'll still be here when all our tomorrows are yesterdays. When you think of Seattle, think of this tree, and of me."
     "I will think of the tree," she said tenderly, "and of you." She stepped up and kissed him on the lips. Mrs. Siska called again, more angrily this time. "My jailer summons me," said Roxana. She climbed down to join Mrs. Siska. Jason tried to follow, but again McDermid blocked the way. His eyes stared coolly into Jason's.
     "I'll see you again!" Jason shouted after Roxana.
     Mrs. Siska stepped in front of her. "No, Mr. Bolt," she said, "you will not. If you try, it will be the worse for her."
     "She's a free woman."
     "She is not," Mrs. Siska said gravely, "but this you will not understand." She led Roxana away.
     "It was a pleasure!" Jason shouted to her.
     Roxana looked back. "For me too. This, not so much a pleasure. But it is–a need." She went on.
     Jason nodded sadly. "For me too."
     In the tent that night, two of the three Bolts lay awake, and that meant the third did, as well. "Knowin' she's here, but not being able to see her, talk to her–I feel like I'm out on the salt flats in sight of water, but it's got an iron fence round it, so for me it might as well be dust." Jeremy reminded him he wasn't alone. "Difference is," said Jason, "you know she'll be here tomorrow." And the job? Joshua was thinking. What about the job?
     It would have made one of the brothers happier to know that Candy did not sleep well either. Her turbulent night left her susceptible to pangs of distress all the following day, and Aaron discovered her behind the livery stable with a moist face and handkerchief. Always embarrassed by such displays, he would have passed on and pretended he had not seen, but she spotted him first. "Anything–er–" he began.
     "Jeremy and I aren't speaking."
     "Again?" he said, without thinking.
     "Yes, again!" she said crossly. "It was just an innocent little walk, and he completely misunderstood. An innocent little walk," she repeated, a shade too emphatically. "Can't a girl take an innocent little walk without–?" She blew her nose. "Well, can't she?"
     Aaron looked uncomfortable. "Wouldn't you be better off talking to Jason about this sort of–"
     "Who can find him?"
    Aaron conceded the point. "This misunderstanding," he said, "it wouldn't have anything to do with that Frenchman?" Candy nodded. "I see." He pondered for a few moments. "You know," he said quietly, "love–although I'm pretty sure Jason would take issue with me on this–love is–well–a business." Candy looked at him sharply. "Never mind the storybook frills," he went on, not noticing her reaction, "at bottom it comes down to a few fundamental questions. Is there any profit in it? Am I getting my fair share? Can I trust my partner? Am I living up to my end of the bargain? And the answers better come back yes–especially the last one. Because you've made a contract–even if was only a look of common understanding. And a contract is a sacred thing. Like it or not, you have a responsibility to hold up your end. Otherwise, the whole fabric of society–"
     Candy was not interested in the larger issue, and anyway she didn't see what sewing had to do with it. "You think I'm not doing that?" she demanded, in what Aaron, with more experience, would have recognized as a risky tone.
     "I go by what I see," he said, heedless. "And the whole town's seen–"
     Candy sprang to her feet. "So you're just like Jeremy–ready to believe the worst! Well, let me tell you something, Mr. Stempel–" She searched for something to tell him. "I–I–I'm not the woman you take me for!" She stamped off. Aaron looked after her dumbly. Maybe I've been too hard on Jason, he thought. These women take a lot out of a man.
     Biddie had not seen Corky since the day of the fight, which she had not witnessed but had heard about. After that, Joshua had herded up Corky and the others and driven them back to camp, where he was keeping them under close watch until the job was finished. Remembering her treatment of Corky, Biddie cringed with guilt. She had been a gallivanter, and her mother always said there was nothing worse than a gallivanter; her sister was a gallivanter–and she hated her sister. She would have to confess all to that noble Frenchman.
