snowflakes and draperies and a rain of broken glass.
Of course, he lost his hat.
"Armand Renault, I presume? There's no need to shout, and please pardon the drama of my entrance. I will of course make recompense to the hotel for the damage."
The prime minister was, indeed, clutching his dressing down at his throat, and Sebastien awarded himself points for accuracy. He shook the caped coat out with a snap, showering snow and shards of glass to the carpet, and dusted cold hands.
The prime minister squeaked. The mistress—Fredérique Glibert, according to Jack—remained calmer, as Sebastien would expect of any ally of Jack's numerous friends.
Sebastien finished rubbing his palms together, amused by the cynicism of his own performance, and smiled at Renault, who still had not answered. But Sebastien could deliver his line without a cue. "Believe me," he said, "it's anything but too good to be true. You see, we need your help rather badly, monsieur."
Monsieur Renault stood. He let go of his collar and raked his fingers through his hair. "Sir, who are you?"
In a flash of his sense of the dramatic, Sebastien bowed, spread his arms to make his caped coat flare, and delivered a line he'd heard repeated on more than one penny stage. "Amédée Gosselin, at your service, monsieur."
It was gratifying, the way the man's eyes went wide.
* * *
As for Jack, he spent the night pub-crawling. He was of no use to Sebastien when it came to feats of physical prowess—the wampyr, although he generally preferred to downplay his puissance, had that aspect of the operation under complete control—but frankly, Jack was Sebastien's superior when it came to striking up casual friendships and earning confidences.
And it was Jack who numbered among those friendships the assortment of revolutionaries and agitators upon whom they had been reliant to get them this far.
Even in Paris, however, those were not men with the ear of the government. And getting the ear of the government, through suitably impressive display, was thankfully not Jack's problem. Rather, that fell to Sebastien and Abby Irene. For which Jack was grateful.
No, this first night, Jack was only formalizing relationships that had previously been two or three links removed. In America or occupied Eire, or England herself, he would have named this the underground and it would have been much harder to locate—but in Paris, there was nothing treasonous in calling for the overthrow of the English king. Since the deposition of the Emperor, it was far more likely in Paris for one to be hauled into jail for espousing monarchist sympathies than republican ones.
Jack adored it. A cramped, gorgeous, antique city full of drunks and poets, artists and gardens, whorehouses and opium dens, crooked streets and tilted buildings. He wished Sebastien had brought him here ten or fifteen years before.
Of course, he could have come on his own. Sebastien would never have prevented it.
But Jack didn't like to let Sebastien get too used to doing without him. He considered it a poor trend, and one that should not become established.
Much as he never allowed himself to become established in any one bar, this first night. This was for exploring, for listening, for locating men who might eventually become friends. Not that he would need them, if Sebastien and Abby Irene's plan came to fruition.
But Jack believed in redundancy and in fallback positions. He assumed that the others were also making contingency plans.
None of them were dumb.
Sebastien had convinced him that counterfeiting an Englishman or American was entirely too unsafe, and so Jack allowed himself to slip into his native accent and gave his name as Hlavach, although he was careful never to hint that he was not merely a Czech by birth, but also a Jew. Better to be thought a refugee from Russian expansionism: there were enough of those in Paris these days.
The blond hair and blue eyes helped. And he had, after hours of exploring, finally found the right bar.
For a moment, sighing over his wine, his workman's cap folded and shoved into his hip pocket, Jack allowed himself to wish they were back in New Amsterdam, the greatest concern of any night a suitable entertainment to carry them through to morning. He checked his pocket watch idly and was surprised to notice the time.
When he stood, excusing himself from his new acquaintances, they encouraged his return. Another small victory. Pile enough of them together, and they became like bricks in the wall.
One of the drinkers—a tradesman named Rene whose last name Jack