Mircea glanced at me, and then away. “I’m coming to that.
“After speaking with Vlad, I traveled to see the Lady myself. She was still there, in the same house, on the same broken street, with a new group of dogs her acolytes fed, for she was quite elderly by then. The city was different: the Turks were polishing up their captured jewel, and there was building going on everywhere. Except for Berenice’s street, where it felt like time had stood still.”
* * *
“Back again?”
The dark-haired girl with the pretty, round face and cheap tinsel earrings looked up at him from an undignified crouch. She was surrounded by mangy, underfed curs, all of which were nonetheless patiently waiting for the big bowl of scraps she was turning out into broken dishes. They were hungry, some looked to be starving, yet still they waited.
Like him, Mircea thought, hiding his irritation behind a smile.
“Back again,” he confirmed.
“I told you; it could be days,” she warned, laughing when a small puppy jumped up and licked her face. “Even weeks.”
“I have time,” Mircea said, and bent to help her with her task.
* * *
And, okay, I was beginning to think these weren’t visions. Partly because I didn’t get many visions anymore, the power bogarting my abilities for its own use, and partly because they didn’t feel right. They had more of the hazy quality of dreams, soft-edged and lacking in detail.
Or memories, I realized, suddenly understanding.
Mircea was right—he was tired, and his perfect control wasn’t so perfect just now. The Seidr link between us might be gone, disrupted by whatever Ares had done, but he was still a powerful mentalist. And he was projecting. His own memories, and one he’d picked up from his brother.
But I didn’t think he knew it.
He was lost in thought, staring at the fire, oblivious. I should tell him, I thought. I should let him know . . .
That his mind was leaking the truth all over the place, no matter what his lips said.
“Cassie?” Some movement of mine made him look up. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I . . . think I will have that drink now.”
“Berenice was in bed with a fever when I finally talked my way into an audience,” Mircea told me as I saw him walk across two rooms, one richly furnished, lit by our shared fire, and one dim and shuttered. Weak sunlight streamed in through the louvers of the second, to stripe meager furnishings and a threadbare rug. And the frail old woman underneath the bedsheets, eyes watery with age and sharp with intellect.
* * *
“You bother me now, and with this?”
“I’ve waited for weeks—”
“I’ve kept kings waiting for months! While I’ve seen beggars, fresh off the streets. I see who I like, and I answer what I will! And your answer, vampire, is no.”
“You won’t even hear me out?” Mircea couldn’t keep a thread of anger from his voice, and she caught it.
“I have heard you! Haunting my halls, as you haunt my dreams, and I will hear you no more. You have your answer. Now begone. Or I’ll sic the dogs on you!”
* * *
“She was . . . not inclined to assist me,” Mircea said, handing me a glass.
I hadn’t even noticed him return.
I took it, spilling a little, because my hand was unsteady.
“But I met her chief acolyte during the week she kept me waiting,” he added, settling back into his chair. “A pretty little thing, dimples, big dark eyes, always laughing. Eudoxia was her name. She seemed well-disposed toward me, and I thought, a new Pythia will reign soon. I can wait.