     "Mon-see-yoor Chauvard," she began, "seel-voos-plate–oh, to heck with it." She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I haven't been entirely frank with you. You see–" She hesitated. He offered a look of sympathy that had fortified and solaced many women. "My heart is already pledged to another," she said sorrowfully, more sorrowfully than he could know. "Well, not pledged exactly," she amended, "but I cannot allow you to live in false hope. We can never be more than good friends. I hope you can forgive me."
     Chauvard appeared overcome. "Mon cheri!" he cried, clutching her hand with a fervor that made her jump. "You are that rare creature–an honest woman!" He kissed her hand energetically. "It shall be as you say," he declared with an air of sacrifice, "but know that you have earned my eternal admiration and affection." He kissed her hand again. "Adieu."
     Biddie had not expected the conversation to end so soon. "Well, a-dee-oo yourself," she said, took a step, then had second thoughts, and turned back. "A-dee-oo," she said again. She took another step and then turned back again. "A-dee-oo." She hung for a moment between desire and duty. "Oh, a-dee-oo, a-dee-oo, a-dee-oo," she said, "darn it!" Chauvard laughed as she ran off. But her confession had genuinely touched him, and left him feeling a little shame-faced. He determined to have a word with Brunet.
     The gallant captain was not hard to find. He had come across Candy on the wharf, staring forlornly out to sea. Jeremy had not been back, Joshua having confined him to camp along with the men, and whereas Jeremy would normally have bucked under such an order, at present he was too despondent to care. "Your young man," Brunet said caringly, "he has abandoned you?"
     "No," Candy said firmly. "Not exactly abandoned."
     "He must be a very strong character." Candy supposed he was. "That he can bear to leave such a woman for so much as a moment." He reached up and brushed the remnant of a tear from her cheek. "Forgive me for asking at this time, but this piano recital–you will go, non? It will be very splendid."
     "I have no one to go with," Candy said miserably.
     "Oh, but, mademoiselle," said Brunet with infinite tenderness, "you do." She looked up in grateful surprise. He took her hand. "If you will allow me the very great honor." She nodded, in a daze. "And supper after."
     "Oh, but–"
     "I insist."
     "Well–"
     "Then it is agreed. Tres bien. I call for you at seven sharp. Do not be late." He drew closer. "It will be–magnifique."
     As he walked away, well pleased with himself, he was met by his lieutenant, who had been listening to the exchange. "I wish to cancel the wager," Chauvard said.
     Brunet laughed. "Because you see I shall win."
     Chauvard took out his purse and removed three ten-franc notes. "Here," he said, "let us say you have won."
     Brunet stopped. "What is this, mon frere?"
     Chauvard regarded him severely. "This is not well. You play with this girl. You have no liking for her–non, not even a fancy for the sport of a night. You seek only to prove yourself. I will not be your accomplice."
     Brunet stared back coldly. "All is fair in the love and the war–this is the saying, non? Let the wager stand." He walked off. Chauvard looked over at Candy, still standing at water's edge. He wished he could open her eyes.
     Brunet made his way up the mountain, purposing to continue–and, he hoped, conclude–his selection of trees for the ships' timbers. By the time he got to the camp, his feet were aching again. Joshua was happy to see that, figuring that it would shorten the task, and so it did. They had just flagged the last tree of what seemed like thousands when Jason appeared, God knew from where. "This is the last one," Joshua announced, "and we're a third done with the–"
     "What do you think you're doin'?" Jason growled. He yanked the flag away.
     "I'm telling you. The Captain's picked out the trees he wants–"
     "Pick again. This one's not for sale." It was Roxana's tree.
     "But we've been up to the timber line and back–"
     Jason glared at him. "I won't say it twice." He left. Joshua knew there was no arguing with that tone, or that look. He apologized to Brunet.
     Surprisingly, the captain smiled. "This is about a woman, I think."
     "How do you know?"
     Brunet shook his head. "In France we understand such things. He will die before he surrenders this tree." He sighed. "I choose another–tomorrow." Before leaving he reminded Joshua of the deadline, which had been prolonged by only the few hours it had taken to select the first batch of trees, and of the penalty should they fail to meet it.
