Someone killed Lord Pankov, and it wasn’t the man arrested for the crime. The ghost, Pascal Hunter, is on the trail of the killer. Possessing the body of Simza Gray, she must battle to hang on to her sense of self while also trying to solve the mystery. She and her partner, the former fey, eternally ten year old Brynn, have accumulated too many suspects. They’ve also made a few too many waves in the normally placid household.

Pascal ran her fingers over the leather bound books in the library. It was a marvelous collection, and she regretted she’d had no time to do more than look at the titles. Tolstoy and Pushkin were well represented; she wondered if their books were the same ones she knew. Authors were not consistent from shard to shard. She knew of one shard where Karl Marx was a poet.

They had a surprisingly large math collection. There were working notebooks from Holtz and Lobachevsky. She would regret losing the opportunity to read them, but fighting to retain her self was becoming increasingly difficult. And there was the simple issue of justice. This wasn’t her body. It was time to return it to its owner.

“Sonya Stanislovna,” she said as the door to the library opened.

“Simcha, my sister,” she replied with a subtle grin. “Your message said you had an answer.”

“Yes. You were right, it was not Yakim. I think you knew that. You won’t be as happy with the rest,” she said grimly.

“That sounds ominous,” she replied. “I see you over there, Brynn.”

Paz’s partner moved around the display case with an aura of feigned innocence. He’d planned to surprise Sofiya by jumping out from hiding. Since he failed, he’d just pretend that was never his plan to begin with. It was one more way he attempted to exploit his apparent age.

“I’ll be walking you through the murder,” he said with cruel directness.

“One moment, Brynn,” Paz cautioned with a small cut of her hand. “Sonya, we’ll be leaving once we’ve given you the explanation. What you do with it is up to you.”

“Hold on,” she said firmly, “I hired you to clear Yakim Sergeyin.”

“No,” Paz responded softly but with just as much resolve, “you hired us to prove that Yakim did not kill your father. We can do that.” Dropping her voice to a near whisper, she pleaded, “Just listen. You’ll understand soon.”

“That’s my signal,” Brynn said with forced cheerfulness. He tried to act excited, like a child with a new toy, but Pascal knew him well enough to see past the veneer. Brynn liked solving mysteries every bit as much as she did. Like her, he took no joy in painful revelations. They both knew this one would bring much more pain than satisfaction.

“Naming Yakim as the killer was not your police’s first mistake. The death scene was designed to lead them down the wrong path and it succeeded. Your father did not suffocate. There was no magic involved,” Brynn began seriously. He calmed down as soon as he started his recitation, bringing his true age to bear in a way that contradicted his appearance. He didn’t do it often, but he could use it to great effect. His childish appearance and ancient bearing made people pay attention. It even worked on Pascal, and she knew it was coming. Sofiya was rapt.

“The murder started the night before, after you all finished dinner. Lord Pankov shared a drink with his wife. Lady Pankov mixed the drink for them. She took her sleeping draft, her poppy juice, and mixed a double portion with their drinks.”

Sofiya’s eyes narrowed in anger, but she didn’t say anything. Paz could tell that she was coming up with reasons to reject their theory.

“That ensured Lord Pankov would be sound asleep when the killer came to his room,” Brynn continued as though he did not see Sofiya’s face and posture. “Lady Pankov would also be sound asleep. She was a conspirator but she did not kill her husband. A double draft of her sleeping potion was enough to keep her under until morning. You’ll recall that Yakim could not wake her when Mr. Menschikov sent him to get her. She was among the last to awaken that morning.”

That got through. Sofiya’s anger broke while she considered their theory. A good sign, thought Pascal.

“It was your brother Boris who went to your father’s room that night. He dealt with the snakes in the kitchen often enough that no one took special notice. At some point, he collected their venom. From the gendarmes’ report, your father showed no signs of struggle. There weren’t any bruises. You only need to look at Pascal to see how bruised you get struggling against suffocation. According to the report, your father had a small bruise on his left arm. That’s where Boris injected the poison.”

“Wait a minute,” Sofiya interjected, “not that I believe this, but if Father was sound asleep, he wouldn’t have struggled against the blankets. So no bruises.”

