LITMIR.BIZ

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was content to turn the first would-be mugger she encountered into a whipping boy for the whole of the criminal classes.

      By the time Varanus arrived, Ekaterine had cleaned and cleared the surgery. Varanus wasted little time in beginning her autopsy on the giant. The cellar was kept cold with blocks of ice, but it was still not cold enough for the bodies to keep more than a few days. She worked quickly but carefully, while Ekaterine recorded any abnormality or point of interest. Indeed, Ekaterine scarcely needed prompting with most of the information, which pleased Varanus greatly. Over a decade of working together had made their coordination almost perfect.

      In particular, the giant’s heart caught Varanus’s attention, for it seemed in the midst of malignant decay. She suspected that were it not for her intervention, he would have lasted only a few more years. She also noted a tumorous growth on the brain, which intrigued her. She decided to preserve both the brain and the heart for further study.

      The work was so engrossing that she did not even notice the approach of dawn until Korbinian prompted her about it. Alerted, she and Ekaterine rushed to conceal the bodies and lock the cellar and then hurried to find a cab back to the West End. To Varanus’s relief, they arrived just before the first rays of light appeared over the skyline. The morning sunlight would not kill her—not with the pervasive smoke and the protection of a veil—but she did not relish having to explain skin burns to the servants.

      * * * *

      Being Shashavani, Ekaterine required only a few hours of sleep—for she still walked in the shadow of death—while Varanus required no rest at all, save for an hour or two of quiet meditation. Varanus had obtained a property in Mayfair for the duration of their stay in England, and it was a simple matter to slip in through the tradesman’s entrance and return to their rooms without notice. It was a ritual they had conducted nearly every night for months.

      Varanus was “awakened” in due course by her lady’s maid. She washed, dressed, and joined Ekaterine for breakfast. The curtains of the house were kept closed on account of Varanus’s sensitive eyes, which she had learned was a common complaint of her English cousins and which was accepted by her neighbors without a word.

      Silently, Varanus prodded the contents of her plate with her fork. She had long ago come to terms with the fact that breakfast was to consist of unreasonable quantities of unspiced meat, eggs, and scones. Cook was so unbearably proud of her cooking that Varanus simply did not have the heart to make her do anything different. Besides, the woman had come highly recommended, which meant that Varanus dreaded to think what might happen if she attempted French or Georgian cooking. Well, certainly not Georgian; Cook probably had no idea where Georgia was, let alone what was eaten there. And the continental half of Varanus’s ancestry would not allow her to trust French cooking to the English any more than she would trust English business to the French.

      “Shall we attend to the Jago matter tonight?” she asked Ekaterine.

      “We cannot,” Ekaterine replied. She ate a bit of sausage as daintily as one could eat sausage. “You will recall, we have the Earl of Twillingham’s ball to attend tonight.”

      Varanus sighed. She had quite forgotten, and she had little interest in any event. How tedious it was to be out of mourning and back into Society.

      “Yes, we do don’t we,” Varanus said. After a pause, she said, “Merde.”

      “Language,” Ekaterine admonished, though she smiled. “I do my best to keep you free from these things, but some are simply inescapable if we are to have a presence here. You aren’t in mourning any longer and to continually refuse social engagements begins to look like rudeness.”

      “Even so—” Varanus began.

      “We could always return home,” came a man’s voice speaking Svan from the direction of the hall.

      Varanus looked and saw Luka, Ekaterine’s cousin and Lord Shashavani’s…well, bodyguard, companion, and just about everything rolled into one. Like Ekaterine, he had been dispatched with her when she went to France for her late father’s funeral a year and a half ago. Unlike Ekaterine, he had so little tolerance for respectable society that they had continued to portray him as a servant long after abandoning the pretense with Ekaterine.

      Luka was tall, noble in countenance and bearing, with Ekaterine’s high cheekbones and dark hair. He wore an elegant and neatly trimmed moustache and dressed in the manner of a tradesman. He stood in the doorway and waited to be called into the room, a necessary conceit for the sake of the actual servants.

      “Yes, thank you, Luka,” Varanus replied in English. “You may approach.” She then switched to the Svanish tongue. “And no, we shall not be leaving for home any time soon. I cannot depart until the matter of my grandfather’s property has been sorted out. And, alas, my English cousins have not yet approached me about managing those affairs.”

      It was a conversation they had had for months now. Luka seemed to have been under the peculiar misapprehension that their visit to England would be only a few weeks, as short as their stay in France. He was quite mistaken.

      “Perhaps you should expedite the matter,” Luka said. He kept his tone polite and humble in case the servants were listening, but the forcefulness was there. He turned toward Ekaterine as if expecting her to confirm his statement.

      Ekaterine looked from one to the other and said, “Don’t look at me. I don’t mind staying. The whole visit has been rather fun, I think.”

      Luka’s moustache twitched a little, a sure sign that he was on edge.

      “You have become too enamored of the English, cousin,” he said.

      Ekaterine tilted her head and looked at him, replying, “No, I don’t think so.”

      “English customs then,” Luka said. “Afternoon tea and…and sherry.”

      “Yes, sherry is rather nice, isn’t it?” Ekaterine asked, smiling. She was taunting Luka, of course, and he was following right along with it.

      “And English fashion,” Luka added, looking disdainfully at his own suit.

      None of the Shashavani had ever quite become used to Varanus’s preference for European clothing. For Luka now to be surrounded by it must have been nearly unbearable for him.

      “Fashion maybe,” Varanus said, “but not hats or corsets apparently.”

      “Or boots,” Ekaterine added helpfully. She looked down at her pale gray dress and smiled. “But I do enjoy their gowns. All sorts of little…things.”

      She paused, searching for the word to describe the beading, buttons, and bows that adorned the garment. Quite to Varanus’s surprise, Ekaterine had taken an immediate liking to the intricacy of European dresses. In contrast to Varanus’s own simple and conservative garments, Ekaterine favored elaborate adornment and fussy details.

      “Froufrou,” Varanus said in French.

      “Yes, froufrou,” Ekaterine said, delighted at the word. “It means exactly what it sounds like.”

      “Yes,” Luka agreed. “Nonsense.”

      Ekaterine continued, “And this peculiar contraption at the back. It’s all very amusing. They call it a ‘bustle,’” she told Luka. “Have you ever heard of anything more delightfully absurd?”

      “I—” Luka began in reply.

      “Bustle,” Ekaterine repeated.

      Varanus drank some tea and said, “And yet, you take offense at having a bow on a hat.”

      “That’s entirely different,” Ekaterine said very seriously, though Varanus noted that she did not explain why.

      “Is there something that we may do for you, Luka?” Varanus asked, looking back at him. “Or are you here seeking a boiled egg?”

      The corner of Luka’s mouth turned up in amusement for the briefest of moments. He produced a sealed envelope from

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