     "They'll be delivered on time," said Joshua. "I guarantee it."
     "Can you do so?" Joshua looked uncertain. Brunet shrugged. "Bien, it is no matter to me. But your Monsieur Stempel–I think it is of great matter to him."
     Late in the day Joshua paid a visit to Mrs. Siska at the opera house. At first McDermid would not let him in. Then the lady herself appeared and, hearing who he was, showed him into the lobby, the pristine newness of which was made to seem almost ethereal by the notes of a Schubert sonata that drifted out from the auditorium. It might have lightened Mrs. Siska's heart too, for she did not look as forbidding now as when Joshua had glimpsed her in town; otherwise he would never have dared to say what he did to her. "You have to let Miss Lalescu see my brother," he said.
     "Have to?" She widened her eyes. "No, young man, I do not have to do anything of the kind."
     "It's only for a couple of days. Are you that jealous that you–"
     "So, that is what you believe." She smiled to herself. "That I am a wicked woman who hides Roxana away from the young men because I wish to keep her to myself." Joshua saw at once that it could not be so. She studied him. "Forgive me, but I think this is what you have wished yourself, is it not? To keep her from your brother?"
     Joshua could not imagine how she had guessed. "I thought I did," he said, "but it's worse now. He thinks of nothing else."
     "It is as I feared." Her manner relaxed. "Come, sit." She sat by him. "It is not that I would keep Roxana from falling in love and getting married. One day this will happen. But it must be with the right man."
     "As you decide."
     She shook her head. "It will be as her lover decides." Then, at Joshua's look of surprise, "Yes, she has a lover." Joshua glanced at McDermid. For the first time Mrs. Siska laughed. "Good heavens, no! Come." She took him to the theatre doors and opened one of them to reveal Roxana at the piano. "That is her lover," she said. "Does she love your brother as much as that?"
     "He can make her love him," said Joshua.
     "Yes," she said, "I fear he can. That is what I fear most."
     "Is he so terrible?"
     She stared solemnly at him. "It would be the end of her."
     "She wouldn't have to give up her music."
     "But she would," Mrs. Siska declared. "Come, I will show you." She led him down to the stage. After giving Roxana permission to leave off, she climbed the steps and sat at the piano herself. She ordered Joshua to sit, and then to move a few rows behind and to the left. She played from the score Roxana had been using. Joshua was unsure what was expected of him. "Very nice," he said when she had finished.
     "You think so?" she said. She waved Roxana back. "Play as I just did," she said. Roxana looked puzzled. "I mean, the piece." Roxana did so, and Joshua listened. With the first bars, his face underwent a transformation that his brothers would not have believed, if they could have understood it. "You hear," said Mrs. Siska. "I see you do. Continue!" she ordered Roxana, who had stopped. She motioned to Joshua to join her, and together they walked up the aisle.
     "I never imagined–" Joshua began and then stopped.
     "Say it!" she said. "It does not offend me. You never imagined there could be such a difference between competence and beauty." They were at the back, out of Roxana's hearing. "Can your brother hear the difference? I do not think he can. To him it might all be a player piano." Joshua smiled, but ruefully, because he knew she was right. "And her gift," Mrs. Siska went on, "her birthright, he would take away from her a little at a time, never knowing. She plays for him–'Very nice,' he says. And next time he says the same, but this time it is not so nice, and next time still less. But always to him it is 'very nice'. And in the end it is gone."
     "But surely she can hear for herself?"
     "No," said Mrs. Siska. "Or–sometimes. She must have people who can help her to hear. You could perhaps. Your brother...." She shook her head.
     "But she makes him happy," Joshua said helplessly. "I never saw him so happy."
     "It is so for her also, I think. But it is the happiness of the impossible. In the end it blows away, like smoke. And what is real is lost."
     "He won't give her up. Not as long as she's here."
