We all sat and considered the matter for a while. Up on the stage, a Whitney was singing "I Will Always Love You." Rossignol sniffed loudly.
"Never cared for that. Far too strident."
"I prefer the Dolly Parton version," said Dead Boy, unexpectedly. "More warmth."
I looked at him. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"
"You have no idea," said Dead Boy.
Rossignol put the fourth whiskey sour to one side as the chocolate gateau arrived. It really was very big, with scrapings of dark and white chocolate sprinkled on the top. Rossignol made ooh- and aah-ing noises, and her eyes went very wide. She grabbed the spoon and stuck it in, and soon there were chocolate smears all round her mouth. I considered her thoughtfully. An unpleasant idea had suggested itself. Perhaps the reason why this Rossignol seemed so different from the one I'd encountered at Caliban's Cavern, was because this was an entirely different Rossignol. Another duplicate, like the tulpa who'd wrecked the Night Times's offices. It would explain a lot, including how she'd been able to get out of the club so easily.
"I think I need to go to the little boy's room," I said loudly, giving Dead Boy a meaningful look.
"Fine," he said. "Thanks for sharing that with us, John."
"This is the first time I've been to this club," I said pointedly. "Why don't you show me where the Gents is?"
"I've never had to use it," said Dead Boy. "One of the few advantages of being dead."
I glared at him and made furious eyebrow gestures while Rossignol was busy making ecstatic chocolate-
eating noises, and he finally got the point. We got to our feet, excused ourselves, and headed for the nearby door marked Stand Up. Once inside, the shiny-tiled expanse was empty apart from a Kylie standing at the urinal with his skirt hiked up. Dead Boy and I waited until he'd finished, taking a keen interest in the vending machines, and once the Kylie was gone, Dead Boy gave me a hard look.
"This had better be important, John. Just being in here alone with you is undoubtedly doing my reputation no good at all."
"Shut up and listen. The Cavendishes have already sent one duplicate Rossignol after me - a tulpa with supernatural strength and a really bad attitude. Is there any way you can tell whether that's the real Rossignol or not? You're always saying nothing can be hidden from the dead."
"Oh sure. I've already checked her out."
"And?"
"She is the original. And she's dead."
I looked at him for a long moment. "She's what?"
"She doesn't have an aura. It was the first thing I noticed about her."
"Well, why didn't you say anything?"
"It's none of my business if she's mortally challenged. You need to be more open-minded, John."
"You mean, she's dead, like you?"
"Oh no. I'm a special case. And she's far too bright and bubbly to be a zombie. But you can't be alive without an aura. Everyone has one."
"Really?" I said, momentarily distracted. "What does mine look like?"
"Lots of purple."
"How can she be dead and not know it?" I said, almost as angry as I was exasperated. "She's out there right now giving every indication of being very much alive. Dead people don't have orgasms over chocolate gateau."
"Denial isn't just a river in Egypt. Or perhaps it's something to do with the Cavendishes and their hold over her. Do you want me to break the news to her?"
"No, I think it should come from someone who's at least heard of tact. And she did say she wanted the truth, whatever it was." I scowled at the immaculately shining white tiles. "How do you tell someone they're dead?"
"With your mouth. After all, it could be worse."
"How?"
Dead Boy gave me one of his looks. "Trust me, John.You really don't want to know."
"Oh shut up."
By the time we got back to our table, Rossignol had demolished fully half of the gateau and drunk the other twowhiskey sours. She waved happily at us the moment we reappeared and stopped to suck the chocolate smears off her fingers. Her face was flushed, and she keptlapsing into fits of the giggles. Dead Boy and I sat down facing her.
"I want more drinks!" she said cheerfully. "Everybody should have lots more drinks! Do you want some cake? I can ask them for another spoon. No? You don't know what you're missing. Some days, chocolate is hotter than sex! Well, some sex, anyway. What are you both looking so dour for? Did you find your phone number on a wall in there?"
I took a deep breath and told Rossignol what Dead Boy had discovered about her, and what it meant. I said it as simply and straightforwardly as I could, and then I sat there, waiting to see how she'd take it. All the bounce went out of her, but her face was set and calm. Her gaze was far away and thoughtful, as she slowly licked chocolate off the back of her spoon. She might have been considering a business proposition, or the loss of a distant relative. When she finally looked at me, her gaze was entirely steady, and when she spoke, her voice seemed more resigned than anything else.
"It would explain a lot," she said. "The gaps in my memory, why I'm always so cold, why I'm always so docile when the Cavendishes are around. They did this to me. The old me, the true me, would never have put up with the way they've been treating me. Being here, away from them, is like waking up from some dark, listless nightmare. Only I'm not going to wake up from this dream, am I? I'm dead."
I wanted to take her in my arms and comfort her, tell her everything was going to be all right, but I'd promised her I'd never lie to her. She worried her lower lip between her teeth for a while, then she looked from me to Dead Boy and back again.
"Is there anything you can do to help me? Or at least find out what these cochons did to me?"
"I can try," said Dead Boy, surprisingly gently. "I have learned to See all kinds of things that are hidden from the living. It helps that you and I are both dead. It gives me a link I can use." He took her hand in his and gestured for me to take his other hand. I did so, a little
hesitantly. I still remembered what he'd done to Grey. Dead Boy smiled briefly. "Don't wet yourself, John. I'm just going to look into Rossignol's mind and call up a vision of her last moments alive. Her memory is probably blocked by the trauma of what happened. As long as both of you are linked to me, you'll be able to seewhat I See. But remember, it's just a vision of the past. We can't interfere or intervene. The past cannot be changed, no matter how much we might wish to."
His grip tightened on my hand, and suddenly we were somewhere else. No incantations, no objects of power - just the will of a man .who'd been dead for thirty years and still wouldn't lie down. We were in the Cavendishes' inner office, the place to which I had I beendragged, broken and bleeding. Mr. and Mrs. Cavendish were smiling at a preoccupied and scowling Rossignol. She was trying to tell them something, but theyweren't listening. Mrs. Cavendish poured Rossignol a glass of champagne and said something soothing. Rossignol snatched the glass out of her hand, knocked it back in one, and threw the glass aside. Then she fell heavily to the floor, as her legs betrayed her. She lay there, convulsing and frothing at the mouth, while Mr. andMrs. Cavendish looked on, smiling. Until, finally, she lay still. Then the Cavendishes looked at someone standing in the shadows, but I couldn't make out who the third person was.
We were suddenly back at our table again. Dead Boy had let go of our hands. Rossignol was trembling, but her mouth was a firm, flat line. She made herself be still with an effort of will.