anger was his fault as much as David's. Everything that had gone wrong between them, all the jealousy and sorrow. He might have preserved David's existence—one could not say, saved his life—but he hadn't, he thought, made existing any easier for him. And wasn't that what parents were meant to do, teach their children?
He took one deep breath, for speaking, and spoke over the crackle of the log Phoebe had slid onto the fire. "I'm sorry."
The cigarette rose to David's mouth again. Smoke trickled from his nostrils. He stared at Sebastien for a long, smooth moment before he nodded and said softly, "Yes. I see that you are. And I was untruthful."
"It's your nature. Is there any such person as Master White, David?"
"Trevor White," David said. "There is. Not too much chance of pursuit, though, in all honesty. You needn't worry that I'm linked to your murdered whores. Either through omission or commission. Nor is Chouchou—"
"I was more afraid," Sebastien said, "that she would prove a victim. If someone were killing young men as a means to find you."
"I do not think so," David said. "Everyone in Europe thinks I went east."
The truth, Sebastien judged, as much by the unfamiliarity of the tone and expression David wore as by knowing what his lies looked like. "So you're not seeking my help?"
"I am," David said. "But not for that. I just. . ." He shrugged. "You know."
Sebastien, watching the frown lines at the corners of David's mouth, knew very well. "Can we begin anew, then?"
David laughed. "You wouldn't say that unless you wanted something. Very well, then. Tell me what you want. I'll think about it."
"I want you to convince Roger Abernathy to help me catch the murderer who is slaughtering Ganymedes in their homes, since it definitely isn't any enemy of yours. Or you either, I trust? No? Good."
"Oh."
David crushed out his cigarette.
* * *
Abby Irene returned a little before six, with another carriage that they turned out not to need, as—courtesy of David—they had Abernathy's. Once Abby Irene renewed the preservative spells upon the corpse, loading it was simply a matter of carrying the coffin out the front door—Sebastien and David managed quite well, with the women supervising—and manhandling it onto the luggage rack.
Sebastien rode with the cabdriver to steward their unwitting passenger through the brief journey.
This time, he arrived in Chouchou's study by the front door.
* * *
Chouchou, resplendent in peach silk and armed with an ostrich plume fan, might have regretted inviting David in, but she was as stuck with him now as Sebastien was. It mattered not that Chouchou stood with her back to the coffin on the piano—and its slightly rain-damp entourage—while David and Sebastien pried up the hastily tacked lid with fingernails.
She turned when David called her name, moving less stiffly this time.
Sebastien, silent, picking pine splinters from dead fingertips, only stood and watched. Chouchou—complexion pale as her powder—pressed the obscuring fan to her mouth as she came to the coffin with mincing steps. Her ring glittered as she reached out and lightly stroked his cheek, the one not laid open deep enough to show his teeth through the gap like a string of red-dyed pearls.
The bathed and bloodless wounds of the young man did what Sebastien's persuasion could not, or perhaps it was David's influence. "Grant Nelson," she said. "Did you even bother to learn his name, Mr. Nast?"
Sebastien didn't answer.
Chouchou looked up, eyes dry and gleaming behind the black false lashes, and said, "It wasn't Michael. How do I prove it?"
Sebastien could not but admire her loyalty and courage.
* * *
Of course, Chouchou had a room with a false panel. Sebastien wondered if such things were de rigeur in her profession, and decided, most likely, yes. The space behind it, however, was only large enough for two, and one of them had to be Abby Irene, whose sorceries required she see the subject. Jack wanted to draw straws for the second position, but Sebastien claimed it by fiat.
They had to trust Chouchou to summon Michael Penfold without trickery, but Sebastien read her note and David accompanied the coachman when he delivered it, which were the best assurances they could obtain. The coachman did not return with the Governor, of course. That would have been grossly unsubtle, and there were protocols for such things.
There was time after David returned for Sebastien and Abby Irene to secret themselves, breast to breast in the confined space which quickly grew warm and rank with Abby Irene's