CHAPTER ONE

Christmas, 1898

Prague, Austro-Hungarian Empire

The clock struck twelve. It was midnight. December the Twenty-Fifth had passed and it was a new day. Doctor Varanus closed her book and set it to one side. She rose, took the shotgun from beside her chair, and returned it to its place above the mantelpiece.

“Well,” she said, turning toward Ekaterine, who sat painting by the window, “this has been a surprisingly pleasant Christmas.”

Ekaterine looked away from her work—a snowy street scene taken from outside—and shook her head.

“It isn’t Christmas,” she said.

“You are correct,” Varanus agreed, pointing toward the nearest clock. “By my count Christmas ended just over a minute ago.”

“Nonsense,” Ekaterine replied, “Christmas isn’t for another two weeks.”

“Ekaterine,” Varanus said, turning to her friend and sighing, “we are in the West. Here in the West, we use the Gregorian Calendar, and the Gregorian Calendar says that Christmas Day has finally ended with neither death nor bloodshed. And I consider that to be a successful Christmas.”

She returned to her chair and her book, very pleased with the day’s conclusion. Ekaterine simply looked at her and made a face.

“Doctor, you cannot truly expect every Christmas to result in misfortune. It has been five years since the…unpleasantness back home.” Ekaterine euphemistically avoided mentioning the horrors of the recent civil war by name. “And five years before that your son’s aunt fell to her death. Two tragedies in ten years do not make an ill-omened date.”

“What about Barcelona two years ago?” Varanus countered.

Ekaterine sighed. “Three tragedies in ten years. That is still no reason to assume the worst about one day or another.”

“She is right, Liebchen.”

Varanus glanced toward the fireplace and saw her dearly departed Korbinian lounging on the Persian carpet before the fire, dressed in the black and crimson uniform of a Fuchsburger hussar. Having died in his uniform almost forty years ago, he seemed loathed to wear anything else.

Varanus gave Korbinian an irritated look. As she was the only person who could see and hear him, she could hardly respond without appearing mad to Ekaterine.

“Christmas has been full of tragedy for us, it is true,” Korbinian continued, standing and walking toward her. He gently kissed Varanus’s lips and said, “But not this Christmas, and that is something to be pleased by.”

“I am pleased,” Varanus said softly. “Did you not hear? I even put the shotgun away.”

“Oh, Liebchen, what a wonder you are.”

Varanus kissed Korbinian and returned to her chair and her book. Across the room, Ekaterine had resumed her painting. A quick glance told Varanus that it was coming along nicely. As one of the immortal Shashavani, her eyesight was keen enough to make out every detail of the work even from such a distance.

After a little while, Ekaterine set her painting aside and began sorting through a rather large pile of letters and correspondence that lay heaped in a basket nearby. Varanus tried her best to keep on top of the mail, but it really was a damned nuisance. There ought to be a law against sending society invitations to respectable persons, she mused. It never did anything but cause trouble.

“You know, you really should read some of these,” Ekaterine called to her. “I seem to be the only person answering the post around here.”

“That is why you’re my social secretary,” Varanus answered. “Is there anything interesting?”

“Very little,” Ekaterine said, opening the next envelope with a silver knife. “Oh! Goodness!” she exclaimed, drawing out the embossed card inside. “We’ve been invited to a Christmas ball!”

“Ah…” Varanus said. She made a face. Perhaps she was proving a little slow managing her correspondence.

“This is most exciting,” Ekaterine continued. “I wonder what I shall wear!”

“Ekaterine,” Varanus interjected softly, “today was Christmas. Remember?”

Ekaterine paused a moment and drew herself up in a huff, acknowledging the date.

“You Latins and your wrong Christmas!” she declared, sounding deeply disappointed and throwing the invitation away.

“I am sorry—” Varanus began.

Suddenly, Ekaterine’s expression brightened as her eyes fell upon the next letter. “Oh! This one’s from our old friend Doctor Constantine!”

“Constantine?” Varanus asked. “That is a surprise.”

Well, not too much of a surprise. Varanus had sent a letter to Constantine’s London address when they had arrived in Prague, expressing pleasantries and inviting him to join them for tea if he ever happened to be in Austria-Hungary. Of course, she hadn’t really expected a reply.

“How is he?” she added.

“Quite well it seems,” Ekaterine replied, reading the first few lines of the letter. “He sends his best regards and hopes the letter finds you before Christmas, which technically it has.”

Varanus simply rolled her eyes at this. “Nonsense.”

“Good old Constantine,” Ekaterine said wistfully. She lowered the letter and gazed off toward one of the gas lamps. “Can you believe that it’s been ten years since we saw him in London?”

“Ten years,” Varanus agreed. “Little more than the blink of an eye for us, but probably quite some time for him. I wonder how he is.”

“I’ll bet he’s gone all gray,” Ekaterine announced.

Varanus sighed and said, “Ekaterine, he wasn’t that old when last we saw him.”

“Still,” Ekaterine said. She returned to the letter and continued reading. “Let me see here.… Constantine thanks you for your letter and hopes you’re enjoying Prague. He says he won’t be able to visit. He is leaving for America in the New Year. Something about a lecture tour. It sounds very exciting.” She paused a moment. “Perhaps I should give a lecture tour in America. I’m certain I would be awfully good at it.”

