He hadn’t stood when she’d entered the room, as per the custom among the Mors, nor did he offer her a seat. Instead, he stared at her in contemplation, his thumb tapping a beat on a timepiece attached to his chest. The silence stretched; he didn’t seem to mind.
“I have a secret,” Leena repeated, unable to bear the silence any longer.
“We all do.”
Frustrated, she said, “I have a secret for purchase.”
“Ah,” he said, raising his brows slightly.
Horror dawned on her when he didn’t continue.
“You are Mr. St. Silas who trades in secrets?” she asked.
“I amthatSt. Silas, but I am at a loss as to why you would think your secret would hold any interest for me—especially at this hour,” he said, his voice smooth, his accent cultured. She wondered if he had hired elocution tutors, for how else could a mere merchant of secrets speak in such well-educated tones? All the tradesmen she’d come into contact with spoke in her accent, often growing up in similar streets to hers before they’d crawled their way into new wealth.
“I could not wait until morning. My brother is unwell. He has Sweeper’s Cough, and I have heard of your ability to grant impossible wishes for the price of secrets. I cannot afford the medication—”
“Therearecheaper alternatives.”
“I have tried those, but he is still dying,” Leena replied flatly, her gaze not wavering from his. “My father banned me from seeing you a few years ago—”
“Good man.”
“—but I would never have sold my secret for anything less,” she asserted with more firmness than she felt. “My secret holds power.”
Once more, dots swirled in her vision and she shut her eyes to ward away the sudden lightheadedness. When she opened them again, she saw that St. Silas had paused his rhythmic tapping to watch her intently.
“One life is a hefty price,” he said after a lengthy pause. Then he withdrew a blank parchment and began to write. He slid it toward her once he was done, and Leena, despite the awful dizziness, walked steadily to faceit.
Mr. Bram St. Silas will provide one course of medication to Miss Leena Al-Sayer upon acquisition of her secret, if Mr. St. Silas deems it worthy, pending investigation of the secret’s accuracy. Miss Al-Sayer confesses of her own volition, bearing in mind any emotional distress that may arise from making such a confession. Any falsehoods told in her confession shall result in punishment.
Leena thought of tongues ripped out of mouths, of a permanent scar carved into her lips declaring to the world that she was a liar. Of the still-frosted ground as they’d lowered Mr. Jamil intoit.
No.She would not allow fear to distract her.
“Kindly be more specific,” she said. “Mr. St. Silas will provide Miss Al-Sayer with one course ofTrimexicillin.”
He gave her a single measuring glance before moving to changeit.
“Trimexicilliniscostly,” he said, then turned the page toward her. The woman—the very same who had tried to drag Leena from the room—was called in to witness the signing. She was introduced as the housekeeper, and once more Leena had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something verywrongabout her.
All three of them wrote their names on the dotted lines, and the housekeeper departed once that task was done, her steps drifting farther down the maze of halls.
Leena stared down at her own name on the contract, an intense foreboding building in her bones. St. Silas waited, his silence like a heavy burden.
The time had come—a revelation, areckoning.
The secret burned Leena’s throat. She’d held it so tightly within her chest for so long, every day the shame of it expanding and widening, until it felt like she was turning herself inside out to revealit.
What would the Saint of Silence do with her confession?
Would he believe her? This secret was all Leena had in this world, her one currency. Once gone, her hands would be empty.
If she kept her voice even, perhaps the Saint wouldn’t notice her distress. But he watched. He watched her so steadily.
“Mr. St. Silas, I am…I can…” She registered once more the dots floating in and out of her vision. She cleared her throat, her mind racing frantically.
Perhaps he would think that she was mad. Everyone else did. She looked at him in mute agony. His returning gaze was a cold indifference to her turmoil.
