spoke up, his journalistic sense engaged. “Any idea who was following you, or why?”
“Not actually, but I intend to find out,” said Szent-Germain. “I’m not even sure that he was following Professor Treat or me, but he stuck to us like a burr. I was finally able to lose him about a mile from here, and I parked two blocks away, in case he goes looking for my car. He’ll find a tobacconist’s shop, a cafe, and a shop selling hats, all but the cafe closing up for the night in the next hour.”
“Clever,” Pomeroy approved.
“We walked the last couple of blocks,” Charis said, “on the Rue Tranquille.” She cocked her head toward the rear of Chez Rosalie, indicating the access-alley that ran behind the restaurant and the rear of houses for more than half a mile.
“So you’re not new to the game, then?” asked Tolliver Bethune, prepared to continue questioning the stranger in their midst.
Szent-Germain’s answer was composed. “I am an exile, not unlike all of you, and so yes, I’m not new to the game, and I do not play it for entertainment.” He did not add that his familiarity with clandestine dealings went back more than three millennia.
The door opened again and Joseph Allanby bustled in, his expression more than usually sad. A somber man in his mid-forties, he had been the mainstay of the biological sciences at Cornell; the son of Professor Emeritus Vercingetotrix Allanby, the foremost theorist on meteorology at Yale, Joseph Allanby had assumed he was academically bullet-proof until he found himself bluntly dismissed for the good of the students. He had been advised to leave the US until—as his father put it— this current hysteria blows over. Joseph’s wife Norma moved in with her brother and his family in Cambridge while Allanby was away in Europe. As the unofficial leader of the Coven, he was rarely late, and when he was, it boded ill. He looked around, staring at Szent-Germain for several seconds before he said, “Sorry, everybody. I had a call from my brother-in-law, family matters. From Edward. Does Medieval studies at Harvard, you recall. I must have mentioned it. He’s the one who took in my wife and youngest child. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I? The one who was working as a code-breaker during the war? He’s been planning to join us here; the Committee is breathing down his neck.” This nervous repetition indicated to all the Coven that Allanby was badly upset. He took off his raincoat, and as he went to hang it on the brass coat-rack, his heavily lidded eyes filled with tears. “Norma is in the hospital. It’s serious.”
“What hospital?” asked Boris King.
“Massachusetts General.” This was met by concerned silence; Allanby added the worst part. “She took sleeping pills.”
“Norma’s his wife,” Charis whispered to Szent-Germain. “She’s from Cambridge, like most of her family.”
Moira Frost spoke for most of them. “That’s dreadful, Joe.”
Allanby just nodded; took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Do they know if she’ll pull through?” Pomeroy asked impulsively, then changed his tone. “Sorry to put it that way.”
“Edward didn’t say,” Allanby replied, and reached for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “I don’t think the doctors have said anything yet. Waiting for tests, and all. Edward said he’d let me know as soon as he hears.”
“Could be too soon to tell,” Willhelmina said consolingly.
“Probably; yes, you’re probably right,” Allanby muttered, wadded up his handkerchief, and thrust it back into his pocket. “Edward will call again day after tomorrow, after he sees her doctor; I’ll have to telegraph a next-of-kin transfer to him in the morning. I don’t know how to word something like that.”
“I’ll give you a hand with it, Joe,” said Tolliver Bethune.
“Do you think that’s going to be necessary?” Mary Anne asked.
“Better safe than sorry. I don’t want Norma to suffer if nothing
“Not actually, but I intend to find out,” said Szent-Germain. “I’m not even sure that he was following Professor Treat or me, but he stuck to us like a burr. I was finally able to lose him about a mile from here, and I parked two blocks away, in case he goes looking for my car. He’ll find a tobacconist’s shop, a cafe, and a shop selling hats, all but the cafe closing up for the night in the next hour.”
“Clever,” Pomeroy approved.
“We walked the last couple of blocks,” Charis said, “on the Rue Tranquille.” She cocked her head toward the rear of Chez Rosalie, indicating the access-alley that ran behind the restaurant and the rear of houses for more than half a mile.
“So you’re not new to the game, then?” asked Tolliver Bethune, prepared to continue questioning the stranger in their midst.
Szent-Germain’s answer was composed. “I am an exile, not unlike all of you, and so yes, I’m not new to the game, and I do not play it for entertainment.” He did not add that his familiarity with clandestine dealings went back more than three millennia.
The door opened again and Joseph Allanby bustled in, his expression more than usually sad. A somber man in his mid-forties, he had been the mainstay of the biological sciences at Cornell; the son of Professor Emeritus Vercingetotrix Allanby, the foremost theorist on meteorology at Yale, Joseph Allanby had assumed he was academically bullet-proof until he found himself bluntly dismissed for the good of the students. He had been advised to leave the US until—as his father put it— this current hysteria blows over. Joseph’s wife Norma moved in with her brother and his family in Cambridge while Allanby was away in Europe. As the unofficial leader of the Coven, he was rarely late, and when he was, it boded ill. He looked around, staring at Szent-Germain for several seconds before he said, “Sorry, everybody. I had a call from my brother-in-law, family matters. From Edward. Does Medieval studies at Harvard, you recall. I must have mentioned it. He’s the one who took in my wife and youngest child. I’ve told you about him, haven’t I? The one who was working as a code-breaker during the war? He’s been planning to join us here; the Committee is breathing down his neck.” This nervous repetition indicated to all the Coven that Allanby was badly upset. He took off his raincoat, and as he went to hang it on the brass coat-rack, his heavily lidded eyes filled with tears. “Norma is in the hospital. It’s serious.”
“What hospital?” asked Boris King.
“Massachusetts General.” This was met by concerned silence; Allanby added the worst part. “She took sleeping pills.”
“Norma’s his wife,” Charis whispered to Szent-Germain. “She’s from Cambridge, like most of her family.”
Moira Frost spoke for most of them. “That’s dreadful, Joe.”
Allanby just nodded; took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Do they know if she’ll pull through?” Pomeroy asked impulsively, then changed his tone. “Sorry to put it that way.”
“Edward didn’t say,” Allanby replied, and reached for his handkerchief to wipe his eyes. “I don’t think the doctors have said anything yet. Waiting for tests, and all. Edward said he’d let me know as soon as he hears.”
“Could be too soon to tell,” Willhelmina said consolingly.
“Probably; yes, you’re probably right,” Allanby muttered, wadded up his handkerchief, and thrust it back into his pocket. “Edward will call again day after tomorrow, after he sees her doctor; I’ll have to telegraph a next-of-kin transfer to him in the morning. I don’t know how to word something like that.”
“I’ll give you a hand with it, Joe,” said Tolliver Bethune.
“Do you think that’s going to be necessary?” Mary Anne asked.
“Better safe than sorry. I don’t want Norma to suffer if nothing
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