     Mrs. Siska nodded. "Then it falls to us to work a cure–unhappy creatures that we are." Joshua felt a weight on his chest. She laid her hand on his arm. "You see now why it is necessary to seem cruel."
     Aaron was working late that night when the door opened and Joshua appeared. "It's taken care of," he said hollowly. Before Aaron could ask him any more, he had disappeared again.
     The day of the recital, Joshua saw little of Jason, and when he did they barely spoke. Josh and the men were breaking their backs to finish the job; Jason worked sometimes, but never for long, and never with his heart in it. Part of the day he spent in town, where sometimes he would hang around the opera house, hoping for a glimpse, sometimes take a whisky at Lottie's. For most of the afternoon he was out of the sight of men, high up in her tree, musing on her. Although he was not humble, he owned that she was far his superior–knew a power he didn't, and had traveled all over, and was a charmer, to boot–so charming, he decided she must be a sorceress, who had tied up all his joys in a silken pouch of which she alone was mistress and bound them there with a spell and might never set them free again.
     Joshua found him at Lottie's that evening. the first time he had seen him since noon. Josh was stopping in for a quick drink on his way to the opera house. Jason was not dressed, and looked to be in no hurry to leave. "Aren't you going?" asked Joshua.
     "Truth to tell," said Jason, "I'm not all that partial to piano playin'. Only the player."
     For the first time Joshua did not doubt the rightness of what he and Mrs. Siska were doing. He put down his glass and walked out. Jason unfolded the note in his hand and read it for the fiftieth time: "Behind church. Nine o'clock–R."
     The recital was as splendid as Brunet had predicted. Those in the crowd who had heard Mozart and Schubert and Liszt before heard them with new ears; some at least of those who had not had their ears opened. Jason waited at the church after it ended and the crowd dispersed. Brunet and Candy, under Jeremy's unhappy watch, repaired to Lottie's for supper. Still Jason waited. Nine o'clock passed, nine-thirty–
     "She's not coming," said a voice behind him.
     Jason turned. "Not coming? But I have her note."
     "She had to leave," said Joshua. "She asked me to tell you. Got a wire from Germany. Her husband's ill–"
     "Husband!" Jason was thunderstruck.
     "She cut the recital short, left as soon as she could–"
     "Maybe I can catch her."
     Joshua quickly stopped him. "The boat's left."
     Jason seemed unable to make sense of it. "She knew I'd be here. Why didn't she come and say goodbye?"
     "There was no time."
     "No time? The trip'll take weeks!" He looked almost angry. "Why didn't she come?"
     "Jason, she's married."
     "Even so, I thought we had–I thought–" His face was not angry now. Joshua could hardly bear to look at it. "She'll be sailing to Olympia then?"
     "And taking the first train to San Francisco. From there...."
     Jason stood for a few seconds, as though to make sure there was no mistake. Then he spoke quietly, and with the barest hint of feeling. "The other day you took me to task for neglecting my duties. You were right. I took it badly. Hope you'll accept my apology, and my thanks for settin' me straight. That's what family's for." Joshua felt as if his heart were being torn apart. "I'll head up to camp, turn in. Get started first thing in the morning." Joshua had never seen him move so slowly.
     Aaron was waiting in front of the church. He had seen Joshua heading there and had guessed what it was about. Jason passed him without seeing him. Aaron found Joshua where Jason had left him. "You did what you had to do," he said. Joshua did not answer.
     Jeremy had watched Candy and her escort enter Lottie's, and was leaning against a corner of the building playing mumblety-peg, and brooding. After a particularly successful drop, a hand grabbed up the knife ahead of him. The hand was Chauvard's. He examined the knife admiringly: it was of Indian make, with a carved handle. "Beautiful," he pronounced. "I would have this knife."
     Jeremy grabbed it back. "You Frenchmen see something you want, think you can just come along and take it."
     "That is Brunet," said the Frenchman, "not Chauvard." Jeremy shrugged. Chauvard waited a moment before continuing. "And if I can persuade your young lady that she is mistaken in him?"
