Free James Asher 2 - Traveling With The Dead by Barbara Hambly

far as Lydia could tell in the low amber radiance of candlelight, that a dark woman would wear; everything of the highest quality— Swiss cotton, Melton wool, Italian silk. They were cut for a woman of Lydia’s height, with a waist like a stem and breasts like blown roses.
    “Her clothing.” Ysidro turned a chemise over in one gray-gloved hand. “None of his. I like this not, Mistress Asher.” He let the silk slither away. “For many years now it has only been love of her that has kept him on this earth. She is the strong one. He hunts in her shadow, brittle, like antique glass.”
    “Might that be reason in itself?” Lydia turned from the dresser, where an ivory hair receiver and ivory-handled scissors spoke of other pieces of a matched toilet set now vanished: brush, comb, mirror. A glove box lay open, gloves of all colors lying like dried and flaccid spiders where they had been spilled.
    Ysidro lifted a brow.
    Lydia
    
    
     went on hesitantly, “Might he be fleeing her?”
    “To such sanctuary as the Austrian Empire would afford?” He moved around the corner of the bed, touched the imprint on the dusty counterpane where the portmanteau had rested, and his nostrils flared again, seeking clues from the alien scents of the air. “I would not have said so. She loves him, guards him; she is all in all to him.”
    He paused for a long time, his face half turned from her, inexpressive as the level softness of his voice. “But it is true that one may hate one’s all in all at the same time that one loves. This was something…” Another pause, debating; then he went on, “This was something I never understood as a living man.”
    He met her eyes, expressionless, and she could not reply.
    After a time he said, “The Calais Mail departs Charing Cross at nine. I doubt we can prepare swiftly enough to make tonight’s. Meet me tomorrow night at eight on the platform, you and your maid. I shall wire my own arrangements to Paris beforehand; I can—”
    “I’m not taking a maid!” Lydia said, shocked.
    Ysidro’s brows lifted again, colorless against his colorless face. “Naturally, she shall know nothing of me, save as a chance-met companion on the train.”
    “No.”
    “Mistress Asher—”
    “This is not a matter for discussion, Don Simon.” Frightened as she was at the thought of traveling to Vienna—of dealing with one or possibly several vampires—the thought of journeying in company with one unnerved her still more. And as for putting Ellen or anyone else in similar danger…
    “I came to you for advice in dealing with vampires, specifically with Lord Ernchester. There isn’t a great deal of reliable information on the subject, you know.” She saw the flare of genuine exasperation in his eyes behind the vampire stillness, and rather to her own surprise it didn’t frighten her as it had.
    “But I would not take anyone—certainly not a woman who’s been my friend and servant for nearly fifteen years—into that situation without telling her what kind of danger she may be facing, which, on the face of it, is impossible.”
    “A woman of your station does not travel alone.”
    “Nonsense. My friend Josetta Beyerly travels by herself all the time. So does—”
    “You will not.” Ysidro’s voice did not grow louder, nor his expression change, but she felt his irritation like a wave of cold off a block of ice. “In my day no woman traveled alone, save peasants and women of the streets.”
    “Well, when I encounter a roving band of paid-off mercenary soldiers between here and Calais, I’ll certainly wish I’d taken your advice.”
    “Don’t talk foolishness. You might trace Karolyi but you would never get near Ernchester, and it is Ernchester to whom I must speak on this matter.”
    “You’re the one who’s talking foolishness,” retorted Lydia, though she knew he was right. “This is the twentieth century, not the sixteenth. I will certainly appreciate whatever advice you can give