“From where?” asks Bowie.
“Debrecen, nearly a day’s travel to the north. Whoever is responsible for stealing these girls has broadened their reach, coming this far south.”
“Too many missing from one place would leave a clearer trail. This scattershot approach provides better cover. Little do they know we now have a tracker with the nose of a mighty wolf on our side.”
I glance up because I know Bowie’s looking at me. His confidence is well placed. I’m an excellent tracker, but I find their attention unsettling. I manage a smile and hope I don’t look silly.
“Andras, dear, are you sure I can’t get you a drink?” asks Catherine. “Brandy perhaps or port? Just because Bowie can’t partake doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
Catherine seems awfully comfortable with the notion that her brother is a vampire. Remarkable woman. I shake my head. “No, thank you.” I’ve never had spirits, and this would be a terrible time to find out whether I’m an easy drunk.
“We’ll begin our hunt tomorrow at dusk,” says Bowie. “I’ll speak first with the families of the missing girls, which should give Andras an opportunity to catch their scents. Instinct tells me the trail will lead north. If you could gather the details of each missing girl to the north, we’ll visit their families along the way.”
“Already done. Istvan’s left a packet of papers in your room with maps, locations, and the names of each victim—”
Catherine is cut off as a young girl clad in flowing layers of yellow silk bursts into the room, past a startled Istvan, and heads straight for Bowie. “Uncle!” Her gaze passes over me next. “And you’ve brought a friend!”
“Cecily,” Catherine snaps. “What are you doing out of bed at this hour? In your nightclothes in front of company, really?”
Cecily, who is perhaps twelve or thirteen years old, looks not one whit ashamed. Her blonde curls bounce defiantly as if to punctuate her words. “I haven’t seen Uncle Bowie in an age, Mama. I didn’t know he’d brought a guest. Sorry.” She lifts her skirts a fraction. “I did put on a dress,” she offers in the most insincere apology I’ve ever heard.
“You didn’t bother to lace it.” Catherine rolls her eyes, but when they land again upon her daughter, her expression loses its annoyance and grows fond.
Flouncing onto Bowie’s lap, Cecily sweeps up her curls to expose her back and the trailing laces. “Will you, Uncle?”
I don’t know much about what is and isn’t appropriate for a young noble lady to wear, but Cecily is thoroughly covered from head to toe. It seems to me she’s thrown a dress over her nightclothes, all in various shades of yellow, and just wasn’t able to affix the laces herself. To have clothes so fancy you need help to put them on is unfathomable.
She looks me over with wide eyes as Bowie obediently ties up her laces. Though I must be quite the eyesore in her charmed life, with my shaggy hair and shabby clothes, her gaze holds the same kindness as her mother’s and uncle’s.
Cecily must resemble her father. Her face is quite different from theirs, oval-shaped with plump pink cheeks, strawberry-bright lips that grin like a naughty child who’s gotten away with stealing sweets, and crystal-clear blue eyes of a shade much lighter than Bowie’s stormy-sky irises. She smells so strongly of mint she must have a sprig of it on her person somewhere.
“Who are you?” she asks casually, causing her mother to tut.
“Manners, Cecily, please.”
“Sorry, Mama,” says Cecily with her eyes still trained on me. “Who are you, please?”
Behind her, Bowie laughs, finishes with the laces, and pats her back. She lets down her hair but doesn’t leave her spot in his lap. Bowie tolerates this with the patience I’ve come to suspect is in his nature.
I swallow. “I’m Andras. Pleased to meet you.” Somehow my name seems inadequate here. Like I should be Andras of so and so from such and such, but none of that exists for me. I’m just Andras, just a mongrel.
“My pleasure, Andras.” Cecily’s excitement spills over to her voice, lending it a high musicality as she speaks. “I am Cecily, Bowie’s niece. Are you his beau?”
I can only blink.
“Cecily!” Catherine rises from her chair, takes the girl’s arm, and gently pulls her from the relative safety of Bowie’s lap.
“What? He’s handsome. I thought—”
“Questions like that are inappropriate,” Catherine chides. “But surely you already know as much. Besides, they’ve only just met.”
“So? It could have been love at first sight!” Cecily claps a hand over her heart and swoons in a dramatic fashion. “How romantic.” She catches her uncle’s gaze. “Was it love at first sight?”
Catherine pats the girl on the bottom while shooing her from the room. “Go to bed, you horrible pest. To say such things to our guest! Have I not raised you better than this?”
Though the words alone could be harsh, their tone is soft, and Catherine is obviously holding back laughter.
“But my gown is now laced,” Cecily whines as Istvan takes over, calmly leading her away. “And my maid is long since asleep. How am I to undress?”
