Leena held it possessively in her hands. It was her one gift from her friend, the old woman’s last possession that she had entrusted to Leena. She had often wondered how Margery had got hold of this precious object. Likely, Leena tried to reassure herself, it was a family heirloom.
There was a small part of her, however, that did worry that the timepiece had been stolen, and that part reared its head now, for how could Margery own something so valuable that the Saint of Silence would recognize it? At Leena’s first opportunity, the moment St. Silas gave her leave again, she would go back and ask Margery more about the origins of this gift.
Leena quickly hid the timepiece in her pocket and took a step back from him. “Why does it matter who gave it to me? It is mine now and I have not stolen it.”
The suspicion on Leena’s face caused St. Silas to recollecthimself. With a last searching look, he spun away from her. “Then let us not delay any further.”
Fray.She also made a note of that name.
Every trivial secret can lead to ruin.
They weaved their way through the multitude of stray limbs and smoking pipes to the other end of the room, then down a long narrow hallway and up several flights of stairs.
The door to the room was unlocked and St. Silas entered without knocking. Taking a deep breath, Leena followed.
She had never seen a more claustrophobic room. It was a magpie’s nest of trinkets. By her feet, large wooden blocks with brightly painted letters and pictures lay scattered—the kind used by children learning to read. Vases with decaying flowers cluttered a writing desk. Oddly shaped perfume bottles rested on the windowsill. Above the desk hung a parchment within a gilded frame, only four inky words drawn on the aged sheet:
No Burials for Lambs
Leena’s gaze stayed there for a moment—what an odd turn of phrase—but she knew, without knowing how she knew, its exact meaning:Only lions are mourned.
On the floor, in the middle of this madness, sat a ridiculous-looking man on a cushion. He was small of stature with hair sprouting from his scalp like weeds, but the bones in his face stood out too far, and the fingers on his hands were unnaturally stretched, curling like a spider’s legs. And…the pupils of his eyes—fathomless dark holes, expanding, the whites no longer visible…
Yet within seconds, the man’s eyes were back to normal, leaving Leena to wonder if her mind was playing tricks on her in this drug-filled den.
Then she thought of Mrs. Van. She and this man shared the same look, the same abnormally curling hands. A wave of nausea unsettled her.
Orley is the worst sort of creature.
Her panicked gaze met St. Silas’s, but there was neither confirmation nor denial in his look.
“Mr. St. Silas? What a pleasure,” said Orley, his voice unnaturally high. He bowed his head while still sitting cross-legged. St. Silas did not return the formality, and neither did she.
It was odd to Leena that any sort of pleasantries could still be exchanged between these two men. Orley had sent spies after St. Silas, and St. Silas had disposed of those spies. While they each sidestepped these recent bloody events, they still hung in the air like smoke. “And who is this beautiful young lady?”
“She is under my protection,” St. Silas said. His voice carried an unmistakable warning, and Leena narrowed her eyes at his choice of words. “She has come to ask for a favor.”
“Does the young lady not speak for herself? Or has the…er…goodfortune of being under your protection robbed her of that ability?”
“I speak,” Leena interjected. During their exchange, her attention had been momentarily diverted by a ghost that appeared by Orley’s elbow. A boy wearing a servant’s livery. His eyes were hollow, his movements twitchy—as if he craved something he could not taste in the afterlife. “I am looking for my brother, Rami Al-Sayer. He is a duelist who competes in fights hosted by your gang. He had one yesterday, but he has not yet returned.”
Orley scratched his arm. “Ah, yes, the cripple?”
“I do not like that word,” Leena snapped, her eyes burning. “He is a sword fighter who has never been beaten.”
Orley’s face once more curved into a wide-toothed smile. He seemed to enjoy her offense.
“That’s his problem, dearie. We instructed him to lose the fight yesterday, but he went against our orders. One particularly wealthy tradesman was very keen for that match to be fixed against Rami, and he would’ve rewarded us handsomely for it. Yet your brother decided hislegacymattered more than our profit. A pity.”
Her head jerked. This was the second time loyalty to alegacywould be someone’s undoing. Maybe the destitute Al-Sayers had more in common with the Avons than she’d first thought.
She wanted to throttle Rami, and she would when she saw him next. How dare he compromise their future and her only family for an ideal?
The ghost of the servant-boy jumped from foot to foot, and Leena stared at him longer than she should have, her mind blank with worry. Their eyes met. His mouth fell open and he pointed at his chest as if saying:You can seeme?
Leena wondered if he could be a useful asset. Haunting the leader of the Black Coats must mean he overheard important information, so she gave a short nod.
“Will you tell me where he is?” Leena asked, still staring at the boy.
