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too.”
    That drew a thin smile. Now, warm, full of her life, he thought he could face the prospect of another fifty years, if that was what it took. What, after all, was fifty years? Abby Irene would never ask such a thing. Abby Irene would never ask a sacrifice of anyone—which, perhaps, was why so few had ever made one for her.
    He wanted to ask, Is that why you chose to come with me? Because I would outlast you?
    But that was too cruel a thing to ask a woman twice-widowed, even if the second loss had been no husband under the church. Sebastien found over the years that he thought more of the heart of man than the house of God; it was more constant in its loyalty and reasons.
    “I shall do my best,” he said, and knew she knew it was not a promise.

Moscow
    Bely Gorod
    January 1897
     
    Sebastien would know before he mounted the stair that Jack had company, who comprised it, and how that company was being entertained. So Jack was anything but surprised when—a little before the sun was due to rise at nine in the morning—the door opened silently and the wampyr stepped in with a restrained bow to the two seated at the tiny square kitchen table where Jack usually ate his cereal alone.
    —You must be Irina Stephanova,— Sebastien said. —I am Don Sebastien de Ulloa. I have heard so much about you.
    She touched her cheeks as if her complexion hid a flush, looking down. “The police say I make man dead,” she said. “You may help me?”
    “If I can.” Sebastien tugged the door until it latched and came forward lightly across boards that did not creak under his negligible weight. “But you must tell me everything.”
    He paused between their chairs. Jack scooted to one side to make room for Sebastien to sit. The wampyr slid the stool over from the corner by the counter and perched upon it. Jack thought he liked this kitchen because it was windowless and dim—all the reasons Jack found it depressing. Still, a little sunlight wasn’t a matter of unlife and death for Jack as it was for Sebastien.
    As he settled down beside Irina, dry and light as a husk, she leaned first away and then towards him. Jack hid his wince at her hopeful expression, the way her hands tightened on the fluted tea cup, so much more English than Russian.
    Sebastien shed his coat and gloves on the floor, the muffler still casually looped about his neck. When Irina peeled her fingers off rose-painted china and brushed them across the cold back of his hand, he gave no indication he’d noticed the contact. He just caught her gaze on his and asked, —Where is your patron now, Irina Stephanova?
    She looked down. —He left. He did not say where.
    —And he did not leave you his ring?
    She shook her head, her eyes fixed to the tabletop. She picked up her tea and tried to drink from the empty cup. Just as well it was empty, by how her hands shook.
    —He took it back before he went.
    —And he took back Sergei’s, too?
    Jack blinked. Of course. He’d assumed Sergei was Irina’s ex-lover. And perhaps he was: it was easy for courtesans with the same patron to arrange such matters between themselves. It saved on explanations, and at least it kept the jealousies incestuous.
    —And that of Grigor, and of Svetlana, and of Ilya— Irina said. —All of us. We were all his, his court.
    —He arranged the gallery show,— Sebastien said, calmly.
    Irina nodded. —Lesya, the owner of the gallery, is also one of his. Was . Was also one of his.
    Damn . If Sebastien had accepted Jack fully as a member of his court, Jack thought, Jack might have had the experience to be quicker on the uptake. But that was unfair to Sebastien. Jack was more to blame. He had not been paying attention to the situation, but only to the girl. He had, in short, ignored everything about observation that Sebastien had taught him while distracted by desire.
    Irina’s expression pulled him back from his thoughts. It wasn’t the befuddlement of an inexperienced courtesan, but rather