The flaws in the glass diffused the candle and torchlight, turning the pinpoints into spider-legged stars. After eight months Diane Benchley, the Countess of Cameron, had memorized the earthly constellations. That one would be the soiree of relocated British aristocrats at Herold Haus, while the even brighter cluster beyond meant that even at this hour the old Stephansdom church was occupied. She should be there as well, she supposed, praying for…something. For the soul of the dead man the undertaker had removed from her apartment yesterday morning. For someone—anyone—to appear and rescue her from the same fate. For her burdens to be lifted and for her landlord to forget that the rent was due at the end of the week. Absently she picked at the frayed arm of the chair, plucking stiff horse hairs from within and dropping them to the faded carpet. The church bell began chiming, and she stilled, listening. Twelve chimes. Midnight. Was it amusing or ironic or simply very sad that her only visitors in the past two days had been an undertaker and his assistant, and a very reluctant landlord?