“That would be an argument in favor of Yakim,” Pascal said quietly. “But no, it doesn’t work. If the bed held him so tightly that he couldn’t breathe, we’d see bruises even if he didn’t struggle. We can see the bruise from the injection and he didn’t struggle against that either.”

“Right,” Brynn jumped back in. He hated it when people interrupted but he also knew it was a delicate situation. He didn’t show his annoyance. Paz understood and gave him a quick nod. “So after he injected Lord Pankov, Boris cut a square from the cover. He held onto it until he could plant it when everyone else was occupied. Boris left to wait for the police. That put him downstairs by the servant’s wing and gave him plenty of time to plant the evidence in Yakim’s room.”

Sofiya screwed up her face. Pascal could tell she was thinking it over, trying to be honest despite wanting to reject it out of hand. Finally she said “No. I don’t see it. You don’t have any proof, and there’s just no reason for it.”

“I’m so sorry, Sonya, but there is,” Pascal said quietly. She reached over and took Sonya’s hands in her own for comfort. “Your father was angry for weeks before he died. You knew something was wrong, didn’t you?”

Surprise again. Sofiya looked up sharply, as if she’d been struck. “How did you–? Maybe, yes. Something had upset him.”

“I don’t know how he found out but he uncovered a secret your mother had kept from him for 23 years. It brought his world crashing down around him.”

She could see the light dawn on Sofiya, but she couldn’t accept it. “No,” she said with a sharp shake of her head.

“Yes. Boris is your brother, but he is not your father’s son. Your father was going to disinherit Boris, but your mother found out about it. She arranged to have your lawyer, Victor Chernov, killed and stole your father’s letters. She got Boris to steal the copies your father kept in his office.”

“Then there’s still no proof,” she insisted.

“There is. Your father was a fastidious man. He made a draft of each letter before the copy or the final. He did not keep them with his copies, possibly against just such a theft. Here.” With tears in her eyes, Pascal carefully placed the letters in Sofiya’s hand.

“Your father was willing to let Andrei marry me. Marry Simza, that is. He was even happy that his youngest son had turned his life around. But when he found out about Boris he changed his mind. He did not want his heir marrying a Romany. That was why they started arguing again. But…”

“But Boris is the heir. He’s already inherited–” Sofiya interrupted, struggling with the revelations.

“That’s right. We could have had a parlor scene and exposed your brother in front of everyone. I’m sure we could have tricked a confession out of him or your mother. Brynn’s very good at that,” she said with a ghost of a smile while downplaying her own skill at goading people into saying what they shouldn’t.

Pascal continued with all the kindness she could muster, “I didn’t think you’d want that. You know what it would do to your family. You know the truth now and have the evidence to prove it. You can use it to keep Boris away from Yakim without destroying him. Or you can seek justice for your father at all costs. Our job was to find the truth, and we did. What you do with it; that’s up to you.”

Tears rolled freely down Sofiya’s face. “I need you. Your help. Please, Simcha.”

Paz held back her own tears, “You’ll have it. From her. Simza will be confused but she’ll remember most of what I’ve done. Help her fit in to your family, and she’ll help you in return.” Pascal was sure of that. Simza understood obligations. She’d given herself to Andrei to secure her family’s future. She’d help Sofiya if Sofiya helped her.

“I don’t know what to do,” wailed Sofiya.

“Trust yourself to figure it out,” she responded. “I’m sorry I can’t stay to help, but we must leave. Good bye Sonya.” In a whisper only the tearful woman heard she added, “Sister.”

Pascal and Brynn left quietly while Sofiya struggled to stop sobbing. They were leaving early enough to let Simza return to the house that afternoon. Pascal’s host would have control of her life again. Pascal would not return with her.

- ♇ -

She tried to remake her body as soon as she entered the city. As soon as he entered the city, that is. She, he, forced himself to concentrate on his self-image. He was Pascal Hunter, detective. Too long outside herself, she had to strain to remember who that was. He was a detective, he owned the Green Goose.