     Jeremy stared at him. "Simple as that."
     "C'est entendu."
     Jeremy shook his head. "You don't know Candy."
     "But if I can–will you give me this knife?" His confidence seemed unlimited.
     "Do that," said Jeremy, "it's yours."
     Inside, Candy was laughing too loudly for a well-brought-up young lady, and Brunet was pouring her another glass. "No more," she protested.
     "One more," he urged.
     "Well–one." She giggled, and took a big gulp.
     "Your cheek," he said, "it is red like the wine" (as indeed it was), "red like the cherry, like the red bird, like the red Indian–"
     "They're not really red."
     "Non? Then they should be." He lifted his glass. "To you–and to this night. Ah!" he cried, as if wounded.
     Candy was alarmed. "What's wrong?"
     "My heart breaks to think that I must leave tomorrow."
     "I thought–"
     "Or the day beyond." Or one or two beyond that, he added, to himself only. "Tonight let us leave nothing unsaid, nothing undone–make it a night we shall remember forever." His eyes locked with hers.
     "Remember forever," she repeated mistily. Brunet moved in and, before she knew what he was about, planted a kiss on her lips. She pulled back with a gasp.
     "Forgive me," he said, "I was too bold."
     "No," she murmured, "not bold."
     "Then"–he moved in again–"it did please you?"
     "Oh, yes!" she said, and then, remembering herself, "I mean–" She tried to focus on the table. "My head is dancing."
     Brunet clutched both her hands. "Mine too. Is it not marvelous?" Candy was not sure. "It is said–is it not?–that there is a time to dance." He closed in for another kiss. She held him back, but weakly. He looked sad. "Ah. Then you do not like me."
     "No, I do–I–it's just too much for me." She stood uncertainly. "I must get some air."
     Brunet stood also, too eagerly. "I shall accompany you."
     "No!" Candy said. "You stay there. I'll be right back." She went out.
     Jeremy and Chauvard had been holding the door open a crack to listen. Once or twice Jeremy had had to be physically restrained from barging in. As Candy emerged, he ducked around the corner, and Chauvard slipped past her into the saloon. He found Brunet sitting with a smirk on his face. "Qu'est-ce que?" he asked.
     "I have come to collect my thirty francs," said Chauvard, moving around to a position opposite the door.
     "It is not yet a week," said Brunet, "and the night is not yet over."
     "So you still think you will win our wager?"
     "Mais oui! I shall have this Candy, and I shall have your thirty francs."
     "Admit it, mon capitaine, she will never yield. She is too virtuous."
     "This one?" Brunet snorted. "You mistake, mon ami. She is–too easy."
     Chauvard looked from him to the figure behind him, who had heard the last half of the conversation, as Chauvard had seen but Brunet had not, until now. If a volcano on the verge of erupting had taken human form, it would have looked remarkably like Candy Pruitt at that instant, and Brunet's well-developed instinct of self-preservation told him so immediately. "Mademoiselle–" he began.
     "Easy!" she howled, and Brunet knew he was for it. Chauvard discreetly slipped out the door, which Jeremy held for him. They listened for a moment and smiled in shared satisfaction. Chauvard held out his palm. Jeremy laid the knife in it. He was as happy as a man could be.
     If Jason was feeling the opposite, he did not show it. True to his promise, next morning he threw himself into the work with a vengeance, and drove the men to follow his lead. The fallers cut, the buckers sawed, the peelers stripped with a speed they had never thought themselves capable of, and by the end of Jason's first day back the lag was nearly made up for. Joshua was relieved, but he could not say he was happy.
     Brunet had not been able, or at any rate had not bothered, to choose a replacement for the tree Jason had denied him; in fact, after that evening at Lottie's, he was not seen much at all. The other pieces were at one stage or another of being made up; only that remained. Jason led his brothers down to Roxana's tree. "This finishes the job," he said. "Let's take 'er!" He personally took up one end of the saw, and Jeremy took the other. He began humming, and then singing. He was doing a lot of that these days. The air he chose was "Bonnie Doon." He could not have known the meaning it held for Jason.
