The Midnight Guardian by Sarah-Jane Stratford Page A

castle under Hampstead Heath.
    In the corridor, Brigit could smell the maligned young man in his compartment, only three doors down from hers. She smiled, fancying that he was looking for a smarter tie before going into the dining car, as a way of regaining his dignity and establishing his status. Or else waiting until he was sure the nasty old couple would be done eating. Brigit smelled the rest of the car. It was empty. Passengers were eating, or smoking, or playing cards, but no one else was in their compartments. She decided to seize the prospect.
    The whisper started low in her throat. It wasn’t to seduce, only to intrigue, meant to be felt, rather than heard. A drop cast in water. A sound to start a thought. Not anything rational, or coherent, but the beginnings of a stir that would ultimately be desire.

    The door was partly open and she could hear muttering. She tapped shyly. He put his head around and stared at her.
    â€œYes?”
    â€œHello. I’m sorry to bother you, but wasn’t that just awful with that woman? I thought you handled it brilliantly, I’m sure I’d have made a mess of it. I’m rotten with confrontation, just rotten. I’m Brigit, by the way, how are you?”
    Dazzled and flustered, he hesitated, but seemed to grow more confident under the assurance of her bright smile.
    â€œUm, hello. Fine. No, fine. Yes. I’m Kurt. Horrid old woman, wasn’t she? Oh well, I suppose we have to be patient with them.”
    They shook hands. Her throat emitted the tiniest vibration under her hesitant look. It decided him.
    â€œCan I offer you a drink? I have an excellent bottle of schnapps.”
    â€œLovely.”
    Brigit was amused at how quickly he produced two glasses, as though he’d been expecting to play host sooner rather than later. Very likely, his intent had been to impress a man who might be persuaded to become some sort of patron, as Kurt did not give off the air of a fellow with any knowledge or experience of girls. Polite, yes, but reedy and pale, with too-slick hair and a rather putrid tie. A man who wanted to do well but had a little more money than taste or education.
    She clinked her glass to his, her mind ticking over possibilities. She had to ask the right questions, draw out all the pertinent information, assure herself that he was easily disposed of and would arouse no inquiry.
    â€œSo, Kurt, since it isn’t the army for you, where are you going?”
    â€œI tried for the army, but they wouldn’t take me. I’ve got an irregular heartbeat.”
    â€œWhat a funny coincidence, so do I.”
    â€œReally! Well, so I’m going to Paris. I hear they need Germans who speak French to manage businesses, or they will, once the race laws are in place.”
    He didn’t notice her blanch. He nattered on about how he really wanted to be an artist, and was hoping he might open a gallery—she hardly registered any of it.

    The race laws. In France. Why should I be startled? If liberté is quashed, why should not égalité follow?
    Kurt had opened a sketchbook and was proudly narrating the thread of his artistic journey and boasting of his skill. Brigit oohed and aahed admiringly, glad that Eamon couldn’t see the drawings. He would have killed Kurt just for their rottenness. Eamon was, in addition to his brilliant musicianship, a very fine artist. He drew likenesses of all the vampires in the tribunal and everyone said there was no need for a reflection when you had one of Eamon’s drawings.
    â€œI’ve always loved the Paris galleries.” Brigit smiled. “I’m sure you’ll do well there. Not that I know art, I mean, but I think yours is awfully good.”
    â€œIt’s all a matter of opinion. A fine, educated young lady like yourself, of course, appreciates the better things in life. You know what’s attractive.”
    â€œDo I?”
    â€œYou must. You see it every time you look in