There were shadows. He could perceive light and dark, even if they were only vague impressions. He didn’t have eyes yet, but having enough presence to sense anything was good. Cold marble was beneath him, cold winds blew through him. Memories battered him. Battlefield. He was in Battlefield, where the natives once fought invading colonists from Fall of Night. Where he once fought the natives. Regret flooded him, tore at him and nearly ripped him apart. He would not take form here.

“Way to go, boss, you’re almost visible. Got a career ahead of you as shower mist.”

New feelings piled on top of regret; anger and annoyance. It helped him remember who he was. He almost pulled himself into a human outline.

Brynn saw no reason to stop. “Hey, if we need a chalk outline for the next case, you got the job in the bag. I know I do all the work and call you an empty suit, but you didn’t have to take it so literally.”

His childlike partner’s insults gave him form as they walked.

He tried to pull himself together. Memories were elusive, fleeing when he pursued them. Feelings were easier to grasp. The child-man by his side inspired equal parts fondness and frustration. The city was even worse, love and hate fighting for dominance. It had taken his life and given it back. It was dangerous, unpredictable, and ungovernable, yet filled with possibilities. Anything could happen somewhere. A ghost could regain a small semblance of life if he went to the right place.

His feelings kept him together. He did not drift apart despite the temptation to let it all go.

Finally he crossed into the Freezer. He felt pain, intense burning everywhere as nerves came into existence. It was followed by numbness, a frigid cold that bit like flame.

“Whoa, boss. Spare my tender eyes. Turn solid with clothes on already.”

“Broken blades,” he croaked through a new throat. He forced brand new muscles into a run, streaking through the shadowed streets of his home. Shouts and laughter followed his progress. He barged into his tavern, the Green Goose, to gales of laughter. A pale man with short hair held the doors to the main room open. Vic. The name was there and he rejoiced in it. The crowd in the common room stared at him and laughed expectantly.

Finally bowing to the inevitable, Pascal stood up straight and gave everyone a good view. Bowing deeply and sarcastically, “Always good to be home, thanks for the warm welcome back.”

He turned around to go upstairs and bowed one more time. It looked suspiciously like he was mooning the room. That too met with a gale of laughter.

When he got up to his room he looked for a maid and a dress but quickly corrected herself. Himself. Pronoun trouble. That will happen for a while. He was pleased with how he’d handled himself downstairs. That was Pascal Hunter. He was almost sure of it.

“I liked your last suit better,” Holly teased him when he came downstairs for a drink.

“Pepper vodka,” he ordered without thinking.

With a grin, “If you use vodka instead of rum, you turn a Naked Lady into a Naked Gentleman.”

Pascal choked.

“Hey, don’t take it so hard, boss man. Just teasing.”

Fortunately Brynn walked in to relieve Pascal from explaining why that was funnier than Holly thought.

“Your hair’s long,” Brynn said by way of greeting.

“What? So it is,” he said as he grabbed at it. It was a darker brown than it used to be, thicker and with a slight curl. He knew how to style it. “I’ll have to get it cut,” he grumped.

Brynn chuckled. Holly cocked an eyebrow at him for an explanation, but Brynn was able to resist her charms for a change. Slowly Pascal got himself together. He remembered the Goose, and Holly, and Vic, and the crowds that started to come for food and warmth when the sun set.

He was the main topic of conversation, his naked run through the neighborhood was told and retold. Circumstance put him in the center of attention and made him interact with his neighbors. It was the best possible tonic.

“I lost a bet,” he explained a dozen times. “No, I’m not telling to who. Take a guess.”

Or, “The stakes? Well, let’s just say I’d much rather have won.”

Vagueness and innuendo were still his allies.

He had another debt to pay the next day. With a heavy heart he went to see the Carrabach.

He’d grown accustomed to the warm weather in Brodjach but the Freezer had not changed. His return to shirt and pants also meant a return to boots, parkas, gloves, scarves, and hats. Entering the Carrabach’s waiting room started with the ritual removal of his outer layers. When he pulled off his hat his hair spilled out. He would have to get it cut.

The dragon did not keep him waiting long. Paz was quickly admitted to the main office.

“It is gratifying to welcome your safe return, Mr. Hunter. Allow me to offer you some refreshment while you recount your results.”