     "...How can ye bloom so fresh and fair?" he sang.
     "How can ye chant, ye little birds,
     "And I so weary, full o' care?"
     Joshua joined in. "Ye'll break my heart, ye warbling bird,
     "That wantons thro' the flowering thorn.
     Ye mind me o' departed joys...."
     "...Departed, never to return," Jason finished, in a low voice. He looked wistfully out over the valley for a moment and then turned back to the tree, which was now ready to topple. "Un-der!" he yelled, and they all scrambled out of the way as it crashed to the dirt. Jeremy had seen his look, and the look of Joshua's that had followed. He was sure he ought to feel sorry for both of them, but he did not know why.
     "You wanna tell me?" he asked Josh.
     "Tell what?"
     "What it is Jason doesn't know."
     So Joshua did. And that evening, when Jeremy made up with Candy, he told her. Biddie, for once, was the only one not in on the secret.
     After the timber was cut and milled and loaded, the town assembled at the dock to bid au revoir to the Bravoure. Chauvard stepped up to Biddie and bowed. "Mademoiselle," he said, "you are a great lady."
     "Yes," she said, "I suppose I am."
     The ship embarked amid cheers and waving. "May they have a safe journey," Jason decreed, "and all others on the seas and in our hearts."
     "What others?" Biddie asked. Several people in the crowd grew still. "Do we know anybody else that's taking a sea voyage?" she went on. "I'm sure I don't."
     "Biddie," said Candy.
     "Miss Lalescu, Biddie," said Jason. "By now she'll be on her way back to her husband. And I wish them all luck."
     "But she's not married," Biddie said. Jason froze.
     "You're mistaken, Biddie," Candy said quickly.
     "Oh, no, I'm sure I'm not." Jason looked over at Joshua. His brother's eyes told him the truth at once. "Because she didn't wear any rings, you know," Biddie was saying, "on account of her playing the piano. I asked her where she kept her wedding ring, and she said if she had one she'd wear it around her neck, but fortunately she didn't have to worry about that yet." She looked around. The others were standing silent, and none of them was looking at her. "I'm sure I'm right."
     "You are, lady," said Jason. During her speech his eyes had remained fixed on Joshua's, staring deeper and deeper into the abyss of betrayal. Joshua said nothing; there was nothing he could say. If Jason had been a different man, he might have killed him then and there. Instead he turned and headed for the opera house.
    Candy started after him. "Best leave him be," said Jeremy. "He'll take the roof off the place."
    Candy's jaw tightened. "Oh, no, he won't."
    By the time she arrived he had kicked in the doors, hurled chairs at the wall, and was about to tear down one of the velvet curtains. "Jason Bolt," she shouted, "stop this instant!" She looked as angry as he was.
    "Get away, Candy," he said.
    "You intend to destroy what the town's waited so long for?"
    "Better this than a brother." He pulled at the curtain.
    "Because of some girl you've barely met?"
    "You don't know!" he cried savagely.
    She was not to be intimidated. "I know this, Mr. Bolt–when you grieve, you're not grieving for one, you're grieving for all. I know, because it's true for me too. You laid that burden on me when you brought me here, and I swear to my Maker I'm not shouldering it by myself."
    She had made him sufficiently curious to have paused in his rampage. "How did I–"
    "When you came prancing into my home town with your eyes flashing and your tongue spinning silvery webs to make all those bashful blushing maidens lose their senses and traipse after you halfway around the world. So did I–but not because of you. I did it for them. Who else was going to look after them? You and your brothers? Well, you did, as it turned out, but I didn't know that, did I? So I had to come along to protect their honor, and stand up for them when it became necessary. And once I got here, it wasn't only them, it was–oh–everyone. Their boyfriends, Jeremy, Molly and Christopher–and you. You were my example. You showed me that in a true community–especially one that's still being born–everyone looks out for each other, and some–a few–have to look out for everyone. You put that on me, Mr. Bolt, and it's too late to take it back. The brides depend on me, I depend on you. If you collapse, I collapse–we all collapse." She saw that he was calmer now. "Bear your grief like a man," she enjoined him. "Did you carry on like this when you lost your mother? Your father?"
