him, in New Amsterdam, was unpardonable. And also, I was wrong."
"You're trying to win back my sympathy," Garrett said, both because it was true and because it kept her from saying you're right, it was unpardonable, and so why should I pardon you? "If you wish to apologize, I will arrange for you to do it yourself, of course."
"Of course," he said. "Now tell me why you're in Paris."
"You know why I'm in Paris. You tell me first."
A long rattling sigh, and then he leaned forward. "I'm here to stop a war, if I can, but I can't exactly get caught doing it. Because my brother is a puffed up incompetent who has lost his grip on the colonies, who is going to draw us into a war on three fronts, and who I only hope will pass on Mother's blood to his son, because he certainly isn't manifesting any of it."
"That's treason too," Garrett said mildly.
Henry snorted. "So it is. You may send Phillip a note. In any case, Englishmen are going to die, and we're going to lose more territory than we strictly must. Renault's a reasonable man, or at least he used to be, and with the Russians pressing west again, I think he'll be willing to deal rather than to fight."
"Leaving England to put down the revolt in the colonies unfettered. Unless you have to cede us to France to seal the deal."
Henry shrugged. "Protecting England's imperial interests is part of
my duty."
And yours. He didn't need to say it: Abby Irene could muster the guilt perfectly well on her own. "You should go," she said, while she could still manage to make herself say it.
He stood and bowed over her hand. "Then, so I shall."
* * *
The remainder of the night, the four of them spent in the study of the books they had collected, divided up by language as appropriate. They
spoke only rarely, to ask questions or seek Sebastien's help with a difficult or archaic word.
Except once, while Mrs. Smith was powdering her nose and Jack had dozed off, head tilted back against his chair, some fifteen minutes before (in mercy, Garrett and the others hadn't wakened him), Garrett looked up from her book and said to Sebastien, not quite knowing what she would say until the words were out of her mouth, "Are you afraid to die?"
It wasn't quite the right word, of course. He was dead, and had been dead a thousand years. But he didn't correct her. "No," he said. "I don't believe in an afterlife. So there is nothing to fear. But I would regret it, should I miss the rest of your life."
"You don't believe in an afterlife."
"I don't."
"What about the wolves?"
"Ah, the wolves." He smiled. "I believe in an unlife, Abby Irene." And looked down at the book spread open before him, again.
One more night of the full moon. One day to learn enough about the beast to anticipate where it might appear, and have the tools to stop it.
One chance.
The crack that they heard before sunrise, even through the win-
dows and the shutters, was the sound of the Seine freezing from bank to bank. Garrett knew it for what it was, because she had heard, once or twice, the mighty Hudson do the same. Across the table, Jack lifted his head in
the lamplight.
He rubbed his eyes, poured cold coffee from the pot set in the center of the table, and bent over his tome again.
In the morning, the papers reported a woman dead.
* * *
They stopped for breakfast before sunrise, to compare notes. Jack came to the table bearing the last book he had been working from and a sheet of paper, both sides of which were covered in his precise small hand.
"I have a name," he said, while Sebastien set a cup of coffee beside
his elbow.
"Then speak it." Abby Irene, of course. Phoebe was too tired to respond with more than a flicker of her eyes, and Sebastien was inclined to let Jack bask in his triumph a moment longer.
Jack didn't seem to prickle at Abby Irene's teasing the way he once would have, though, and that gave Sebastien hope. Yes, mocked a voice in his head—Epaphras's voice—perhaps your pets are learning to get along together.
Something you and I were never good at, Sebastien answered, aware even as he did so of the uselessness of arguing with the sort of ghosts that only lived in one's own skull. He'd have better luck with Courtaut. Hell, he'd never