“I don’t know.” I smooth a wrinkle from my sleeve, steady now. “Maybe. Maybe not. New York was survival, not home.”
Rouge’s grin crooks. “Aye, but it had decent whiskey and questionable men. That’s practically the definition of home for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Says the man who once woke up in a church pew with lipstick on his collar.”
He smirks, proud. “And still made Sunday mass.”
Before I can answer, the door opens. Cillian steps inside, cold air curling around him like smoke. The weight in the room shiftsinstantly. His gaze flicks between us, sharp but unreadable. “Everything alright?”
My body moves before my brain can. I’m on my feet, crossing the room too fast, every thought drowned out by the relief that crashes through me. His hand finds my shoulder; my fingers catch his wrist. For a heartbeat, the world goes still.
Rouge clears his throat behind us. “Well, isn’t this cozy? We were just discussing your father’s impressive talent for psychological warfare. Bastard set our dove up with that conductor.”
Cillian practically growls. “I’m going to kill him.”
Rouge grins faintly. “Get in line, boss.”
I straighten, brushing invisible lint from my sleeve. “You can kill him later. We should go—everyone’s already up at the manor.”
Cillian nods once. “Right. My father is up to something. He just kept telling me not to trust you and to watch you carefully tonight.’
Rouge claps his hands. “Well then, this will be a fun field trip!”
I can’t help the faint smile that tugs at my mouth as I turn toward the door. “Let’s go.”
Cillian falls into step beside me, Rouge trailing just behind as we leave the room together—three ghosts heading back to the house where all the noise began.
Anothernight.Anotherperformance.Three of six.
The manor hums with movement—voices echoing down the hall, lights being adjusted, the faint vibration of tuning strings from the room below. Everything smells like wax and old wood and anticipation. I sit at the vanity, earrings in hand, the reflection staring back at me steady and unreadable. My hair’s swept up, my gown perfect, my pulse mercifully calm.
Cillian leans against the doorframe, sleeves rolled, tie still hanging loose around his neck. Rouge lounges on the sofa like he owns the place, a glass of whiskey balanced on his knee.
“Still breathing, duchess?” Rouge asks.
“Barely,” I murmur, fixing the last clasp.
Cillian watches me in the mirror. “You look ready.”
“I am.”
He nods, slow and deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the sight of me before the curtain rises. Rouge breaks the tension with a low whistle.
“Well, lads,” he says, raising his glass. “Third time’s the charm—or the explosion.”
Cillian shoots him a look that could melt steel. Rouge just grins wider.
The silence that follows hums low and warm. I turn back to the mirror, pretending to fuss with my earrings again, but I can feel him move behind me—slow, deliberate, like he’s deciding something.
When he finally speaks, his voice is softer. “I have something for you.”
I glance at him in the glass. “You’ve already given me enough headaches.”
He doesn’t smile. Just reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small velvet pouch. The kind old jewelers used—worn at the corners, the drawstrings slightly frayed.
“What’s that?”
He steps closer, setting it gently on the vanity before me. “Your mother’s locket.”