    Jason was stung. "I was younger then."
    "What do you mean? That's the only excuse."
    He dropped into a chair. "I didn't know," he said, almost inaudibly. "Didn't know past from future–joy from sorrow. Don't you see?" He looked up at her imploringly. "There's so little time, and less and less with each year. So little that truly delights. And to lose what little there is...." She began to understand. She took his hand. "So there's no husband," he said. "No wire. Then why'd she leave?" He had a sudden terrible thought. "Did Joshua force her?"
    "The woman–"
    "Both of them. I see," he said bitterly. "To keep her out of my way." He thought some more. "But she didn't have to cut her tour short."
    "She didn't," Candy said. "She went on as planned." She instantly regretted having said it. Jason got up and began pacing. She was afraid he would start breaking things again. "I shouldn't have told you."
    "S'pose you'd never seen the sun?" said Jason. "S'pose she only came out, oh, once in a generation? Fella comes along and tells you all about her, tells you be up tomorrow at seven sharp and you'll see her, but only for a few minutes, so mind you're on time. You sleep late, and when you get to the window, there she is, the sun herself, beamin' down on you in all her glory–then all at once she disappears. And you know if you'd only stirred yourself a little sooner you'da seen all there was to see of her, and now you won't have the chance again. Breaks your heart, but you have only yourself to blame." He faced her. "But if you knew someone had stolen those few moments from you–told you no, the sun ain't there, ain't no sense lookin'–could you forgive him? Could you? 'specially if he was your own heart's blood?"
    "Jason–"
    He waved her quiet. He was done with raging now, and his mind had started working. "She still in the territory?"
    "Portland, but–"
    "You're sure?"
    "Biddie saw the notice in the paper."
    "Then I can still see her."
    "Jason!"
    He grabbed her hand. "And you're comin' with me. To tell her I mean no harm."
    "You're not being sensible!"
    He looked soberly at her. "I have to." She knew he meant it. "You understand? I have to."
    Candy had never seen Portland before, but it looked to her a lot like Seattle, only bigger, seamier, and rowdier. It was especially rowdy tonight because the city was celebrating its twentieth anniversary, for which Miss Lalescu had been engaged as part of the entertainment. Where Seattle's waterfront had one saloon, Portland's had a dozen. The largest and most populous–the city's pride–had a bar nearly seven hundred feet long, not to mention its own pipe organ, which was usually played with all stops out. Its bass rumble was the first sound they heard as they rode into town in a hired wagon. Tonight the organ had competition from every side. The grand occasion had filled the street with revellers, and the wagon had to inch its way through them. An occasional bouquet of fireworks sparked across the night sky, but its crackle was drowned out by the din below. More or less melodic accompaniment was provided by a scattering of street musicians, including a bagpiper and a small brass band.
    Jason had been here before, but the city had been smaller then, and in any case he had never seen it like this. He stopped one of the celebrants to ask the way to the recital hall and then turned the horse and headed up through the center of town. They would have made faster time by foot, but he did not dare to leave the wagon for fear of its being stolen.
    By the time they reached the hall, they found they were too late: the recital had ended. The man closing up told them Miss Lalescu had returned to her hotel, and pointed the way. From the hotel's desk clerk they learned that Mrs. Siska's party had already left for the dock; they were sailing that night on the Pacific Empress. The hotel was located in a quiet section of town, away from the night's revelries, and Jason judged it safe to leave the wagon there. He and Candy raced for the waterfront, raced literally, with Candy coming in second.