“Thank you Carrabach,” he answered, looking up at the giant standing in front of him. The dragon towered above him just like Feodor Illyitch had when he was Simza. The Carrabach had a broad smile on his dark features, while the butler went through life with a scowl. For all that, the dragon was far more threatening.

His host’s huge meaty fingers wrapped around a crystal decanter with surprising delicacy. Pascal had never seen him so much as smudge any of his treasures. He served hard cider, which was typical of the Carrabach; enough to satisfy social obligations without being so valuable as to be hard to replace.

“You asked me to find out what conditions changed in Brodjach to allow them to grow their tobacco,” Pascal began. “I found out. Nothing changes.”

“Unacceptable,” replied the giant, though calmly. “They are temperate and insufficiently arid. You are attempting to obfuscate the issue, Mr. Hunter.”

“To an extent, yes. The answer I’ve given is true, and is what you asked for.”

“Ho ho, then. I am undone by your cleverness. I think not, Mr. Hunter. If you insist I accept your non-responsive answer I will. But evermore our dealings will be governed by technicalities.”

Pascal put a finger in front of his face, gesturing for a pause. “I hope we can do better than that. This information can be dangerous for them and since it goes beyond what you asked for, I want a guarantee.”

“And the nature of this guarantee?”

“I passed through Battlefield to get to Brodjach. That can’t happen again.”

The Carrabach understood. “Devastation provides short term profits. My interests are long term. I accept your terms. I will consider the natives’ welfare in my calculations.”

He wanted more, but would accept that. “They don’t grow tobacco. Ever. When they leave Fall of Night, they go to their home shard. It’s large, really large. Carrabach, I think their whole world survived the Cataclysm.”

“That is why you fear a new Battlefield,” intoned the Carrabach. “That explains a lot. They want to maximize their profit while disguising its origin. A compact, high value crop is believable.” He pondered. “Doubtless they have other profitable opportunities they forego for concealment. With a partner versed in concealing and laundering, the potential profit soars. Excellent news, Mr. Hunter.”

A small smile broke out on his face.

“I don’t–” Pascal tried again. “You’re not– You’ve heard of this before.”

“If their whole world survived, it will be the fourth I know of, but the only one where I could trade exclusively.” A small scowl crossed his face. “What are your contacts on the world like? I may need you as a liaison. There will be a percentage, of course.”

“Contacts?” This wasn’t how he’d expected the conversation to go. “Difficult. It depends what Sofiya does with her information.”

That led to him telling the Carrabach what happened. He listened carefully. “Send a letter to Sofiya,” he said and left.

- ♇ -

A little over three weeks later, Sofiya showed up at the Green Goose. She wore a long blue skirt with a pale blue and yellow blouse under her heavy fur coat. Pascal considered that a hopeful sign. She was not in mourning. No one had died from his revelations.

It felt strange to see her again. He was still trying to recover, to be Pascal Hunter again. His time as Simza had changed him. He noticed it every day with his new preference for vodka over bourbon. That was a simple change, easily noted, and he didn’t care much. He worried that there were deeper changes he hadn’t noticed or memories that he’d lost or changed.

Seeing Sofiya brought it all back. She was a sister, a rival, an obstacle and a possible ally all at once. He knew those were Simza’s feelings, but they were a part of him now and he couldn’t get rid of them.

“Sorry, Jim, I’m going to have to leave you two alone. This one’s for me,” he told the boy across the table from him.

“Sure thing, Paz,” the teen snapped back.

Paz suppressed a knowing smirk. Jim brought his date to the Goose because his father trusted Pascal so they could go off without guards. Even though he liked Pascal, Jim still chafed at the restrictions and would be glad for some time alone with Ally.

Neither Jim nor Ally, also known as Kyle Parker, passed as well as they once did. Jim’s hair was tied back but getting longer and his fingernails were a bit too long and clean. Ally’s shoulders were muscular and too broad for her dress. They were making plans to switch places and each wanted a good body to move in to. As part of becoming a man, Jim had to be Denise more than when he tried to run away.

Pascal wished them the best of luck. He liked to think he was not the only person to find a new life in Fall of Night.

