of immunity to the plague virus.”
“That’s good news, then. Remy uses morphia too.”
“As much as you?”
Largo sagged against the back of the car. “No.”
“There you are,” said Dr. Venohr. “Continue to addle your senses, young man. Morphia might ruin your life, but it just might save it. That’s what I meant by irony.”
Largo looked out the window. “We’re almost there.”
When they arrived, Dr. Venohr helped Largo walk Remy into her flat and get her into bed. The doctor took a blood sample from her arm and placed it in his bag. On his way out he said, “Remember: do not leave her alone. I believe that Remy has a Trefle?”
“She does.”
Dr. Venohr took a card from his pocket and gave it to Largo. “You may reach me at this number day or night.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“I’ll see myself out,” he said. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“Yes?” said Largo.
The doctor laid a finger along the side of his nose. “Don’t tell anybody about our little chat regarding the plague. We don’t want to start a panic, do we?”
“Of course not. I won’t say a word.”
“You have some morphia with you, I take it?”
“A little.”
Dr. Venohr took a vial from his bag and set it on a gilt end table. “Here is a bit more. I don’t want you fainting tonight or being tempted to leave to purchase more. Of course, if anyone asks, you did not obtain this from me.”
“I appreciate it, Doctor. We both do.”
“Don’t appreciate it. Merely stay alert. Remy should be fine by morning. I’ll call then. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Largo sat down by Remy’s bed. The chair had a straight back and was uncomfortable because Remy didn’t buy it for sitting in. She used it as a place to drape her clothes when she got home from the theater. However, recently she’d bought a broken full-size Mara and used it like a dressing dummy. Now the chair belonged to Largo’s clothes when he spent the night. Tonight, though, he remained fully dressed and listened to Remy breathe. Every minute or so he touched her chest just to feel her heartbeat.
Remy’s flat was how Largo imagined all artists lived or, at least, wanted to. In her bedroom was a large framed poster from the Grand Dark. It was for a show called Cannibal Nuns of St. Maria; Remy’s first starring role had been that of the mad mother superior. The floor was covered in exotic, though worn and sometimes moth-eaten, carpets. The carpets were covered in shoes, clothes, magazines, books—whatever Remy had become bored with and couldn’t be bothered to put away. In the living room was a large, comfortable black sofa—a gift from a wealthy admirer. Because of that provenance Largo hated sitting on it, but he never mentioned it. By the window was a cage with a parakeet inside. The cage was covered at this hour and the small bird was asleep.
The walls were crowded with paintings and photochromes of friends. There was even an Enki painting hanging over the mantel. Largo disliked it, but less than the sofa. Since he was blind, Enki painted by feel, using his hands instead of a brush. He’d grab fistfuls of oil paint, then dab and splatter them across images of older artists and political figures. Trying to appear radical and dangerous, thought Largo. Just like all the other Xuxu artists, thinking they can bring down the government with a few paintings and posters.
To Largo, Enki’s paintings looked like drop cloths you might find in a child’s bedroom. Still, the man’s work was well thought of and his paintings were in great demand. Largo suspected that the canvas over Remy’s mantel had been his clumsy attempt at seducing her. Despite his defensiveness when it came to Remy’s admirers, in Enki’s case he just smiled.
She would never fall for something so obvious.
The lamp next to Remy’s bed lit the room with a pale white plazma glow and reflected off her porcelain Trefle. Largo thought of Rainer, whose old Bakelite Trefle wasn’t nearly as impressive. It was going to be a long night standing watch over Remy, and Rainer was older and smarter.
Maybe he’ll know something about Remy’s condition. And after that ridiculous party I wouldn’t mind hearing a friendly voice.
Largo touched Remy’s chest and felt her breathing steadily. When he was satisfied she was stable, he took the Trefle into the living room. Removing the handset, he waited for an operator. When she came on, he spoke Rainer’s number and waited. There was a click as the connection was made and then a soft purr as Rainer’s Trefle rang. Largo let it ring twenty times before hanging up.
He’s probably on the roof with his damned telescopes. Is there a meteor shower tonight?
He looked out the window, but the plazma diffused any light he might have seen streaking across the sky.
He went back into the bedroom and sat down, but the little chair immediately began hurting his back again, so Largo kicked off his shoes and climbed into bed with Remy. He lay down next to her with his hand over her heart and stayed that way until dawn.
An excerpt from the Diaries of Gräfin Beatrice Henke1
It was a few minutes after ten in the evening. Or perhaps it was eleven. They’d lost track of time.
The airship moved along Lower Proszawa’s southeast border in a light rain. Buffeted by cool crosswinds, it turned slowly, tracing the eastern border over the Krieghund Mountains, heading north. The ship swayed in the updrafts from the somber peaks, but settled again as soon as it reached the open fields of Die Gefallenen.
None of this, however, was of any interest to the partiers in the ballroom, who were focused on Greta, the Chancellor’s wife’s niece—entirely naked and eating a slice of honey cake with her hands as she fell into Orlok’s lap. A handsome man with long ginger hair, he was the singer in one of the city’s most popular dance bands. Greta mashed the cake into his face and proceeded to kiss it off as the rest of the party laughed.
“Lucky Orlok,” said Gustav. “Another rich little bird lands right in his lap. What is his secret?”
“Don’t whine,” said Petersen. “You had your chance with her.”
“But I’m merely a poet. Not a musical god. All of my little birds flit away in the slightest breeze.”
Greta leaned away from Orlok and pulled Gustav over by his tie. She mashed the last of her cake into his face and began kissing him too. The three fell into a pile on the lounge’s silk pillows.
The gathering had begun as someone’s birthday party, but around the end of day three it had turned into something else. What, no one knew yet. Perhaps it would become clear after another day or two.
For now, though, people were interested in doing everything they could to feel anything … or nothing. The languid hedonism in the ballroom. And the foggy boredom in the airship’s forward observation deck. It was a greenhouse full of exotic plants, wrapping around the front of the craft. Helene watched as an industrialist named Frölich pried open one of the side windows and threw out a full champagne flute. “For my customers,” he said, giggling drunkenly. Soon, others were throwing things—food, plants, articles of clothing. Whatever they found amusing. Helene watched them from a bench by herself, growing bored with these people, their dull games, and the surroundings. She was wondering if there was some way that she could get off the airship without the others knowing when the small squirrel-like chimera that Frölich kept in the breast pocket of his jacket leaped to the