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wasn’t just the thief ’s readiness to cock a pistol in my face that disturbed me. Inside his Masonic symbol, I’d been reminded, was the standard letter said to represent God, or gnosis, knowledge, or perhaps geometry.
    The letter G .
    My initial, and the same letter which poor Minette had scrawled in her own blood.
    Was such an emblem her last sight on earth?
    The more anxious others were for my trinket, the more determined I was to keep it. There must be some reason for its popularity.
    I stopped in the woods to reload, ramming down the ball and listening after I did so. A branch snapped. Was someone following? I’d kill them if they got close. But what if it was poor Talma, trying to find me in the gloom? I hoped he’d simply stay with the coach, but I dared not shoot, shout, or tarry either, so I went deeper into the forest.
    The spring air was cool, the nervous energy of escape evaporating and leaving me chill and hungry. I was debating circling back to the road in hopes of finding a farmhouse when I saw the steady glow of a lantern, then another lamp and another, amid the evening trees. I crouched and heard the murmur of voices in a language distinctive from French. Now here was a way to hide myself! I’d stumbled upon an encampment of the Rom. Gypsies—or, as many pronounced the word, Gyptians, reputed to be wanderers from Egypt. Gypsies did nothing to discourage this belief, claiming they were descended from the priests of the pharaohs, even though others considered them a plague of nomadic rascals. Their assertion of ancient authority encouraged lovers and schemers to pay money for their augury.
    Again, a sound behind me. Here my experience in the forests of America came into play. I melted into the foliage, using a shadow cast by the lantern light to cloak myself. My pursuer, if that’s what he was, came on oblivious to my position. He stopped after spying the glow of the wagons, considered as I had, and then came ahead, no doubt guessing I’d sought refuge there. When his face came into the light I didn’t recognize him as either an assailant or a passenger, and now was more confused than ever.
    No matter, his intentions were plain enough. He, too, had a pistol.
    As the stranger crept toward the nearest wagon, I slid noiselessly behind him. He was looking at the multicolored marvel that was the nearest gypsy vardo when my muzzle eased over his shoulder and came to rest on his skull.
    “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” I said quietly.
    There was a long silence. Then, in English, “I’m the man who just helped save your life.”
    I was startled, uncertain whether to reply in my native tongue. “Qui êtes-vous?” I finally demanded.
    “Sir Sidney Smith, a British agent fluent enough in the tongue of France to recognize that your accent is worse than mine,” he replied again in English. “Get the gun barrel off my ear and I’ll explain everything, friend.”
    I was stunned. Sidney Smith? Had I encountered the most famous prison fugitive in France—or a mad imposter? “Drop your pistol first,” I said in English. Then I felt something poke my own back, pointed and sharp.
    “As you will drop your rifle, monsieur, when you are at my home.” In French again, but this time with a distinctive Eastern accent: A gypsy. A half-dozen more emerged from the trees around us, their heads covered in scarves or broad-brimmed hats, sashes on their waist, and boots to their knees, looking raffish and tough. All had knives, swords, or clubs. We stalkers had become the stalked.
    “Be careful,” I said. “There may be other men chasing me.” I laid my rifle on the ground as Smith surrendered his pistol.
    A handsome, swarthy man came around to my face, sword in hand, and gave a grim smile. “Not anymore.” He drew a finger across his throat as he collected the rifle and pistol. “Welcome to the Rom.”
     
     
     
    W hen I stepped into the light of the gypsy campfires, I stepped into another