“You mean, conjugally violent?”

“Not precisely, but from what I have been told, he was inclined to derive pleasure from sadistic activities.” Lord Maccon actually blushed. He could do that while touching her. Alexia found it little-boy endearing. With the fingers of her free hand, she stroked through his thick dark hair.

“Gracious. And how did the pack manage to keep such a thing secret?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised. Such proclivities are not confined to werewolves alone. There are even brothels that—”

Alexia held up a hand. “No, thank you, my dear. I should prefer not to know any additional details.”

“Of course, my love, of course.”

“I am glad you killed him.”

Lord Maccon nodded, letting go of his wife’s hand, then standing and turning away, lost to his memories. He fiddled with a little cluster of daguerreotypes arranged on the mantelpiece. That quick, feral quality was back to his movements, a supernatural facet of his werewolf self. “As am I, wife, as am I. I have killed many people in my day, for queen and country, for pack and challenge; rarely do I get to say I am proud of that part of my afterlife. He was a brute, and I was fortunate indeed that I was just strong enough to see him eliminated, and he was just mad enough to make bad choices during the passion of battle. He allowed himself to enjoy it too much.”

Lord Maccon’s head suddenly cocked—supernatural hearing making out some new sound that Alexia could not discern.

“There is someone at the door.” He put down the image he had been toying with and turned to face the entrance, crossing his arms.

His wife picked up her parasol.

* * *

The ghost was confused. She spent a good deal of her time confused these nights. She was also alone. Everyone had gone, to the very last, so that she floated in her madness, losing her afterlife into silence and aether. Threads of her true self were drifting away. And there was no friendly face to sit with her while she died a second time.

She remembered that there was something unfinished. Was it her life?

She remembered there was something she still needed to do. Was it die?

She remembered that there was something wrong. She had tried to fix it, hadn’t she? What should she care for the living?

Wrong, it was all wrong. She was wrong. And soon she wouldn’t be. That was wrong, too.

CHAPTER NINE

In Which the Past Complicates the Present

A knock came at the back parlor door, and Floote stuck his debonair head around the side. “Madame Lefoux to see you, madam.”

Lady Maccon placed her parasol carefully to one side, pretending her husband had not just given her due warning. “Ah, yes, show her into the front parlor, would you, please, Floote? I’ll be in shortly. We simply can’t have company in this room yet—it’s not decent.”