“What about Weavingshaw?” Leena demanded, not allowing him a chance to take control of the subject once more.
She was surprised to see a subtle flexion of his jaw.
“What about Weavingshaw?” he replied in measured tones.
“If Lord Avon left no relations, who inherited the estate?”
“It waspurchasedby a tradesman named Mr. Martin following Lord Avon’s death.” He relayed the information without much pause, and Leena felt relieved that at leastsomeparts of her research were confirmed.
Yet the chime of her mother’s warning sounded once more in her ears:Beware the promise of Weavingshaw.Still, there was an ancient stirring in Leena’s bones, a deep understanding that Weavingshaw held the key to the Avons—and, therefore, a key to her own freedom.
“We must go to Weavingshaw.” Although her tone was decisive, she felt an odd ache in her words, that of a disobedient daughter. “The ghost of Lord Avon may haunt those halls.”
“I don’t doubt we will eventually have to step foot in Weavingshaw.” Mr. St. Silas’s words were stretched, grim. Leena could tell that the estate evoked some deep emotion in him, but whether it was hatred or love she could not say.
She wanted to question him further, to ask him why the grand house provoked such a reaction from him when everything else seemed not to bother him in the slightest. But she sensed that she would receive only harsh silence in exchange.
“One thing I’ve learned about the dead is that certain objects can anchor them to the living,” Leena began again, watching him from underneath her lashes to see if another subtle expression could be provoked by her words. “Do you know of any trinkets, or even a person, that might’ve been important to His Lordship?”
He shook his head, hooded eyes returning to the portrait.
Her heart sank. She’d hoped that she might be able to find Lord Avon waiting beside a loved one. Now she didn’t even know where to start.
“Why do you seek him?” Leena asked, no longer able to mask her impatience. She felt exasperation at his reticent answers. In theory, they were both on thesame side.Surely more information would only help achieve their common end faster?
When he finally did give her an answer, Leena had to hide her surprise, trying to keep her face neutral so as not to show her ricocheting emotions.
“He owes me something, and I intend to take it back.”
Mr. St. Silas didn’t strike Leena as someone who accepted theft with grace. His words—and the memory of his previous secretaries—sat uneasily with her. Yet his answer was not enough, not really even a start, for Leena to use in any way. She opened her mouth to voice this, but he cut her off.
“Miss Al-Sayer, you’ll be shown to your room. Ready yourself for tomorrow.” It was clear from his voice that their conversation was over. With a flick of his hand, he rang the servants’ bell that sat on his desk, the single clatter echoing a finality.
Leena had never worked for an employer who held such a menacing quality without once raising his fist to her. There was her most recent laundry Warden, who had slapped Leena for the slightest provocation, even though it was never her fault. The desperation for money in a time of gnawing hunger across the country had kept Leena’s throbbing jaw locked and raging eyes lowered.
But it was not just the laundry Warden. There were also the ones before who strutted through the factories, who either growled and spat between missing teeth or leered from their seats at the women passingby.
Sometimes, they more than leered.
Those Leena had fought—tooth and nail and sometimes with broken shoe heels. All she had to show for those fights were days without bread, her starvation a bitter trophy for her dignity.
But Mr. St. Silas, Leena thought, looking at him now, was the opposite of dumb, brutish force. He instead had that sort of viciouspresence that made one feel like exposed prey—uncertain where to step next, uncertain where the attack will come from and when.
Even if his body stood still, his eyes stalked—watchful, impatient,prowling.
He had that effect now as he looked at her with his hands in his pockets. Tall, powerful frame leaning back against the desk lazily, his posture deceptively relaxed while his eyes shone with sharpness—someone who always got what he wanted in the end.
It was far more lethal.
Leena would be a fool to underestimate the Saint or even to think that, underneath all that civilized attire and cultured accent, he was less of a threat to her than all her previous employers combined.
Here was a man who was not afraid to cause her real pain, and they both knew it. Already he had deceived her, indentured her, and separated her without a care from the only life she knew, throwing her into a perilous task from which she could not be certain she would emerge unharmed—or even alive.
A knock on the door thrust Leena from her bitter musings. It was Mrs. Van, summoned to lead her back to her new bedroom.
In truth, she was ready to leave the presence of Mr. St. Silas. Her day had been long and taxing before she even stood on his doorstep.
Leena was especially ready to leave the portrait of the last Avon, the golden lord who seemed to reject the very idea of death.
