Free The White City by Elizabeth Bear Page B

uses, including the ability to increase one’s faith. Magi used to trade small fortunes for a good quality lens in the old days. Supposedly the Vikings used it to determine the position of the sun on overcast days, and certainly slips have been recovered from barrows.” Her lashes fell across her eyes as she glanced down with a self-conscious smile. “According to some hedge-workers and witches, it’s supposed to serve as a protective talisman for women named Irene .”
    “It wasn’t on Miss Sharankova’s hand,” Sebastien said. “ That , I would have noticed.”
    “In fact, it’s not her ring,” Dyachenko said. “It’s too big—sized for a man’s hand, I’d say, or a large woman’s. But it was in her pocket when she died.”
    “Vikings?” Sebastien said.
    Abby Irene lowered her hand and nodded. “Is that significant?”
    “I don’t know.” He folded his arms across his body. “But Irina’s original patron was Scandinavian.”
    “Interesting,” said Dyachenko. “Is he in town?”
    “I don’t know that either,” Sebastien said. “But once the sun is down, I can find out for you.”
    The police inspector smiled like a Pulcinella. “Doctor Garrett, in the interim, would you be so kind as to
accompany me?”
    “It should be my pleasure.” She retrieved the ring from Phoebe as she stood, her indigo silk dressing gown whispering against the wooden chair. “Just allow me a moment to change into morning clothes. You will wish me to examine the body.”
    “Of course,” said Dyachenko, reaching for his tea glass at last. “Mrs. Smith, I am sorry to rob you of your companionship—”
    “That’s quite all right,” Phoebe said with a twinkle. “I am going to be quite busy locating Miss Belotserkovskaya. Since if she is not responsible for the murder, she is no doubt in danger of her life.”
    “We have men on that,” Dyachenko said, nonplussed.
    Phoebe smiled. “Sir. No doubt you do.”

Moscow
    Bely Gorod
    January 1897
     
    —Tell me everything you know about Starkad,— Sebastien said, taking Irina’s hand. She flinched from the chill, but only with discomfort, not the startled horror of one who had never experienced it before. In short, she showed every sign of being—as she presented herself—an experienced courtesan.
    Jack settled back in the chair opposite the divan upon which wampyr and girl coexisted, pretending he felt no trace of jealousy. That skill too, was a mark of the experienced courtesan, and one he had a certain amount of practice in. Not that he ever bothered to lie to Sebastien about his jealousy—it would be pointless dissembling, when Sebastien could smell it on him. But he had too much pride to allow his emotions to humiliate him.
    Before strangers, anyway.
    Irina seemed to be having a hard time formulating her thoughts, or maybe she was still struggling with the shock of Sergei’s death. In any case, it was almost half a minute before she withdrew her hand from Sebastien’s meant-to-be-comforting grasp and raised her eyes from the floor.
    She said, —He’s tall. Not like you. Very tall, broad shoulders, white hair and a red beard like a Finn. An accent I never could identify. He dresses like a laborer sometimes. Sometimes in good clothes, but carelessly. He does not play favorites among his courtesans. We do not live with him. He provides for us all the same. Not like you and Jack.
    —Jack is not my courtesan,— Sebastien said. —He is my…friend.
    Bastard , Jack thought through a pinned-on smile. When Irina gave him a questioning glance, he only forced it wider.
    —The blood do not have friends.
    Sebastien shrugged. —When you are as old as I am, you have whatever you want. Forgive me if I speak plainly.
    Despite everything, the archness of his tone made Jack feel like applauding him. The irony wasn’t lost on Irina, either, by the look she gave him.
    Sebastien, Jack had the experience to know, did not care to be manipulated. He sat back calmly and