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yes?”

      Varanus raised an eyebrow and examined the letter. The seal was clearly marked with the emblem of the Earl of Blackmoor, Varanus’s cousin: two wolves rampant beneath a burning star. It was as striking as it was peculiar.

      She gave Luka a knowing look. No wonder he had prompted her about contacting her relatives: he knew that they had already contacted her.

      “Best to see what it is about,” said Korbinian from the seat beside her.

      Varanus glanced at him. She had forgotten he was there. Or had he been there at all until he spoke? His comings and goings were most enigmatic.

      Varanus broke the seal and removed the letter inside. It was written in a neat hand with elegant if forceful strokes. It included the usual pleasantries and salutations, a reiteration of the family’s sympathy for her no longer recent tragedy, and reassurances that the English Varanuses were eager to help however necessary.

      She glanced up and saw Luka reading over her shoulder. He was several paces away, but being Shashavani—even one who still walked in the shadow of death—his eyes were keen enough to read at a distance.

      “What does it say?” Ekaterine asked, buttering a scone.

      “My cousin has invited me to visit the family in Blackmoor,” Varanus said. “At my ‘earliest possible convenience.’ No doubt to discuss the inheritance and why I haven’t handed it over to them.”

      Ekaterine laughed and said, “What a shame they will receive the same answer in person that they have in writing. Still, a trip out of the city would be nice.” She paused, her knife dangling between thumb and forefinger. “Where is Blackmoor?”

      “Um, Yorkshire, I think,” Varanus said.

      “Is that good?” Ekaterine asked. “What is Yorkshire like?”

      “I’ve heard it’s quite beautiful,” Varanus replied, “though of course I have never been there.”

      Luka clapped his hands and said, “Good, it is settled. I shall make arrangements for the journey.”

      “Not so quickly, Luka,” Varanus said, raising a hand. “If we are to go, you won’t be joining us.”

      “I…what?” Luka demanded.

      His tone was angry as well as surprised, and Varanus knew why. Lord Shashavani had sent him with her for her protection. However irritated he might be at their lengthy stay—and for the life of her, Varanus could not imagine why that might be—he was true to his duty.

      “My clinic, Luka,” Varanus reminded him. “If I am not in London to visit it, I will need someone to keep an eye on it for me. I certainly don’t want it being burgled or damaged.”

      “But—” Luka said.

      “Mmm, no,” Ekaterine said, quickly swallowing a mouthful of egg so that she could join the conversation. “No, Luka, she is going to be adamant about this. And I must say that I will be too. I have not spent months keeping that place in order only to have ruffians tearing it to pieces while we are away.”

      Luka hesitated.

      “If I remain behind and watch the place, you will settle your affairs, Doctor?” he asked. “Have I your word on that?”

      Oh, why did he have to be so difficult, Varanus wondered.

      “Yes, very well,” she said, not really meaning it. “I will settle the inheritance with my cousins if you remain behind and protect my clinic and my patients!”

      She stated the condition rather sharply, but all she could think of were Sally and the other denizens of the street whom she would not be able to look after while she was away.

      “Then it is agreed,” Luka said. He nodded. “Good. I shall look forward to departing this place. No offense to your countrymen, Doctor,” he quickly added.

      “No need to apologize,” Varanus replied. “They’re only half my countrymen, so I am only half offended.” She winked at him. “But tell me, Luka, why are you so insistent that we leave? Do you not enjoy London?”

      “I enjoy it,” Ekaterine interjected.

      “I do not,” Luka said. His moustache twitched again. “I find the climate disagreeable, the food inedible, the air unbreathable, and good wine nonexistent.”

      Being Georgian, Luka had extremely exacting tastes when it came to the quality of wine.

      “And what is more,” he continued, “we are overdue for our return. Lord Shashavani expected us to return from this excursion within two months. It has now been almost two years! I am surprised that he has not come here himself looking for us!”

      Varanus drew herself up. She did not appreciate Luka’s using her mentor to justify his own wish to depart prematurely.

      “Then if and when Lord Iosef arrives looking for us, we shall depart at once,” she said. “Until that time, I am in charge, and we will leave England when I am ready to do so. I have a great deal of work that must be done.”

      Luka made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, but after a moment, he bowed his head in acceptance.

      “That shall suffice,” he said. “For the time being.”

      “Good,” Varanus said. She added, “And you know, Luka, if you miss home so much—and I certainly understand longing for the fresh mountain air, the good food and wine—”

      “And women,” Ekaterine said with a knowing smirk. Luka’s romances with the village women and servants alike were famous throughout the Shashavani valley.

      “—then by all means,” Varanus continued, “depart forthwith. I have no wish to confine you in a land that you dislike, and Ekaterine and I shall be perfectly safe in your absence. You could go and inform Lord Iosef of our well-being, in case he is worried.”

      Luka made the noise again.

      “I cannot, Doctor,” he said, “as I have given Lord Shashavani my word that I shall watch over his apprentice—you—until such time as this journey is inevitably concluded. I cannot go back on my word to my sworn brother, now can I?”

      Varanus sighed. He did have a point. It was a pity, though. How marvelous it would be without him moping about the place.

      “Oh, do cheer up, Luka,” Ekaterine said brightly. “Try a boiled egg.”

      * * * *

      The ballroom of Twillingham House—the London residence of the Earls of Twillingham, as one might surmise—was something of a marvel. Lavishly decorated, impeccably designed, and constructed with the utmost care, the ballroom—indeed, the entire house—served as an attempt by the Earls of Twillingham to compete in prestige with their peers and superiors in Piccadilly and beyond. Varanus was quite astounded by the sight of it and impressed by the quality of personages in attendance, for the company was of a calibre one would have anticipated to throng about a duke, not someone with a lesser title. But, she reminded herself, her grandfather—an English exile in France, brother to an earl, possessed of no title himself—had made himself the toast of Paris through wealth, intrigue, and the manipulation of his alleged betters. Perhaps the Earls of Twillingham had done the same in England.

      Varanus was not one for balls or indeed for any form of social function. She much preferred quiet study and intelligent conversation, neither of which were much welcome among the well-to-do. But she acknowledged that Ekaterine was correct: she could not reside in London and yet rebuff any and all invitations presented to her. So it was necessary to appear at social engagements from time to time, and the Twillingham ball would do the work of three lesser events.

      And much to her pleasure, Varanus had spent most of the evening sitting alone, disturbed only on occasion when the hostess felt it a duty to impose the company of this or that notable upon her. Korbinian sat beside her, reading to her from Faust, and together

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