5

Considering your preference for the blood of artists, you cannot long resist the temptation of calling on M. Hébert; he styles himself as something of a poet, at least enough to have suitors of all ages and genders fawn over his witticisms. You soon begin calling on him regularly; Estefania was correct, he really does have an exquisite terroir.

Unfortunately, you've since learned that his witticisms are all rehearsed—gathered from his subscriptions to a number of journals from the Continent—and you've learned that it is best to call on him late, so that he will be required to excuse himself for bed shortly after your arrival. By now, he is surely intoxicated and nearing the end of his evening allowance; his family strictly monitors his daily losses at cards.

It is while you are contemplating how best to explain your tardiness that you first become aware of a young woman—wearing the trousers and shirt of a man!—hurriedly exiting the home of M. Hébert.

She carries the smell of death about her like a perfume and when she bumps into you, you find yourself momentarily entranced by the way that fragrance complements her tawny skin. "Pahdon me, suh, Ah did naht see yous dere."

You shiver at the impact. What was that?

I feel…excited. There is something about this woman. I must know more.

It was nothing. A cool breeze.

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