    Arriving at the foot of the pier, they met the last person Jason wanted to see. McDermid had ended his term with Mrs. Siska and stayed behind. Jason raised his fist. "You're not keepin' me from her this time," he said. McDermid stepped back and pointed to a ship that had just left and was gliding down the Willamette. On the deck stood a figure that by the moonlight, town lights, and the intermittent flare of fireworks Jason recognized as Roxana.
    He ran after her along the dock, shouting her name, but his voice, and his form, were lost in the general riot. Candy watched helplessly. He looked around for a more prominent spot. There was a landing ahead with a shack at the end. He ran to it and hoisted himself onto the roof, and called her name again. She gave no sign of hearing. He shouted louder, his voice hoarse. It was of no use. He dropped his head.
    McDermid watched keenly for a moment and then turned to the row of saloon fronts that dominated the street. He marched up into the largest and, pushing people aside, made his way to the pipe organ, which was unoccupied while the organist took a break. McDermid sat at it, lifted his hands, and brought them down on the keys. The organist turned. "Hey!" he said, and waved to the bouncer, who was already on his way. He grabbed McDermid by the shoulder. McDermid elbowed him off. He looked up at the organist with the intensity of one who would speak but cannot. The bouncer returned. "Wait," the organist charged. For McDermid had started to play, a string of eleven notes, hard, strident, disconnected, but recognizable. He duplicated the positions of Roxana's hands as he had observed and still remembered them.
    "I know that!" said the organist. McDermid looked at him. "You're wanting me to play it? Play it?" he repeated, gesturing. McDermid nodded vigorously. The organist cleared him away.
    A second later, the plaintive notes of "Bonnie Doon" rose and swelled and echoed out along the street and down to the quay. A harmonica player on the corner lifted his head. That had always been one of his favorite airs. He began to play along. A fiddler down the block, Scottish-born, was touched to the soul. "'Bonnie Doon'," he murmured; he had not heard it since leaving home. He joined in too. Next an accordionist, then a hurdy-gurdy man, then the piper, last of all the brass band–with a drum–one by one all the musicians within hearing took up the tune, until it filled the sky and floated on the night air out over the river. Perhaps the beauty of the melody drew the players, perhaps a mystical sense of the message it carried.
    As Roxana started to go below, the first notes reached her. She stopped to listen, and her heart thrilled. It could not be! She ran to the stern and anxiously searched the dockside. Just then, by some divine grace, a panoply of fireworks lit up the heavens, framing Jason in a shower of red, white, and blue. She saw and cried out and laughed. He saw her, and laughed too. For a moment they felt as if the music were holding them up together outside space and time. She pretended to play the ship's railing like a keyboard. Jason did a waltz step, as if he were holding her in his arms. They applauded each other and laughed again, and both wiped the tears from their eyes.
    McDermid stepped up beside Candy. Seeing Roxana's smile, he smiled too. Candy looked at him. She knew he had done this somehow and she moved her lips in a silent thank-you.
    Then the song ended and the fireworks faded and the ship sailed too far down river for either of the pair to see or be seen. They kept staring for a while anyway, into the dark which was not dark for them, until at last even that ended and Jason returned to Candy. He shook McDermid's hand and bade him farewell, and McDermid left them. Jason asked if Candy wouldn't mind staying a little longer, and she said she didn't. So they stood at water's edge, Jason staring out at the river, until the night's merrymaking had played itself out and the merrymakers had gone home to bed.
    Candy finally spoke. "Sorry we didn't get here in time," she said.
    Jason was deep inside himself. "We were here in fine time."
    Candy took that as a bitter joke. "There'll be other women," she said. "The town's full of them. And I happen to know–but never mind. You'll find another pair of lips to steal a kiss from."
    Jason's eyes looked out over the water as if they could see as far as forever and saw, in all that distance, nothing that would ever again satisfy the longing in them. "Oh, lady," he said, and Candy did not know whether he meant her or the other, "it wasn't the kiss." He smiled at what was already no more than a memory. "It was the laughter."

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