flighty affectation, Garrett's estimation of the young man was that he was a keenly trained observer, and one who knew that the most relevant clues were sometimes those that seemed incomprehensible at the time. And that that ostensible delicacy masked a galvanized will.
She kept a terrier.
She knew the type.
In any case, she leaned forward—not slouching: even with her corset hung for airing, Garrett still was far too much a product of finishing
school to slouch—and listened carefully while Jack explained what he
had witnessed.
She saw Sebastien's eyebrows rise when Jack described the dimming streetlights, one of the considered gestures by which he practiced courtesy to his human associates. It meant that he was listening, and that he'd have something to add in his turn. But then Jack detailed the condition of the corpse, the gnawed hands and torn throat, the clawed footprints in the snow, and the information that this death was not the first—and Sebastien sat back and crossed his arms.
Jack stopped, and spread his hands. "You'll probably take the blame for that, the way our luck is running lately."
"I also saw the lights dim," Sebastien said. "When I was on the building."
The coffee arrived, and Mrs. Smith arose to answer the tap on the door. Although the winter dawn would not break for hours, it was by now late enough that the bakers had warmed their ovens, and the tray arrived with fresh crescent rolls, steaming and crusted lightly on the top with egg wash, and a little glass pot of strawberry jam.
Jack and Mrs. Smith fell upon the breakfast, with rapt attention and willing assistance from Mike. While Garrett was still stirring cream into her coffee the adjoining door to the valet's chamber opened and Mary came in, wearing her dressing gown. "I would have gone down," she said.
"You're in Paris, Mary," Jack said. "Sleep in."
Her laugh was strained, Abby Irene thought, but she sat down by the fire and folded her hands on her knees.
"We could leave," Jack said. "Leave Paris."
Sebastien didn't shake his head as a human might, but he inclined
it perceptibly. "After we've come all this way? That will never do. We've
business."
"And you're coming to the interview with Monsieur Renault today, are you not?" Garrett asked.
"I wouldn't sacrifice any of you on the altar of my politics, is all." Jack sipped his coffee, set the china cup aside. It rattled on the saucer, and his fingers left buttery prints on the delicate gold-painted handle.
"We've all our personal reasons," Sebastien answered, and Garrett restrained herself from pointing out to Jack that he, himself, was Mrs. Smith's own personal reason.
And then regretted her self-discipline, when he looked Sebastien in the eye and said archly, "Which is sweeter, Mr. Nast, love or remorse?"
"Love," Sebastien answered. "For it is fleeting."
* * *
Even the Parisian sunrise papers carried news of the American revolt, although it was below the dispatches on the French war with England. Garrett finished her coffee while Mary chose the clothes in which she would beard Monsieur Renault.
When she had laid out the garments and combed Garrett's hair, Mary stood behind her, hands on her shoulders, and caught her eye in the mirror. "Ma'am," she said, "I don't mean to be impertinent—"
"There's a first time for everything," Garrett said, softening it with a smile. Mary's tone honestly concerned her: it wasn't like her to be so hesitant. "Please, Mary. Speak plainly."
"Ma'am, I'm just wondering. Are we staying in Paris?"
Garrett looked at Mary's tensed fingers, the lines etched between her nose and the corners of her mouth. "I don't know yet," Garrett said, taking pity. "But you'll have employment with me where ever I may end."
"Thank you." Garrett gestured her to go on, or excuse herself. But she paused and hesitated. "Ma'am?"
"Mary?"
"Then will you teach me to speak French?"
Garrett smiled into her coffee cup. "Of course," she said.
* * *
"You travel with interesting company," the prime minister said by way of introduction, as his secretary permitted Doctor Garrett—and her companion—into the office. His English was flawless.
Jack stepped in at Abby Irene's back and made sure the door latch caught as the secretary departed again, a discreet push with the gloved heel of his hand. Then he flanked the sorceress as she stepped forward.
She carried her own bag, to his chagrin, though he couldn't fault her the caution. And she set it down on the corner of the prime minister's desk and commandeered a chair opposite before she answered.
Jack preferred to stand.
"We apologize for the dramatics," Abby Irene said, also