She shut the door after all, and left him on the cold stoop beside the rubbish bin, but she gave him a smile before she did and really, given his irregular approach, he could expect no better. When she returned, no less than five minutes later, a stout valet followed.
Sebastien did not doubt that the strapping young man had concealed a sap in the sagging pocket of his suitjacket. It would only be sensible.
They conducted him inside with a silent efficiency, and showed him into a sort of study. Velvet draperies of an off-white color that Sebastien associated with the interior of coffins, burgundy burned-velvet wall coverings, and too much dark wood gave it a claustrophobic aspect.
Sebastien recognized the rangy, beaky man within. He was perhaps thirty-three, thirty-five. His eyes were lined with kohl, his cheeks rouged, his forehead pale with powder. But he wore a dark worsted suit, a good waistcoat crossed with a platinum chain, and his hair was cropped quite short and oiled back from a razor-line part. He moved painfully, as if he had been sitting too long and he stretched against the stiffness of his muscles.
The valet seemed inclined to linger, but Sebastien's host—or hostess—gestured him to shut the door with one commandingly whirled finger. "Roger Abernathy," Sebastien said pleasantly, and extended his hand in its glove.
"Mr. John Nast," he said. "You have tracked me to my lair. Dare I ask your business?"
His breath smelled faintly of blood, as from a bitten cheek. His handshake was quite firm, masculine, but not so the delicate squeeze before he disengaged. Meant to be shocking—or alluring—but Sebastien was too old to be shocked, and he had already been allured. After a fashion. "I need a list of clients," he said.
"Is that a test?" With graceful assurance, Mr. Abernathy gestured Sebastien into a chair. He limped only slightly as he crossed and recrossed the room to pour brandies and set one at Sebastien's elbow, where Sebastien calmly ignored it. "I would never reveal the name of an intimate friend."
"Your intimate friends," Sebastien said, "have special needs, do they not?"
Abernathy swirled the amber liquid in his glass, making every appearance of savoring the aroma. When he tasted it, he left a stain of lipstick on the rim. "Do you wish to become one of them?"
"Oh no." Sebastien lifted his own brandy glass in turn. "I have special needs of my own, you see." At Abernathy's arched eyebrow, he felt the need to reassure. Sebastien did, after all, find him quite attractive.
In both his guises.
He continued, "And we might discuss them another day, but I would prefer to first become much better acquainted. No, I am not interested in your clients. But rather those of two young men who have recently come to the attention of the police."
Abernathy's moue was perfect. "Come to their attention in what manner, Mr. Nast?"
"Messily," Sebastien said, and set his brandy down. "And I am very much afraid they will not be the last. Will you help me. . .Chouchou?"
For a moment, Sebastien thought he'd succeeded. Mr. Abernathy reached out and stroked a fountain pen that rested diagonally across his desk blotter. And then he quaffed his brandy and shut his eyes to shake his head, wincing as if the alcohol stung more than it burned. "No."
Sebastien suddenly understood the why and wherefore of the paint and powder worn in addition to—in spite of—the male dress. "He struck you," he said.
Abernathy licked his lips and put the glass down on the blotter. "I don't take your meaning, Mr. Nast."
"Michael Penfold," Sebastien said. "The Governor of the Colony of Massachusetts. Your protector." As polite a term as he could summon up on such short notice. "He struck you. Your face is bruised beneath the maquillage. Your cheek is cut from your teeth."
Roger Abernathy smiled. "Michael would never strike me," he said, but Sebastien noticed that he pressed the backs of left fingers to his cheek, the amethyst glinting heavily. "Is there anything else I can assist you with?"
He said it suggestively, leaning forward. Sebastien stood, leaving behind his untouched glass. "Yes," he said. "Be cautious, please. I should hate to lose the pleasure of your conversation."
* * *
He did not remember mortal life clearly when he remembered it at all, but Sebastien was fairly certain that even then, he'd thought better on his feet. By the time he left Chouchou, a cold misty rain was falling over Boston,