“You shouldn’t distribute it so liberally,” I said. “Make it last so that you can help more people.”
She shrugged and refused to hear me.
I pushed away from the counter, heading toward the door.
“Where are you going?” She frowned at me. “We still have work to do.”
“I’m stepping out to smoke. Would you like to grace me with your ever-sought-after company?” I teased.
She considered saying no; I could see it in her face, but she eventually decided against her better judgment and followed me.
We found a comfortable stone banister along the stairs to sit, right outside the side entrance. I plucked a cigarette from my inner breast pocket.
A few wisps of snow fell in flurries across the yard, like ghosts dancing about the ground before disappearing.
I caught Edith staring. Her eyes darted away quickly, just not quickly enough. It did not take a detective to know she wanted to say something. I could practically feel the tension emanating as she shifted, sitting on the opposite banister facing me.
“What is it now? Spit it out.”
“I have told you everything about my life.”
“What are you on about?”
“I don’t know anything about you.”
I stared at her before bringing the cigarette to my lips, letting it hang loosely as I found my lighter. “You never asked.”
The wind whistled through the buildings in our silence. I breathed heavily, letting the smoke singe my throat before letting it go through my nose.
“Then let’s make a deal.”
I glanced over at her cautiously.
“If one of us starts talking about our past, the other has to listen. Both ways. That goes for questions; you have to answer honestly. That’s whatfriendsdo, right?”
I lifted my gaze to the sky, as if to contemplate. It wasn’t my favorite game, but it would pass the time. I nodded in reply.
“Did you have a profession before you were a fixer? Whereare you from? What about your family?” She gulped, scratching nervously at the head covering.
“I was a muse.” I glanced down at the cherried end of the cigarette. Somehow, focusing on the details of the ash was soothing as the embers crept up the paper.
“A muse? Like those of the master painters?” She smiled.
“Exactly.” I tapped the ash off the end of the paper. “It was the easiest way to make money.”
“Are you in many paintings, then?”
“No,” I laughed. “There wasn’t really much painting going on.”
She nodded in acceptance of the answer, but more like she was trying to encourage. “Where are you from?”
“A small, forgettable place in the Siberian wilderness.”
“Where is your family now?”
“Orphaned.”
“How did you turn?”
