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"Narcisse had other concerns," Mantilla said. "She had to move back into town. The Jesuits are giving her and Blake shelter at the cathedral. She asked me to explain it to you. No other choice."
Valentine didn't like Blake being so close to people-even if most of them were unarmed slaves-and Grogs.
An old downtown cathedral, Father Cutcher's domain, stood near Cass Street off a park on the North Side. Valentine knew the Jesuit somewhat from his travels into Saint Louis over the years.
Ostensibly, he ran a mission ministering to the Grogs' slaves, offering solace to body and soul alike. He had a few sisters offering nursing and midwifery, and traders and the very few travellers in this part of the country could bed down in the mission and avoid the snake pits of the waterfront ghetto.
Valentine sniffed the incense as he entered the Narthex-it was the official Vatican stuff, not the wild spice mix his old Catholic guardian made do with on holidays.
A pair of bent old women gave their boots a glance.
"Wipe that river mud off, ye drips," one said with a hostile squint. "That's what the mat's for."
Other elderly filled the nave. The pews had been removed and replaced with rockers, lounges, and card tables. Former slaves, aged enough to be given their freedom before death takes them, but too old for a journey, washed up at Cutcher's door.
A nun directed them to Father Cutcher. They had to climb some rickety stairs to reach him in the bell tower. The Jesuit wasn't trying to pray closer to God, he was fiddling with a shortwave radio with one of his elderly.
"Leave off, Father," the electronic tinkerer said. "I think it's atmospherics, not the antenna. If it were the antenna, we wouldn't be getting anything south or west, neither."
"Major David Valentine. Captain Sebastian Mantilla."
"Sebastian?" Valentine asked Mantilla, as they trailed the old man down.
"Don't know how the old coglione ever found out. None but my old mom used that name."
Narcisse and Blake had taken up residence in an old third-floor room that was practically an attic, though it did have a view of the park. Wobble, Blake's dog, limped over to Valentine, wagging his tail and licking.
Narcisse, her head wrapped in its usual colorful turban, made a special blend of coffee for her visitors. Valentine sipped carefully, more to savor the drink than because he was suspicious of ersatz. He could taste nuts, citrus, and chocolate along with the coffee beans.
"Eats like a goddamn meal," Mantilla said.
Blake, as usual, was wide-eyed and wary for a few minutes. Narcisse put an encouraging hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he was all hugs.
"You have a magic touch, Sissy," Valentine said. "I remember that time in the Caribbean, after Captain Boul's men stomped me. Your hands on either side of my head."
Though in years still a toddler, the top of Blake's head now came up to Valentine's rib cage, and he was astonishingly strong.
"Ouch. Blake, careful, gentle like with Wobble."
"As petting," Blake said in his whispery voice.
Narcisse sat tiredly, her eyes closed. She'd aged since he'd last visited, distressingly so.
"You all right?" Valentine asked. "Can I get you something to eat, or look for medicine?"
"You know me, Daveed. Did you not ever wonder how I could control a toddler who could break my arm at sixteen months?"
"You had such a gentle way about you," Valentine said. "I figured he loved you."
"Yes. Most of the time, the gentle way works. But sometime, heem too emotional, Daveed. Not listen for my voice, not mind my words. Then, other ways."
She looked closely at Mantilla. He nodded. "Good a time as any, Sissy."
Narcisse patted the shriveled skin stretched across her breast. "I am weary, Daveed. This old body is ready to give up. It was ready to give up some years ago, but I keep it going."
"If you're feeling sick-," Valentine said.
"No, not sick. Tired. Not much left in these bones, I think."
