expression. “It doesn’t happen anymore,” she told him.
“It would if anyone thought they could get away with it,” Auria said. “But the vamps around here are too careful for that, these days. They want to know who they’re getting. And that means no glamouries.”
“Then what about Sanuito?” Jerome asked. “Without a glamourie . . .” He didn’t finish the thought, but the point was made. Between the heavily pockmarked skin and the buckteeth and the unprepossessing features, only a glamourie could help Sanuito.
“Oh, him.” Auria looked up from mixing something in a bowl to roll her eyes.
“The mistress is going to use him as her assistant,” Marte said, more charitably.
“Her assistant . . . for what?” Jerome asked, looking faintly envious.
Marte laughed. “Cosmetic making, silly! She makes most of the ones we use here.”
“She has terribly dry skin,” Auria added, with some satisfaction. “None of the stuff in the shops worked for her.”
“So she decided to make her own, and now it’s branched out into all sorts of things,” Marte enthused.
“Luckily,” Auria said dryly. “Paulo would have a fit if we had to buy all the stuff we use.”
“Why would Paulo care?” Mircea asked, eyeing Auria, who had finished her concoction and was now approaching.
“He’s Martina’s
spenditore
. He keeps the accounts around here,” she told him. “And tries to keep us in the black.”
“Like that ever works!” Marte laughed, doing something that made Bezio howl.
“She’ll keep Sanuito busy,” Auria added, slathering some of her noxious brew onto a long strip of cloth.
“But doesn’t that sort of thing take a long time to learn?” Jerome asked, looking envious. Maybe because Sanuito had just gotten a pass out of the rose-scented torture chamber.
“Not all of it. He was grinding some mother-of-pearl for eye shadow last time I saw him. But he won’t make much doing that.”
“And do we make much?” Jerome asked, suddenly more interested.
“Depends on how good you are!” Auria told him. She slapped the gooey length of cloth onto the middle of Mircea’s chest.
He closed his eyes.
“And whether you get a wealthy patron or two,” Marte added. “That’s what you want to work toward. Individual clients are all well and good, but real wealth comes from repeat customers. They get attached and, well, with the senate in town—”
“We’re going to make so much money!” Auria said gleefully. And ripped half of Mircea’s chest hair off.
Chapter Six
“We’re going to lose so much money,” Paulo groused, consulting his little notebook as he and Mircea hurried down the street.
“I thought . . . the idea . . . was to make money,” a newly golden-blond Jerome panted, coming up behind them.
He was pushing the cart they needed to bring home the load of items that were apparently necessary for running a quality establishment. It was empty at the moment, and therefore not remotely heavy, although that shouldn’t have made a difference. “You don’t actually have to breathe anymore,” Mircea reminded him.
“I know,” Jerome wheezed. “But every time . . . I try not to . . . I pass out.”
“You can’t pass out,” Paulo said, irritably. “You’re a
vampire
.”
“Yes, now,” Jerome said. “But a year ago I was human—”
“A year?” Mircea asked. For some reason, he’d assumed that he was the youngest of their group. Maybe because he didn’t see how a year-old vampire had survived three weeks in the tender care of the Watch.
But Jerome was nodding. “I was Changed shortly before my master died. It’s one reason I was . . . that is, nobody knew me all that well, and—”
“But you’re here now,” Paulo said, looking critically at the miniature version of himself, who was habited elegantly enough in a short mantle of rich brown brocade, but who, it had to be admitted, was ruining it with a fish-out-of-water expression.
“It would if anyone thought they could get away with it,” Auria said. “But the vamps around here are too careful for that, these days. They want to know who they’re getting. And that means no glamouries.”
“Then what about Sanuito?” Jerome asked. “Without a glamourie . . .” He didn’t finish the thought, but the point was made. Between the heavily pockmarked skin and the buckteeth and the unprepossessing features, only a glamourie could help Sanuito.
“Oh, him.” Auria looked up from mixing something in a bowl to roll her eyes.
“The mistress is going to use him as her assistant,” Marte said, more charitably.
“Her assistant . . . for what?” Jerome asked, looking faintly envious.
Marte laughed. “Cosmetic making, silly! She makes most of the ones we use here.”
“She has terribly dry skin,” Auria added, with some satisfaction. “None of the stuff in the shops worked for her.”
“So she decided to make her own, and now it’s branched out into all sorts of things,” Marte enthused.
“Luckily,” Auria said dryly. “Paulo would have a fit if we had to buy all the stuff we use.”
“Why would Paulo care?” Mircea asked, eyeing Auria, who had finished her concoction and was now approaching.
“He’s Martina’s
spenditore
. He keeps the accounts around here,” she told him. “And tries to keep us in the black.”
“Like that ever works!” Marte laughed, doing something that made Bezio howl.
“She’ll keep Sanuito busy,” Auria added, slathering some of her noxious brew onto a long strip of cloth.
“But doesn’t that sort of thing take a long time to learn?” Jerome asked, looking envious. Maybe because Sanuito had just gotten a pass out of the rose-scented torture chamber.
“Not all of it. He was grinding some mother-of-pearl for eye shadow last time I saw him. But he won’t make much doing that.”
“And do we make much?” Jerome asked, suddenly more interested.
“Depends on how good you are!” Auria told him. She slapped the gooey length of cloth onto the middle of Mircea’s chest.
He closed his eyes.
“And whether you get a wealthy patron or two,” Marte added. “That’s what you want to work toward. Individual clients are all well and good, but real wealth comes from repeat customers. They get attached and, well, with the senate in town—”
“We’re going to make so much money!” Auria said gleefully. And ripped half of Mircea’s chest hair off.
Chapter Six
“We’re going to lose so much money,” Paulo groused, consulting his little notebook as he and Mircea hurried down the street.
“I thought . . . the idea . . . was to make money,” a newly golden-blond Jerome panted, coming up behind them.
He was pushing the cart they needed to bring home the load of items that were apparently necessary for running a quality establishment. It was empty at the moment, and therefore not remotely heavy, although that shouldn’t have made a difference. “You don’t actually have to breathe anymore,” Mircea reminded him.
“I know,” Jerome wheezed. “But every time . . . I try not to . . . I pass out.”
“You can’t pass out,” Paulo said, irritably. “You’re a
vampire
.”
“Yes, now,” Jerome said. “But a year ago I was human—”
“A year?” Mircea asked. For some reason, he’d assumed that he was the youngest of their group. Maybe because he didn’t see how a year-old vampire had survived three weeks in the tender care of the Watch.
But Jerome was nodding. “I was Changed shortly before my master died. It’s one reason I was . . . that is, nobody knew me all that well, and—”
“But you’re here now,” Paulo said, looking critically at the miniature version of himself, who was habited elegantly enough in a short mantle of rich brown brocade, but who, it had to be admitted, was ruining it with a fish-out-of-water expression.
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