a visitor I do not know, and later returned with her to the Back Bay. I have those addresses. I don't know the houses any more than the man, I'm afraid."
But Sebastien did. They were the homes, respectively, of Verenna de Courten and Roger Abernathy.
Phoebe snorted in disbelief when he explained. "Then without a doubt, David is hunting you. That's too nice a coincidence for happenstance."
"It's probably how he found me," Sebastien said. "Jack will confirm; we know where in a strange city to go for succor. If I knew to contact Miss de Courten, he would, as well."
* * *
The morning newspaper arrived while they were considering their options. It was Jack who rose to fetch it back, and when he returned to the table, he handed the still-folded sheets directly to Sebastien. "You're a personage," he said, resuming his place and his teacup.
"It doesn't look anything like me," Sebastien said, flicking the edge of an engraving with a fingertip. For which he was profoundly grateful, though he wouldn't let either the worry or the relief show on his face.
A mortal man would have had the excuse of setting the paper aside to lift his cup. Sebastien, bereft of excuses, folded the paper open and read.
The article, though it occupied the position immediately above the advertising circular on the front page, was brief and typically melodramatic, and did little more than spuriously linking a wampyr sought in New Amsterdam with the killings in Boston.
"I'll find other lodging tonight," Sebastien said, and Phoebe laid a hand on his arm. "You'll do no such thing."
The argument that followed was predictable: there was nothing to link him to her, he would be safer here than in a hotel where others might notice drawn curtains and the irregularity of his hours, in the face of the new war hysteria was to be expected. But finally it was Jack who convinced him, as he had secretly expected.
"It's simple," Jack said. "Abigail Irene solves the crime, and everyone in Boston forgets you exist."
"Abby Irene is off the case," she reminded.
"And that's as likely to stop you as. . .?" Jack flicked the paper from Sebastien's grasp. "You're right. It doesn't look a thing like you, and no one in Boston knows you as anything except John Nast."
"Well," Sebastien said. "Present company excepted."
Abby Irene cleared her throat, with obvious reluctance. "And, of course, Epaphras Bull. I mean David."
"Yes," Sebastien said. "Jack, will you take a message for me?"
"I'm meeting friends for lunch," Jack said, in a manner that did not invite inquiry as to the nature of these friends. "I can drop it off along the way. Oh, Sebastien—"
"Yes?"
"I already told Phoebe"—he squeezed her hand—"I'll be out on business most of the night."
Sebastien didn't ask. If Jack wanted him to know, he would tell him. "Phoebe," he said, "Would you consider extending your reputation for eccentricity by claiming a cadaver?"
* * *
Jack, of course, knew perfectly how to maneuver through the channels of wampyr etiquette. Sebastien could keep himself as separate from society as he liked; whatever deference his age entitled him to, there had always been times when society would seek him out. And it seemed even America was no haven from the politics of the blood, any more.
So when Jack left at lunchtime to deliver Sebastien's invitation to
David, Sebastien attempted his best not to fret, or hover, or deliver unneeded remonstrations.
Shortly after sunset, when David's carriage—or, more precisely, when Abernathy's carriage, bearing David—arrived before the house, Jack had not yet returned, and Abby Irene was about her business. Sebastien met him at the door. Phoebe had come home from her errands, and though Sebastien would have ushered her back she reminded him it was her house, and so she stood at his shoulder, just behind him.
The wampyr stared at one another across the threshold, and Sebastien finally squared his shoulders and said, "Whose carriage is that, David?"
"A friend's," David said. "Surely, as I have answered your summons in good faith, you can allow me to enter? I can't imagine you've reconsidered my request, so there must be some manner in which I can assist you."
"It's not my home to issue invitations," Sebastien said. "We can speak in the cottage, if you like."
"Relegated to the garden shed again," David said, glancing down as he fiddled his cufflinks and studied the dove-colored fabric of his coat sleeves.
"Come in," Phoebe said impulsively, her hand on Sebastien's elbow as she stepped into the doorframe. "Come inside and talk."