and Garrett's bone china teacup rattled in the saucer when she set it down.
England. When she entered her self-imposed exile in the colonies, she'd never expected to see it again. Now, she wondered if she was seeing it for the last time. An unexpected gift, perhaps. Or an unlooked-for cruelty.
When the dirigible made landfall outside London on the last day of the year, although the layover was scheduled at thirteen hours, she did not disembark. She could not bear to feel England's earth and cobblestones under her shoes again, she thought. And if she could bear that, then she might never bear to leave.
She celebrated the arrival of 1903 alone, having given Mary leave to explore the city, as she had never set foot outside of New Holland and New England before.
* * *
Debarking in Köln was by means of a railed gangplank rather than a stair, and as soon as Jack Priest set one bull's-blood-colored boot upon it, he breathed a soft and heartfelt sigh. Germany. The continent. Civilization.
Safety, at least for the moment. It was not a crime merely to be a
wampyr here.
He strode down, all swinging arms and stomping boots, and paused at the bottom when he realized Phoebe and "John"—whom he must stop thinking of as Sebastien, especially in moments of affection and exasperation—were not on his heels. All of them were travelling under the name Nast, which Jack found reprehensibly amusing. He supposed he passed very well for Phoebe's son—she was slight and blond as well, though paler than he—but the recently-minted John Nast was medium-tall and dark, almost swarthy.
And currently standing at the top of the gangplank, when Jack turned, leaning on a cane and his "wife's" arm, pretending to breathe heavily while his wife juggled him and a basket full of more-than-usually irascible orange cat.
A virtuoso performance, but Jack really wished they could just hurry and set aside the charade.
"Mother, oh mother, let me help with your bag," he called, and started up the plank again while "John"—no, John, dammit—arched an eyebrow and Phoebe laughed helplessly. A Gallic-nosed fellow, slight with silver-shot dark curls and dark eyes, brushed rudely past them just as Jack regained
the top of the plank. He reeked of vetiver and musk; Jack's nose wrinkled as he passed, and he half-smiled at himself to realize how accustomed he'd become to the Puritan cleanliness of American colonials, and their aversion to heavy perfumes.
But then he had Phoebe's bag, and was shepherding her and Sebastien across the broad open lawn of the landing field, under a bright winter
moon augmented by newfangled electric floodlights, their breath steaming around them.
Except for Sebastien, of course, who—even though he remembered to feign the rise and fall of his chest—had no warmth or moisture on his breath to frost in the December air.
"I hate winter," he stage-whispered.
Jack reached up and straightened the wing of the wampyr's dux
collar. And then none of them spoke again until they were within the air-
field terminal and warm beside the tracks that would soon bring an elec-
tric tram.
They would stay in Germany only for a little. Long enough for
Sebastien to make certain inquiries, ask certain questions, and learn what the blood knew about Armand Renault, the prime minister of France.
In the course of a long unlife, borders might cross one almost as often as one crossed borders. It paid to understand the politics, and for all their prickles the blood had long ago learned the value of shared information.
Sooner or later, in Jack's experience, a wampyr found out everything.
* * *
Paris, the city of man. The city of lights. The city of revolutions.
The city of stray dogs, filthy gutters, and chestnut blossoms in spring, Sebastien thought, assisting Abby Irene down the steps of the train and into the airy glass-walled space of the Gare Saint Lazare on the last night of the waxing moon. The name in its implications amused him.
The undead pass through Lazarus.
It echoed with footsteps now, and the curious noisy silence of train stations—so few voices, for so many travelers. When Abby Irene was safely grounded beside him, shaking out her periwinkle corduroy skirts and settling her fur wrap closer about her neck, Sebastien turned his attention to Mary, who seemed a little shocked by his extended hand. She took it, though; the stairs were steel, and high, and bad enough to climb. Sebastien couldn't imagine descending them in a woman's enveloping skirts and little boots.
"Welcome to Paris," he said, in English, because that was all she spoke. He