“Are you sick?” Lola asked her.
Arabella waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve put this body through a lot.” Arabella grabbed Lola’s drink and grimaced when she realized it was empty. “But killing is never easy, no matter what the legends say of me. I haven’t worn my real face since the Revolution ended because I can’t bear to look at it.”
That meant even the so-called Devil was capable of guilt.
“Before their executions, I appeared to the Mizers—each and every one. And I offered them a choice—their talent or their lives. They all clung to their power, even in death.” Arabella traced the edge of the prayer card with her finger. “Does that sound like your friend?”
Now Lola understood the conversation, the help Arabella wanted. She was asking Lola to decide Enne’s fate for her.
“You don’t need to think like this,” Lola told her. “You can leave Enne be. You can put your past behind you.”
“Those are some optimistic, naïve words for a bitter, pretentious person,” Arabella said snidely. “But I can’t. And what keeps me up at night isn’t that what I did was awful—it was. But it’s because I’m afraid that the world is better because of what I did. And so I can’t trust myself. It’s why you should decide what to do about the last Mizer, instead of me.”
Lola stiffened. Even if Lola understood anger, Arabella’s reasoning for what she’d done was objectively horrifying; there was absolutely no justification for it. And Lola had always wanted to believe that the truth of stories was more powerful than the lies of legends.
But glancing again at the prayer card, Lola was no longer sure. That prayer card didn’t exist a few weeks ago. Regardless of Enne’s own actions, the world was changing because of her.
And Enne was far from innocent.
“I—I don’t want to decide,” Lola stammered. “It shouldn’t be my responsibility.”
Arabella pointed to the scar on her neck, a white line that traced across her throat. “Being passive is a decision, too. It’s what the world decided before I made them choose otherwise.”
Lola squeezed her eyes shut. Arabella was putting her in an impossible position.
“Fine,” Arabella amended. “Forget about Enne. I meant it when I said I trust your judgment, and you’re the only one who knows my story. So what do you judge of me?”
Out of the corner of her eyes, Lola glimpsed the others in the cabaret drinking and dancing and laughing, and though Lola had never truly lived or wanted to live in their world, she envied them. Their brothers weren’t dead or feral shells of their old selves. Their lives weren’t the poker chips of someone else’s game.
Lola didn’t want to incite Arabella’s wrath, but she was angry and frustrated. If Arabella genuinely wanted Lola’s opinion, then Lola would give it to her.
“What you did, what you made Semper do...it was terrible. The legends are right to call you a monster,” Lola told her hotly. If this verdict bothered Arabella, she didn’t show it, and that gave Lola the courage to continue. “And Enne can’t help what people print on prayer cards or everything that happened before she was born. At least give her a chance to change the story.”
Arabella furrowed her brows. “But after everything you told me, will she?” When Lola didn’t answer, she pressed, “Canshe?”
Lola did have an answer, but it scared her. So she turned away from the Bargainer, focusing instead on the band now onstage. “I’ve made up my mind. Now let me enjoy the cabaret.”
HARVEY
“This is the worst job I’ve ever had,” Harvey grumbled as he struggled with a wine cork, his shoes soaking in the reeking puddle that was the floor behind the Catacombs bar—a floor that had once belonged to a holy place.
“If I’m taking in strays, I still expect them to pay rent,” Narinder said. He had the uncanny ability to make all his words sound charming, even ones Harvey would rather not hear. “There’s a book of cocktail recipes behind you for reference. And measure the shots before you pour—the customers don’t need you to flip bottles or put on a show. That’s what I’m for.”
Harvey yanked at the bottle opener so hard the cork split in two. He cursed and searched the drawers for a knife, aware of the impatient eyes of the two customers at the edge of the bar. At ten o’clock, the nightclub was still mostly empty. But it was a Friday night and the curfew in the North Side had just been lifted—likely, the whole city would soon show up.
Watching Harvey struggle with the knife, Narinder set down the crate of freshly washed martini classes and pushed him aside. With the bottle opener, Narinder twisted and popped out the broken cork in one expert, fluid motion. He poured two glasses and slid them to the waiting customers, then went back to restocking.
“Consult the book. Memorize the recipe for a Snake Eyes. And don’t use your talent to sell people drinks,” Narinder told him. “If you do, you’re out. This isn’t Chain Street.”
Harvey reddened. If Narinder knew he was a Chainer, why had he allowed Harvey to stay in one of the spare rooms of the rectory last night? Most weren’t so accommodating.
“I...” Harvey closed his mouth—he was gaping. “I wouldn’t.”
Then Narinder’s expression softened into a crooked smile. “You’re welcome to do it for the fries, though. Everyone forgets we sell food, and they’re quite good. We season them with my mother’s recipe.”
Then Narinder walked off to speak to the musicians. This place was far better managed than the Orphan Guild, which Harvey suspected was crumbling without him—or, at least, he hoped it was.
Harvey didn’t usually mind crowds; in fact, he liked them. He enjoyed wandering through them, adrift but never lost, appraising each person he passed for the qualities the Orphan Guild admired. Even if he didn’t use the favors he collected in such places as this, he could charm with a smile, a pat on the shoulder, a shake of the hand—beguiling whoever would collect the most handsome finder’s fee.A poacher, many had called him. Harvey preferred to think of himself as the face of opportunity.
