“Such a waste,” Orley whined. “I cannot get a feel for you at all. Why such a hard shell? The girl might’ve proved to be more delicious.”
“You are likely very right. Unfortunately, you’ve lost your opportunity to find out.” St. Silas’s smirk was obvious, but for the first time since she had entered his employment, he touched her intentionally, laying a warm hand at the base of her back.
Standing in that claustrophobic room, surrounded by Orley’s lifetrinkets and a young, pained ghost, Leena felt choked. It was almost natural for her to step back into St. Silas’s hold, allowing herself to be grounded by what felt like the only other living, warm thing in the room.
St. Silas flashed a surprised look at her unexpected reaction before once more schooling his features into nonchalance.
Leena could not silence the echo of St. Silas’s secret reverberating throughout her skull. For a wild moment, she wished that he’d never confessed at all.
She cleared her throat. “Tell us about Rami now.”
“Ah, yes,” Orley said in the tone of a child who has lost a game. “He forced our hand, you see. We had to teach him a lesson.”
“What have you done to him?” Leena demanded, taking a panicked step forward.
“Are you asking if my bruisers mean to keep him alive? How should I know? It’s up to the tradesman who asked us to fix the fight,” Orley replied, his attention already slipping away from the conversation. “Frankly, this whole affair has already bored me.”
“Where have they taken him?” Her voice cracked.
“The place we use is an abandoned cottage on the edge of Bromley Forest. It is a few minutes east of Wringer’s Pub.”
“Who was it that wanted the game fixed?” St. Silas was already half turned toward the door.
“Tsk, tsk.” Orley waggled his eyebrows. “For that, I will need another payment.”
St. Silas’s voice was mild. “No matter. I shall soon find out.”
The servant-ghost raised his hand in a farewell and Leena acknowledged him with another nod.
But before leaving the cluttered room, Leena looked back toward the hanging parchment once more.
No Burials for Lambs
Grimly, Leena knew this to be true.
The cottage stoodon the edge of the woods, its boards rotted from years of neglect, the steps broken, the rail missing, paint peeling from the beams. It had taken less than an hour to reach the fringes of Bromley Forest. During the carriage ride, St. Silas had turned to Leena. “No burials for lambs?”
Leena was so preoccupied with thoughts of Rami, she hadn’t realized that she’d been muttering that phrase beneath her breath mindlessly over and over again. “It was written on Orley’s parchment—the one in the gilded frame.”
She didn’t miss the furrowing of St. Silas’s brows. “There was nothing written on that parchment.”
Leena stared at him. “There was. I saw it.”
He looked oddly at her. “I’ve been in that room many times. I have never marked it before.”
“Perhaps it is new?”
“Perhaps…” Although his tone was veiled, he did not comment further.
“How does your confession act as payment for Orley?”
Unsurprisingly, his response was unforthcoming.
Before she could question him any more, they had arrived at their destination.
Leena and St. Silas now stood at the edge of the clearing in front of the cottage, eyes alert to any movement within. Nothing stirred. All was quiet.
“A loaded peace,” St. Silas murmured, retrieving his pistol. It was one of those new broad barrels—a recent invention that gave the shooter two bullets before the weapon needed to be reloaded.
