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if that wasn't bad enough, he has to set fire to my book. You know how long I waited
for this book? And it was a good story, too."
"I think it was a bit more than that, actually," I told him when I was quite sure we
were alone. Lurleen's cabin was dark, but from the noise emanating from the walls,
I felt we were in no danger of being overheard from that quarter. Stella's cabin was
also dark, and no smoke curled from the chimney. Perhaps she was making a house
call. "Didn't it strike you that some of those fictional incidents bore a curious
resemblance to the deaths and illnesses that have occurred around here lately?"
"It sure did. That's why I thought everybody'd like it so much. Sorta fun to have a
crazy story like that to explain bad food and a touch of typhoid, seemed to me.
Who'da thought anybody would get upset over it? What do you suppose the matter
is? Don't tell me both that claim-jumpin' politician and that saloonkeeper boss of
yours are so religious they don't want anybody readin' anything but the Good Book?"
"No," I said. "I won't tell you that. But I think perhaps the content hit a little close to
home. You look like you could use a nice strong cup of tea," I said. "I know I could."
"Wouldn't want to sully your reputation by comin' in, ma'am," he mumbled with
more dejection than courtesy.
"As what? A dance hall girl or a murderess? If you won't tell anyone this is perfectly
innocent, I assure you I won't."
He clamped his pipe into his teeth and smiled a tight little smile around the stem.
The cat's tail flapped rhythmically over his shoulder.
"Your sister in England, is she Egil Larsson's mother?" I asked conversationally
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while the tea water heated.
"Oh, no, that's my fourth youngest sister, Christina. The one in London's Effie. She
married a seagoing man. Met him through my younger brother, Lars. He's gone
now, Lars. My fault, probably. Ever since the war, I wanted to go back to sea and I
used to talk about it and read to the kids all the time, but when Mama and Papa
were killed, I had to stay home and take care of the farm till all the kids was big
enough to take care of themselves. That's why I'm a might on the downhill side for a
prospector up here. Just right for a steamship skipper though, eh?"
"Indeed, and it would be a pity if you died too young to grow into the title," I said.
"I'll need to study that book of yours further, but I believe "
Footsteps crunched to a stop outside my door.
"Lomax?" London's voice called.
"In here, Jack. What is it?"
"It's Larsson. Tom's with me. He just went up to the hospital to try to find you, and
the nuns were in a tizzy. Seems Larsson just walked out without takin' so much as
his union suit. Tom tried to track him, what with the fresh snow tonight, but some
moose messed up the trail."
"Comin'," he said, and to me, "Watch Loki for me, please, ma'am. He ain't much of a
retriever." And he left me to drink the tea alone, with the cat and the charred book
for company.
I cursed softly to myself, for I had yet to touch on all I wanted to discuss with
Lomax. Besides which, I felt better with him nearby. There was something
reassuringly solid and sane about him that filled me with relief. Then, too, there was
something endearingly innocent about the dreaminess in his Santa Claus eyes when
he spoke of his steamship and his family that made me feel that he really was too
nice to be mixed up in all of this. It was bad enough for someone like me who had
grown up making her own way amid the streets and saloons of San Francisco
searching for her sire in all sorts of seamy situations. Someone who had led the
bucolic life of a farmer, nurturing his little brothers and sisters, would be ill-
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prepared to confront a fiend such as the one in the book. Nor could he be expected
to fathom the cunning of a man who seemed benevolent while he waited to prey
upon trembling, helpless mortals who were little more than a complicated shot glass
from his viewpoint. Of course, on the other hand, Lomax was a veteran who had lost
a limb in the service of whichever part of the country he'd fought for (I forgot to ask;
as a native San Franciscan of European parentage, I was emotionally untied to
either the North or the South) and who had recently buried a wife.
Still, he was no match for the perfidy of an aristocratic vampire like Vasily
Vladovitch Bledinoff. And I was convinced that it was my mesmerist boss who was
responsible. While that explanation did not quite fit all of the facts, it fit them better
than anything else I could come up with. And since such creatures were, according
to the book, immortal, I was very glad I was taking the Bella the next day.
I would report the situation to the American authorities, who were not trying to
convict me of murder, and perhaps the army could send investigators. Or perhaps I
could find a better way to disguise myself and re-enter the country. I felt the most
important thing was to advise my country of the danger her citizens (and the
Canadian subjects, too, of course) faced in this remote territory.
Meanwhile, heaven only knew what Vasily Vladovitch would be up to once he had
sated his taste for every dance hall girl and prostitute in Dawson. I would try to get
Lomax to bring London and Larsson and come with me on the Bella. Failing that, I
would convince him that they must remain on their claims throughout the winter
and not come to town. If they did, they must at all costs steer clear of the saloons.
I pondered all of this while working furiously at a few chores of my own since, life
being what it was, I had been reunited with my clothes just in time to have to pack
them. I changed into my boyish apparel and started bundling the rest into a
manageable roll. Something unyieldingly hard refused to be rolled. Investigating, I
found the silver crucifix from the bottom of the avalanche in the pocket of the Annie
Oakley skirt. I pulled it out and thrust it into my trouser pocket instead.
I was rehearsing exactly what I would tell Lomax as I finished rolling up the clothing
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