Free The Saint-Germain Chronicles by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

of Germans. He waited until the violin was pouring out long cascades of sound before he reached for the latch, praying that if the hinges squeaked, the music would cover it.
     
    In the small sitting room, Saint-Germain heard the distant whine of an opening door, and his bow hesitated on the strings. He listened, his expanded senses acute, then sat back and continued the
Capriccio
he had been playing, letting the sound guide the solitary intruder. He gave a small part of his attention to the unsteady footfalls in the corridor, but for the most part, he concentrated on the long pattern of descending thirds of the cadenza. Some few minutes later, when he had begun one of the Beethoven
Romanzas
, a ragged figure clutching a kitchen knife appeared in the doorway and emerged uncertainly from the darkness into the warmth of the hearthlight and the single kerosene lantern. Saint-Germain lowered his violin and gave the newcomer an appraising stare. His dark eyes narrowed briefly, then his brows raised a fraction as he recognized the man. “You will not need that knife, Mister Tree.”
    He had expected many things, but not this lone, elegant man. James shook his head, his expression becoming more dazed than ever. “I…” He brought a grimy, bruised hand to his eyes and made a shaky attempt at laughter which did not come off. He coughed once, to clear his voice. “When I got here, and heard music… I thought that… I don’t know what.” As he spoke he reached out to steady himself against the back of one of the three overstuffed chairs in the fine stone room, which was chilly in spite of the fire. “Excuse me… I’m not… myself.”
    “Yes, I can see that,” Saint-Germain said with gentleness, knowing more
surely than James how unlike himself he was. He stood to put his violin into its
velvet-lined case, then tucked the loosened bow into its holder before closing
the top. This done, he set the case on the occasional table beside his chair and
turned to James. “Sit down, Mister Tree. Please.” It was definitely a command
but one so kindly given that the other man complied at once, dropping gratefully into the chair which had been supporting him. The knife clattered to the floor, but neither paid any attention to it.
    “It’s been… a while,” James said distantly, looking up at the painting over the fireplace. Then his gaze fell on Saint-Germain, and he saw the man properly for the first time.
    Le Comte was casually dressed by his own exacting standards: a black hacking jacket, a white shirt and black sweater under it, and black trousers. There were black, ankle-high jodhpur boots on his small feet, the heels and soles unusually thick. Aside from a silver signet ring, he wore no jewelry. “Since you have been here? More than a decade, I would suppose.”
    “Yes. ”James shifted in the chair, his movements those of utter exhaustion. “This place… I don’t know why.” Only now that he had actually arrived at his goal did he wonder what had driven him to seek it out. Indistinct images filtered through his mind, most of them senseless, one or two of them frightening.
    “On Madelaine’s behalf, I’m pleased to welcome you back. I hope you will stay as long as you wish to.” He said this sincerely, and watched James for his response.
    “Thanks. I don’t know what… thanks.” In this light, and with the abuses of the last few days, it was not possible to see how much the last ten years had favored James Emmerson Tree. His hair had turned from glossy chestnut to silver without loss of abundance; the lines of his face had deepened but had not become lost in fretwork or pouches, so that his character was cleanly incised, delineated in strong, sharp lines. Now, with smudges of dirt and dried blood on him, it was not apparent that while at thirty he had been good looking, at fifty he was superbly handsome. He fingered the tear on his collar where his press tag had been. “I thought… Madelaine might have