LITMIR.BIZ

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his nose and mouth. He lashed out almost blindly with hands and fists, but Ekaterine bobbed back and forth, bending at the waist and evading each blow effortlessly.

      Bending at the waist.… Perhaps there was something to Ekaterine’s obsession with going about uncorseted after all.

      Suddenly, one of the ruffian’s incoherent punches managed to get through, striking Ekaterine on the side of the head. She stumbled a little and touched her face. In the interim, the ruffian drew a short knife from behind his back and raised it to strike.

      Ekaterine twisted away to avoid the ruffian’s first two thrusts. Finished with the game of strike and evasion, she raised one foot as high as her skirts would allow and brought it down on the side of the man’s knee, shattering the joint. The man screamed in pain, but Ekaterine rocked back on her heel and kicked him under the chin. His head struck the wall and he fell over.

      The leader of the ruffians was on his feet again. Ekaterine twisted in place to regard him, but with her weight firmly placed upon her heel, she immediately lost her balance and tumbled backward. She hit the ground with a painful smack.

      Stunned and startled, the leader of the ruffians stood still for a moment. Varanus could not tell if he meant to fight or flee, but either would be an inconvenience. Making up his mind, the man snatched up the fallen knife and lunged for Ekaterine. Varanus, already in motion, stepped between them. She caught the knife by the blade and shoved it away, leaving the man’s body open for a counterattack. Never one to waste opportunities, Varanus stepped forward and swept the man’s leg out from under him. Her free hand grabbed him by the collar and lowered him to the ground. The man struggled to rise, but Varanus placed one hand against his chest and held him down.

      “I am sorry,” she said. “It isn’t personal, though I suspect you deserve it.”

      Without another word, she took his head in her hands and snapped his neck.

      “Neatly done, liebchen,” said a gentle voice beside her.

      She turned her head and saw the slender, elegant form of her beloved Korbinian kneeling beside her. He wore a black and crimson hussar’s uniform, just as he had the night of his death almost thirty years ago. Dead but not gone: he had always been with her.

      “Thank you,” she said softly, smiling at him. She turned in place and looked over her shoulder. “Ekaterine, are you well?”

      “I am displeased!” came the reply.

      Ekaterine slowly picked herself up off the ground and tried with limited success to brush the dirt and grime from the back of her dress.

      “At least you are unhurt,” Varanus said. She picked up the fallen lantern and placed it where the light could better serve Ekaterine.

      “The knife,” Korbinian said, in his rich German accent.

      “What?” Varanus asked, looking back at him. She kept her voice low. Only she could see and hear him, and there was little purpose in making Ekaterine think that she made a habit of talking to herself.

      “The knife,” Korbinian repeated, pointing to the weapon where it lay on the ground. “You are hungry. Best get to it, ja?”

      Of course. How clever of him.

      Varanus snatched up the knife with her wounded hand; or more accurately, her formerly wounded hand. The blood had stopped flowing and the flesh had already begun to knit together. Soon there would be no sign of injury.

      Behind her, Ekaterine continued to grumble about the state of her dress. Her hair had come free in the fall, the dark brown curls spilling about her face and shoulders. The hat had also fallen, but she seemed not to mind it much. Instead, she hiked up her skirts and looked at her legs.

      “My stockings are torn,” she announced, letting her skirts drop with a sigh.

      “I’m awfully sorry,” Varanus said. She hadn’t meant for the excursion to result in damaged accouterments.

      Ekaterine waved the apology away and said, “Oh, think nothing of it. It was my own fault for thinking that I could move properly in these damned English boots.”

      “They’re quite lovely,” Varanus said.

      As she spoke, she cut the throat of the ruffian beneath her. She removed one glove and used her fingertip to taste the blood that gushed out onto the street. It was delicious, probably fattened on beef and potatoes.

      “Lovely they may be,” Ekaterine said. She paused and turned her foot from one side to the other to inspect them. “Yes, they are rather, aren’t they?” She caught herself and said, “But they are abhorrent. They’re quite tight around the ankle, and the heel is far too small. How am I expected to perform any sort of athleticism while wearing them?”

      “You aren’t, obviously,” Varanus said.

      She leaned down and drank deeply of the dead ruffian’s blood. The experience was as delicious as the meal. It had been weeks since she had tasted anything but solid food.

      After a short while, she felt Korbinian stroke her cheek, distracting her from the blood drinking.

      “That is enough, liebchen,” he whispered. “You should not dally. Your clinic, remember?”

      Varanus sat up, her head spinning from the fresh blood. She had forgotten how incredible a proper meal was. With each drop of liquid that passed her lips, her body felt stronger, livelier, more awake. Mortal food simply could not compare, certainly not the bland palate of her English relatives. Whatever her qualms about French cuisine—and she had many—at least they knew how to give food flavor.

      But Korbinian was right. She had her clinic and her patients to attend to. There was always the risk of discovery, limited though it might be in the depths of the rookery.

      “Come Ekaterine,” she said, standing, “we should be on our way.”

      Ekaterine smiled and asked, “Are you properly sated?”

      Varanus removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her mouth clean.

      “For now,” she said. “Are you in order?”

      Ekaterine straightened her hair and brushed out the wrinkles in her skirt until she looked properly presentable again.

      “Quite so,” she said. “Though I fear, alas, that the hat is gone. And there is nothing to be done about that.”

      “Is that so?” Varanus asked. She walked to where the hat lay in the street, concealed only by shadows. She picked it up, brushed it off, and handed it to Ekaterine with a smile.

      Ekaterine frowned for a moment before placing the hat back on her head and securing it with a pin.

      “Well,” she said, “you can’t fault me for trying.”

      “Ekaterine,” Varanus said, “I doubt very much that I could fault you for anything.”

      “Nor I, you,” Ekaterine said. “I suppose that’s why we are so good at getting things done.”

      “Yes,” Varanus agreed, as they walked back toward the street. “If only everyone else agreed with us on that point.” There was a lengthy pause, but at the mouth of the alley she spoke again. “Mildred?” she asked. “Really? Mildred?”

      “It was the first English name that came to mind,” Ekaterine said.

      Varanus made a “humph” noise and repeated the name: “Mildred.” She shook her head and said, “In that case, Ekaterine, next time we impersonate lost pedestrians, I shall be forced to call you Constance.”

      “Constance?” Ekaterine asked. “From Constantine, yes? I rather like that.”

      “You’re not supposed to like it!” Varanus protested.

      “Hush,” Ekaterine said. “It’s not my fault that you’re better at naming people than I am…Mildred.”

      They

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