“For Weavingshaw.”
The flames were roaring in the fireplace, but in spite of it, Leena felt chilled.
She nodded once, turning to look at the drifting snow outside the window. “Is the duel won at first blood?”
Leena, from having Rami as a brother, knew the rules of combat. There were two eventualities, agreed upon before the fight took place: The duel would be concluded either when the first blood was drawn, or when one fighter was dead.
St. Silas’s answer was swift. “Do I look like the sort of man who stops at first blood?”
Leena emitted a humorless laugh. “No, you do not.”
“And so I repeat: If I am slain, Mrs. Van will be one of the first to know the outcome, and all three of you must therefore abandon the search and leave immediately.”
Leena had an image of St. Silas lying on a patch of isolated moor. The hot blood leaving his body would melt the surrounding snow, until the soil was seen beneath. She gasped at the image and, not for the first time, fought to hold back tears. She wished they were all far away from Weavingshaw.
He saw the look on her face, and his hard eyes softened imperceptibly. “Upon my return from the duel, which is far more likely, we will have the luxury of awaiting Percival’s ghost undisturbed.”
Leena’s eyes snapped to him. “If Mr. Martin is slain, would Weavingshaw finally be yours?”
“It is a start.” The look that came upon St. Silas whenever she challenged him about Weavingshaw was always the same: warlike, blood-filled.
“Is it swords or pistols?” she asked after some time.
“Swords.”
Unease filled Leena’s chest. It was widely known that St. Silas was an extremely deadly shot. His sword work, on the other hand, was nowhere near as exceptional as Rami’s. This would put him at a disadvantage—especially as she knew that Mr. Martin, while hehad also been cultivating his boxing career, was also known as a ruthless swordsman.
Leena started to pace, as she often did when trying to steady the hum of her fears.
“Leena.” St. Silas watched her turn about the room for a further few moments, finally halting her with a light touch on her elbow. “Do not be afraid. I vow that, whatever happens, you will come to no harm.”
“It is not myself I worry for,” she replied distractedly.
“Rami will also be safe.”
Leena turned swiftly to look at him. Was it not obvious? In her every expression? In the way she now looked at him? Had he, the Saint of Silence, cunning and perceptive, a reaper of secrets, not seen the confession so openly written on her face?
Her mouth was dry when she spoke, choked with emotion. “For your sake, I worry also.”
Eventhatwas a sliver of what she felt.
Suddenly, all the unsaid things between them ignited to the surface, unable to find a home in the choked silence.
He nodded once, tightly.
Then, St. Silas did something that she did not expect.
Slowly, he reached into his hidden coat pocket to withdraw a rectangular object. At first Leena suspected it was the red diary again, and she gasped when she sawA Guide to Botanyin his hands. His steady gaze did not leave her face as he handed it to her.
She stared wide-eyed at it for a moment, disbelieving. She had thought it burned, fed to the fire, another past memory cremated.
The blue cover, still so familiar to her heart, was intact, and she could see no sign of missing pages. Without the book, the sound of her mother’s voice had been extinguished to a faint murmur, but now it roared back to life—a beloved and much-missed melody.
With slightly shaking fingers, she reached forit.
His voice was low. “I restitched the first three pages.” His eyeswere dark with repressed emotion. “I wish I had never taken it from you.”
Leena opened the cover reverently, and almost let out a peal of laughter when she saw the pages St. Silas declared to have burned in the days of their first confessions.
