“You seem to have a talent for inspiring resurrections.” Despite himself, Vaughn’s cheekbones lifted with amusement. “Setting me up as your savior?” As Mary made a face at him, he shook his head, his amusement fading. “There’ll be no resurrection this time. Teresa is dead. Quite genuinely and indisputably dead.” “How?” Mary asked apprehensively. She had a suspicion she wasn’t going to like the answer. Vaughn’s face was grim. “She was killed this past summer, by her own master. The Black Tulip.” “That’s why,” Mary said abruptly, her nails digging into the feather tick. “That’s why you told me the Tulip was running short of petals. Let me guess: She had black hair, too.” “Yes.” The candle threw strange shadows across Vaughn’s face, throwing one cheek into relief, the other into shadow, like the parti-colored costume of a harlequin in an Italian commedia dell’arte. Only there was nothing lighthearted about Vaughn’s expression.
