His answer was careful. “I will not shackle you.”
“You will, when my only other choice is death.”
His voice lowered, and there seemed to be something close to anger in it. “Some get even less of a choice.”
She thought of Mr. Jamil, his face bloated with drink, the scars on his lips a furious red. She thought of Margery, whose nightmares from her confession lingered on. She thought of terrified Wardens, of swirling rumors, of condemned prisoners.
She stared at him for a long moment. “Tell me why you killed your last employee.”
St. Silas looked momentarily taken aback by this new line of questioning. “I could’ve sworn that you alleged yourself to be anincurious being.”
“Curiosity tends to be piqued when one’s life is in question.”
“Loyalty,” he said after a pause of deliberation. “Or the lack thereof. My former secretaries were plotting to kill me and take possession of the business. In truth, it was their lack of subtlety that offended me.”
“And not their plan to murder you?”
He flashed another grin. “I find vulgarity to be a worse crime.”
“And will you hurt me if I ever displease you?” She hated that her words were slightly unsteady, the black dots floating in and out of her vision like dark moons.
The remnants of a grin lingered on his lips, but he watched her with narrowed eyes. “Do you plan on wrapping your pretty hands around my throat?”
She shook her head mutely.
“Then you have nothing to fear from me.”
Her fevered mind trailed back to Newtorn Prison, but this time, instead of Colson morphing into her father, it was herself sitting behind the bars. The Saint stood on the other side, whispering to the prison walls that they would make a feast of her yet.
“What are you thinking?” St. Silas asked.
She startled, and grasped the first answer to give him. “I was wondering if you tear hearts for a living.”
His response was quick and fierce. “Make no mistake, madam, that isexactlywhat I do.”
She tried to make sense of his words, but she felt oddly deflated, as if she was sinking, sinking, sinking…
No—no!
Panic welled in her body. She remembered the language books she had left on her windowsill, the ones she had spent nights poring over in hopes of one day finding employment as a translator. How she had learned to conjugate all the verbs in Morish andAlgaraan, memorized all the rules of grammar, practiced and practiced and practiced until her tongue ran ragged. She knew how the Mors viewed the Algaraans—uncivilized people who knew only how to wage wars between themselves, a country that exported only refugees. She dreamed of one day translating her mother’s Algaraan poetry books, to show the world that her people knew more about beauty because they had seen so much destruction.
Leena would not allow herself to die now—not when she had just learned to dream again amid the chaos left by the dead.
“A new contract,” Leena said, sitting back down in the armchair, sinking her nails into the plush fabric. She watched as St. Silas took out a fresh leaf, but interrupted him before he set ink to paper. “You will release me from your employment the moment I find the ghost that you seek.”
The pen paused and he stole a glance at her. A tic in his jaw.
“As you wish, madam,” he said after a long moment. “But you will work as my secretary until you have finished this task.”
She nodded; she’d been expecting that. “You will provide me with all the necessities for life—including food, clothing, and medicine.”
“You will take lodging here,” he added, then raised a hand when she opened her mouth to protest. “Not for my benefit, madam. I am a feared man, not a loved one. Enemies I have by the handful. They will not hesitate to harm you as retaliation to me.”
She knew this. Still, the confirmation made her heart sink. “Then you will provide an allowance to ensure that the rent of my house is paid, so that I have somewhere to go back to once all this is over.”
She watched him copy this down.
“You will also make all adjustments to ensure my safety…” She momentarily lost her train of thought, the fever roaring in her ears. “…remains intact.”
