As the paint dissolved, he watched, expecting to see a cipher or figures or something else entirely.
But there was nothing. Just the beautiful Mediterranean city leeching away into a blur of bright colors that washed down the drain, leaving only gray behind.
And now here he was, alone and angry, no closer to understanding the mystery, no closer to understanding Sebastian de Leon, and nothing to show for it except Ned’s shocked and hurt expression when he’d checked on Wesley and seen the ruined canvas of the staff’s treasured painting.
With an angry huff, Wesley gave up and went to bed.
The morning light through his window was pale and fog-filtered as Sebastian woke, thankfully not to another blood terror, but to knocking on his door—and not the door to the hallway, either, but the interior door that led down to the former art gallery.
He opened his eyes, and Zhang’s astral projection was in the middle of the room.
“I can’t see if you’re actually here,” Zhang’s projection said. “But if you are, open your damn door already.”
Sebastian blinked. He scrubbed a hand over his face, but Zhang’s projection was still there, and someone was still knocking.
He shook himself all the way awake. He grabbed his shirt and yanked it over his head, then hastily pulled Isabel’s painting of San Juan off the wall and slid it underneath the bed, face down, before going to the door.
Jade was there, her arms folded, and Zhang’s physical body on the step behind her, a paper bag in hand.
“AndnowI can see you from the astral plane,” said Zhang’s astral projection, behind him.
“If you’re going to use your magic tattoo to disappear where we can’t find you,” Jade said, “then I reserve the right to telekinetically pick your outside locks so I can knock on your door.”
That was fair. “I upset Lord Fine last night, I had to leave,” he said, as he held open the door wide enough for them to come in.
“Even though you were leaving your own home.” Zhang followed Jade in and handed Sebastian a thermos. “Here. Coffee.”
Sebastian unscrewed the lid and brought the thermos to his nose, inhaling the welcome scent. “You are a gentleman,” he said to Zhang, as he gave the couple the table, and went to the shelf above the stove. “But I apologize that I’m not dressed to receive a lady.”
“Mmm, true, and no couch for me to faint on,” Jade said dryly.
Zhang set his paper bag on the table. “Is that an army-issue T-shirt?”
Sebastian nodded as he took a half-full can of powdered milk off the shelf. The T-shirts were comfortable and he’d kept them after his service, preferring them to the union suits most men still chose.
“American army, right?” Zhang sat back in the rickety chair, which creaked. He was about the same size as Sebastian, and the chair apparently didn’t like Zhang any more than it liked him. “How old were you when you enlisted?”
“Eighteen—why?” Sebastian said, as he stirred powdered milk and sugar into the thermos.
Zhang gestured at Sebastian. “Have you considered you might need to size up?”
Sebastian furrowed his brow. But then, he had filled out in the arms and shoulders over the past several years, and Zhang was probably right. “Maybe I should,” he said, trying to sound casual, and not like he’d never thought about the fit of his T-shirts because it had been an embarrassingly long time since anyone had seen him even partially undressed.
Zhang looked at Jade. “Okay, you’re right,” he said, like they’d been having some kind of disagreement. “He’s not trying to seduce anyone. I’ll relax.”
“Thank you,” said Jade, as she accepted the currant bun Zhang offered her from the paper bag. “I’m afraid we’re here with terrible news,” she said to Sebastian. “There was another murder last night, near a woman’s boarding house in Kilburn.”
“What?” Sebastian said in alarm.
“Kilburn was where your cousin was staying, wasn’t it?” Jade said. “With Molly, from the pub? But you said you took them to the train.”
“Yes.” Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, which was already standing up every which way from sleep. “I will send a telegram to be sure they arrived in Paris, but I saw their train pull away from the station. They were not in Kilburn last night.”
But someone in Kilburn had still lost their life. “Do we know who the victim was?” he asked, stomach churning.
“Not a name yet,” said Zhang. “She was a maid who worked for a Lord Thornton in Kensington.”
Sebastian sat down hard on the edge of the bed. Molly’s friendly downstairs neighbor, Olive, had been a maid for a lord in Kensington.
