City of Dark Magic Read Free Page B

offered. “What is this about?”
    The little man studied Sarah calmly for a moment, and then spoke softly, almost chanting, his deep voice now in a minor key:
Hitherto I thought there were only Nine Muses, but
now Weston makes me believe there are ten.
For she decant Fonts ve ths songs that are musical, in fact Musty as new
Wine, songs full of Cecropian honeycombs.
     
    Alessandro let out a short whistle, the complicated and expressive whistle of all Italian men born south of Rome. Sarah had learned most of them. This one meant, “Oh, so I guess you like your men
pazzo
, eh, sweetie? Nice conquest.” Sarah wondered how Alessandro could actually manage a sarcastic whistle. In a towel. And what the hell were Cecropian honeycombs?
    “It’s not mine,” the stranger said, modestly. “It is the verse of one Balthasar Caminaeus, a doctor of laws. Written in praise of
Elizabeth
Weston. Whom you do not resemble. Which is very fortunate for you. She was not an attractive person, even allowing for the costume of the era.”
    Alessandro licked his lips. He clearly had no intention of going anywhere, or aiding Sarah in managing this absurd exchange. Or putting on pants. The tiny man appeared to be waiting for a reply. One buckled shoe tapped the carpet softly.
    “Did Bailey send you?” Sarah waited for the stranger to pull a recorder out of a sleeve and serenade her with another round of “Hail the Buds of Spring.”
    “I’m afraid Elizabeth Weston is not widely read,” the little man said. “Forgotten, like so many others. But not gone. Not quite.”
    “I’m sorry,” Sarah said. “But I’m kind of . . . in the middle of something. So, if you have something to . . . say . . . or do?”
    “She has to pack for Prague,” Alessandro said, making himself useful at last. “She has recently become a scholar
molto importante
.”
    “You are going, then?” The little man leaned forward and touched Sarah lightly on her wrist. “I thought you would. I was hoping. I think you are needed.”
    Sarah was suddenly on the alert. How did this person know her business?
    “Yes, I think this is very good,” the man continued in his strange bassoon voice. “You have an interesting face. This man in the towel smirks at me. He thinks I am
pazzo
, but what does he know? He’s looking in the wrong place, I tell you. Or rather, the right place but in the wrong way. Yeast! Bah!”
    “Okay, maybe I call the cops now,” Alessandro said, shrugging and turning back into the apartment. Sarah watched the back of his towel retreating, the Renaissance shoulders above it in an apparent huff.
    “How did you know the Lobkowicz family invited me?” Sarah asked. “I only got the letter a few hours ago.”
    “I am on very intimate terms with the Lobkowicz family,” the little man said. “Indeed, I have just come from Prague.” He brought his hands up to his face again, and this time he did cover his eyes with his palms, then held them out to Sarah. Balanced in the center of his left palm lay a copper pillbox.
    “For you,” he said, simply.
    Sarah could hear her cell phone ringing in the other room.
    “I should get that,” she said. She didn’t want to let the litt K le
    “I will wait,” said the man, calmly.
    Sarah half-shut the door and picked up her phone, noting that it was the head of the Music Department, Professor Klyme, calling. “Hello?”
    “Sarah, I have some bad news,” he said. “I’m sorry to tell you this. Professor Sherbatsky is dead.”
    Sarah sat down on the forest-green sofa she and Alessandro had scavenged from the corner of Mass Ave and Arlington on trash day. Her mouth suddenly felt dry.
    “What?” she demanded. “When? How?”
    Professor Klyme told her what he knew, which was very little. There had been some kind of accident. In Prague. No doubt details would be forthcoming.
    “An accident?” Sarah repeated. “Prague?”
    “A terrible tragedy,” Professor Klyme said, somewhat mechanically.