She tried until her knuckles throbbed. Then she rattled the lock.
The shop was closed.
Of course it would be at this time of night. How could she have been so foolish? She had come too late. Fear had stalled her. Now fear would sign her brother’s death certificate.
No.Her eyes jolted to the empty street. Then she cried out, “You have taken everything from me. Give me something back. Lead me to the Saint of Silence.”
Nothing stirred.
“Please,” Leena whispered. Then she tilted her head as if she’dseen a flutter of movement, although anyone peeking through the window at that moment would have seen only a girl standing by herself.
She began walking again, now to the back of the shop. There was a house attached to the rear, complete with a stableyard and a small stone courtyard enclosed with elegantly trimmed trees. Leena knocked once more at the back door, flinching from the ache in her knuckles.
After another minute of tense waiting, the doordidswing open.
A woman stood at the threshold, wearing a spotlessly ironed apron over a plain black dress. The candle in her hand flickered, bathing her harshly angled face in light. Leena stepped back—those eyes.For a moment she swore that the woman’s black irises swallowed the whites entirely.
Leena quelled her panicking thoughts, telling herself that she was not mad. The woman’s eyes were now perfectly normal, merely a trick of the shadows.
“I’ve come to see the Saint,” Leena said, more confident than she felt.
The woman’s voice carried no emotion. “What business do you have with him?”
“A secret to share,” she responded, even louder this time.
“The master is unavailable.” The woman moved to shut the door. “Come back during business hours.”
Leena jammed her shoulder into the narrow opening. “He will not forgive you if you let me leave.”
Leena knew it was an odd statement—especially coming from a slip of a girl like her. Her shawl was too ragged for the cool autumn, and there was a burn hole in her cambric skirt from where she’d stood close to the fire that morning. Still, the woman seemed to consider her—Leena’s face openly full of hungry hope—and, after a moment of deliberation, bade her to follow.
Leena tried to quiet her rasping breaths as she trailed the womandown a long hallway, the wooden floors gleaming, all the sconces lit as if a party was expected. St. Silas must have money to burn.
The woman stopped in front of a closed door. “Your name, madam?”
“Leena Al-Sayer.”
The woman slipped inside to announce her. Leena only heard muffled words, followed by a harsh reprimand. Without having to be told, Leena knew that she would be thrown back out onto the street.
Desperation built in her throat. Without stopping to think, she burst through the door, pushed past the woman, and tumbled onto the floor. A hand jerked her backward and Leena twisted her torso to see the servant woman grasping her shoulders. They both struggled; Leena was not above throwing her entire weight to knock this foreboding lady down and free herself.
Words streamed from her mouth. “You will regret not receiving me, sir. My secret is…is—unhand me!—one you will never hear again—”
A curt word interrupted her ramblings and the woman’s hands released her.
Leena darted toward the back of the room, behind an armchair, clinging to one of the many shelves that lined the walls, but there was no need. The woman had already left.
She was alone with the Saint of Silence.
Black waves receded from her vision, and it took her a moment to compose herself. Her teeth chattered.Why was it so cold in this room?The fireplace roared, but it did nothing to dispel the chill.
Steeling herself, Leena finally turned to face him—Mr. St. Silas.
She was surprised to see that he was young, perhaps only three or four years older than herself. From the gossip swirling about him for the last eight years, she had expected a sharp-toothed beast. A monster in an impeccable suit. Distantly, she was aware that he was handsome—another surprise. But it was not the sort ofhandsomeness that was comforting. Everything about him evoked a brutal sense of disquiet; he was intimidation at a single glance. Even his heavy-lidded eyes, at once both aloof and callous, concealed a sharp alertness.
He sat idly behind an oak desk, an impressive figure with dark hair and a grim mouth, a ledger in his gloved hand. The only sign of disorder about him was the loosened cravat at his throat; otherwise he was immaculately dressed.
“What matter disturbs me in the dead of the night?” His tone was light, almost conversational—and it had the desired effect of chilling Leena to her bones.