“It’s good to see you again, Sonya,” he greeted her.

“Mr. Hunter,” she answered coldly. Up close Paz could see she was in poor shape. She had bags under her eyes and hollow cheeks. Sadness rolled off of her in waves.

“Please step this way,” he offered while taking her arm. He led her back through the restaurant into one of the private booths Vic had made up. Not completely private, but no one was trying to listen in.

“I would ask how things are going, but just looking at you I can see you’ve had trouble.” He tried his best to sound sympathetic.

She glared at him, looked down her nose, and used all the aristocratic defenses at her command to get him to look away. He knew the tricks and waited. Finally she gave up and sobbed, putting her head in her hands.

He put his hand on hers. He drew it back quickly. It looked wrong. With Sonya here he was expecting to see long nails and polish. He was Pascal, not Simza. Reaching out again he grasped her hand and hoped he could give her some comfort.

“It’s been– It’s been terrible,” she cried. She took another moment to recover but did not let go of Pascal’s hand. When she realized she was holding his hand she almost pulled back but instead looked at him and asked, “You were Simza, right? That wasn’t a joke?”

He smiled gently, and for just a second he felt like he was Simza again. “Yes, I really was.”

Sofiya relaxed, though Pascal could tell it was a deliberate effort. “I almost didn’t come. Simza insisted.”

“Tell me more,” he prodded.

“I thought– I know what you tried to tell me. Let it alone and use the letters to make sure Boris leaves Yakim alone. That’s what you meant, right?”

It was, but ‘I told you so’ never goes over well. So, “No, not at all. It was your decision, and I knew you’d do what you thought was right. I’m, uh, I’m not good at judging, so I left it to you.”

“I wanted to. I knew what would happen if I showed everyone what you found. But I just couldn’t. I mean, it didn’t bother me that Boris wasn’t Father’s. Well, maybe a little, just thinking of Mother… But he killed Father.”

Pascal nodded. He understood all too well.

“I thought maybe Boris would leave quietly if I threatened him. I would have let him go.”

That was stupid, Pascal thought to himself, but she’s still alive so the worst didn’t happen.

“He didn’t. Andrei found out. They fought and Boris lost. Andrei was shot in the arm but Boris had to go to the hospital to recover, which probably worked out for the best.” So when she said they fought, she meant it.

“We’ve kept Mother and Boris from coming back, but a lot of the staff left with them and they are going to file legal challenges when we get home and I just don’t know if we can keep going. And it’s all my fault.”

“I’m sorry,” was all Pascal could think to say. “I wish it worked out better for you.”

“Simza, well, when she saw your letter, she got Andrei to insist I come see you. This Carrabach, can we trust him?”

“Not for a second,” he replied without thinking. After a moment he corrected himself, “You can trust him to keep his deals. He won’t lift a finger to help you without one, and it’s his interests he’s got in mind, not yours.”

“Can he– Can he do what he says? Can he hide anything we ship through him?”

She wanted him to reassure her, “I don’t know. Really. I don’t know much about his business empire. I do know him. If he says he can do something and takes payment for it, he probably can. I don’t know how.”

“Simza, well, that’s what she said. There’s a lot of money involved, and she said that would make a difference if Boris challenges us. It shouldn’t, we’re all nobles and the courts will treat us fairly, but…”

“But Simza has a feel for how things really work,” Paz filled in.

“Can we trust her?” Sofiya asked while looking directly in his eyes.

“Are they married yet?”

“With all this? No, of course not.”

“Have the wedding. Push Andrei into it if you have to, and make sure Simza knows you’re doing it. Get them married. Then, yes, you can trust her.”

Sofiya thought about it. Her fingers drummed against the table while he held his hand over hers. It was a small thing when it came. She looked down and nodded her head so slightly he could barely see it. His spirit still soared.

She would-- No, Simza would marry Andrei and be in the family. Simza would be Lady Pankov. And Sofiya would have an ally for life.

“I will see this Carrabach in the morning then, Mr. Hunter. Tell me, does justice always hurt this much?”

His joy ended. Sofiya drew back in alarm at the pain in his eyes.

“Every time.”