“You surely would be,” Varanus agreed, only slightly sarcastically, “but one must wonder, is America ready for you?”

Ekaterine considered this and then concluded, “Probably not.” She sounded rather proud of the fact.

“Anything else from Constantine?” Varanus asked.

“Um.…” Ekaterine continued reading for a bit. Then her eyes suddenly widened and she jumped to her feet. “Oh my word! He says that your son’s in Prague as well!”

“What?” Varanus demanded.

“Well, Zizkov,” amended Ekaterine. “It’s very close by.”

“What the Devil is he doing there?”

“Science, apparently,” Ekaterine replied. “Constantine writes ‘In his last letter to me, dated this past Autumn, Friedrich mentioned that he has taken up residence with some Bohemians in the City of Zizkov and is pursuing his experiments there. What marvelous coincidence that you happen now to be in Prague. I hope my letter arrives in time for you to reunite with your son for Christmas.’ ”

“Bohemians?” Varanus asked. “This is Prague; they’re all Bohemians here. Well, the ones that aren’t German.”

“Oh, no, I believe he means Bohemian artists, not Bohemian Czechs,” Ekaterine explained.

Varanus’s face fell at this. Her son had a dreadful habit of associating with troublesome people. First it had been American wellness enthusiasts; now it was artists! What next?

“Good Lord, artists,” she grumbled. “Well, there can be nothing for it, Ekaterine. We must find him first thing tomorrow and see what sort of a mess he’s gotten himself into. Does Constantine give an address for him? Or must we wander around Zizkov, knocking on doors and asking for directions?”

“Oh yes, there’s an address,” Ekaterine replied. “Although knocking on doors sounds rather fun.” She gasped with excitement. “We could go caroling!”

Varanus frowned at the mention of caroling and said, “I think that England was a bad influence on you, Ekaterine.”

“But it introduced me to scones and Kent!” Ekaterine protested. “What could be bad about that?”

Varanus was about to reply when she heard the front door open and close. The sound was very faint, coming from the foyer of the townhouse they had procured, but Varanus’s hearing was keen enough to notice. There followed two sets of footsteps in the hall, and presently the parlor door opened to reveal a pair of men.

The first was Luka, Ekaterine’s cousin, who entered still brushing snow from his elegant dark moustache. He was dressed simply, as was his custom, and he seemed rather disdainful of his European clothes. He paused by the fireplace and a scowl crossed his face.

“Someone has moved my shotgun,” he announced, sounding very displeased.

“Entirely my fault, Luka,” Ekaterine announced playfully, rising and rushing to embrace her kinsman. “I picked it up and put it back when I heard you downstairs, entirely to spite you!”

Luka did not reply, but he grumbled softly and tried to hide a smile.

Ekaterine kissed Luka on the cheek and added, “Goodness, you’re cold! What ever have you been doing? Standing in the river?”

“Standing in the snow,” answered the second man, Lord Iosef Shashavani, as he stepped into the parlor.

Iosef was a beautiful man with dark hair and pale blue eyes, and he wore his fine suit with far more ease than Luka wore his. Iosef looked impossibly young, scarcely out of his teens, but in fact he had almost two centuries behind him. Though his face was emotionless, Varanus saw a lurking glint of sorrow in his eyes, one that had not left him since the death of his wife five years earlier. But whatever he felt within, Iosef kept it hidden from the others as he continued:

“I did tell Luka that he should wait in the carriage, but he insisted on standing guard for me.”

“What sort of friend waits in a carriage while his sworn brother burgles a house?” Luka replied. He took a pipe from his coat pocket and began packing it with tobacco. “A poor friend, that’s what.”

“A sensible friend,” Iosef said.

“Burgles a house?” Varanus asked. “Do I take it that the auction did not go as planned?”

“It did not,” Iosef replied, the hint of displeasure in his voice. He reached into his pocket as if to draw something out, but instead he kept his hand there as he continued, “The late Herr Hoffmann’s family had already sold much of his collection before the auction itself. The piece I require was not among the objects sold.”

“So you robbed them?” Varanus asked, skeptically.

“Do not be absurd,” Iosef replied. “I entered the house unseen, I examined their papers, and I found a bill of sale. It has told me everything I need to know.”

“Cause for celebration!” Ekaterine announced. “I’ll have the servants bring some wine.”

“That will not be necessary,” Iosef said.

Luka quickly held up a hand. “Let us not be hasty. Wine sounds like a very good idea.”

Iosef looked at him. “You have snow on your moustache.”

Luka made a face and quickly brushed at his face with his fingertips, trying to be both expedient and nonchalant.

“And where is your missing trinket, My Lord?” Varanus asked, returning to the subject.

“It was sold to a man named Mordechai,” Iosef said. “He owns a curiosity shop and bookstore in the Old Town, so tomorrow I will pay him a visit and see what sort of arrangement can be reached.”

“Do you intend to burgle him as well, My Lord?” Varanus asked. It was a cheeky question.

The corner of Iosef’s mouth tilted upward into a slight smile, though the sadness in his eyes remained.

“Of course not, Varanus. One does not rob a man who sells books any more than one would rob a church, for they are both providing a great service to the community.”