Any trivial secret can lead to someone’s ruin.
Rami would find out soon enough that the excuse she’d given him for her absence was a lie. But what would he do when he learned about her contract?
Horror flashed through her mind as she thought of the real possibilities of Rami either coming here seeking retribution against the Saint of Silence, or joining the Black Coats to gain a semblance of power in an attempt to free her. Both possibilities ended in agony.
Leenashould’vetold Rami the truth rather than lying to him; it would have been better coming cushioned from her own lips than if he found out on his own.
Leena tightened her hands into fists. She would need to see Rami very soon, even if it meant she crept out of this dreadful prison at night to doso.
She saw that Mr. St. Silas was watching her, a speculative look in his eyes. “Do not try it,” he warned softly.
Leena tilted her head in forceful submission before he could see her deliberation. “Yes, sir,” she whispered. Even though she did not look at him, she knew he had heard.
—
A man walked in, Morish, with a low-slung cap over his tawny hair. He bowed deeply to Mr. St. Silas, and the sentiment was returned with only a slight incline of the Saint’s head. The coat the man wore was of the darkest fabric—a Black Coat. A twine of rope was attached to his lapel, reminding Leena of the girl handing out pamphlets in the market. Four phantoms followed him: three boys and a girl, each carrying bullet holes in their skin.
The influence of the Rebels had begun to swell. Leena, along with just about every person in the country, was well aware of the brewing discontent with the ruling class and its indifferent king.The latest information Leena had managed to learn through one of the Saint’s scullery maids was that the rural villages outside the capital, which were most affected by the heavy taxes and food shortages, were beginning to organize tentative riots against their wealthy landlords.
Even the most violent of the Black Coats had started to show real interest in joining the rebellion, or so claimed more than a few constables who had come in, not to confess but to report news to Mr. St. Silas. Often Mr. St. Silas dismissed her for these reports, but Leena had still managed to catch snippets of their conversations.
“It’s cold in here,” the Black Coat now said, his breath coming out foggy. It made sense that he felt the chill when four phantoms flanked him so closely. Leena could sense their wrath toward the living man like ice forming on her skin.
Leena kept her head low this time and wordlessly wrote a note detailing the odd array of ghosts that followed the Black Coat. She slid it over, and Mr. St. Silas barely glanced at it before turning to the man.
As always, the Saint breezed through the waiver he gave to all customers before falling into bored silence.
Leena did not interrupt this time.
But that morning she had doused her hair with droplets of lavender water in an attempt to chase away the claustrophobia of the Saint’s confession room. To Leena, it felt like the equivalent of attempting to grow flowers in the cracks between stones.
The Black Coat rubbed his hands together for warmth, his bristled cheeks red with the chill. After a long, tense moment, the confession came like thread unwinding from a spool. “A few nights ago, there was a secret meeting held for the Rebels in an old warehouse in Ridgeways. It was discovered by free-patrolling soldiers, who did not hesitate to take aim. A few died, but most were taken to Newtorn Prison for treason.” The chair groaned as he shifted in his seat. “I was supposed to be standing guard, but I took a few puffs of Tarthat night to settle my nerves.” He rubbed his red-rimmed eyes with the pads of his thumbs. “I fell asleep at my post.”
There was something very wrong.
Leena watched as the ghosts that surrounded him became frenzied, the decayed tendons of their hands outstretched toward the Black Coat to hurt him, but their touch was like water. Leena feared that they might turn and direct their anger at her—the only one whose body seemed to respond to ghostly attacks—and she hunched lower. Her hand snaked to her pocket to hold her copper coins, feeling only marginally comforted by the metal in her damp palm.
Mr. St. Silas did not miss her shrinking movement and raised his brows coolly at her. His expression shifted slightly when he realized that she was not deliberately trying to interrupt his session, but rather had reacted involuntarily. His lips curved upward, and she remembered what he’d said once:Everythingaffects you.Leena detested that her own unchecked response had proved, once again, that his sharp analysis of her was correct.
Shakily, she wrote the new information of the ghosts’ actions and handed it to Mr. St. Silas, who read it quickly.
He turned back to the Black Coat, now with a new acidic interest.
“Indeed?” he asked softly. Leena had seen the way the Saint rooted out liars. His technique was as precise as a surgeon palpating for tender spots, but instead of repairing the weakness, he only pressed more firmly. “Now, did you lead the soldiers to the meeting house yourself when you betrayed your rebel comrades, or did you merely pretend to be asleep somewhere and let the soldiers wander in by themselves?”
Leena whipped her head round to look at him.
The ghosts likewise reacted to Mr. St. Silas’s statement, halting their movements as if they had been called. Leena felt the room’s temperature drop a degree, but it went unnoticed by the two men.
The Black Coat’s eyes widened. Shock had rendered his words nearly unintelligible. “How could…You couldn’t have…but—”
He rose up suddenly, his face now markedly paler.
“Sit down,” the Saint ordered idly. “I have not finished.”
Slowly, the Black Coat sat.
The ensuing silence now carried its own claws, and Leena saw the way it ripped into the man, leaving him in tatters. He shuddered beneath its battery, slumping with his head in his hands. “The King’s soldiers paid well.”
