She had been utterly foolish. Kissing Maxen Fury, the dark Prince of Brighton, her landlord, her shadow in the Lanes... and she the lamb that had stepped with him into the night.
She had not meant to.
At least, not until she had.
But she didn’t regret her decision either.
More curiously, she didn’t mind the dark all that much anymore. Not when she was with him. Nevertheless, whatever had possessed her—defiance, gratitude, curiosity—she wanted a repeat. He was a man for kissing. He was also a man for traps, and apparently, that did not involve telling her the whole truth until it suited him.
She glanced at Reaper. He caught her look and grinned, the sort of grin that said he’d be just as happy to watch the world outside go up in smoke as lend a hand to save it.
“Stop fidgeting,petite souris. He’ll be here soon.”
“I am not fidgeting,” she said primly. “And stop calling me that.”Andshe hadn’t asked. Was she that transparent, though?
“You’re rattling in your skin,” Reaper countered, the coin flicking rapidly between his fingers. “Nerves?”
“Impatience,” she said, lifting her chin. “There’s a difference.”
Knight’s voice came flatly. “Patience is virtue.”
Said the outlaw.
Reaper chuckled. “There will be action soon enough.”
“And what exactly will this ‘action’ be? No one has yet bothered to tell me what I’m meant to do besides sit in a carriage and look like bait.”
Reaper exchanged a look with Knight—amusement meeting something sterner. That was her first warning.
“About that,petite souris...” Reaper said, drawing the words out.
Her stomach dipped. “About that?”
“You won’t be in the carriage,” Dagger tossed out.
There was a beat of silence. Calliope blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You’ll be with Maxen,” Knight said, as if it were the most reasonable thing in the world. “Holding back a few streets. Saint will take his place in the main carriage, with a runner dressed as you.”
For a moment she thought she’d misheard. Then her spine stiffened. “A boy is going to dress as me?”
Reaper’s grin widened. “Don’t pout,petite souris. You’ve been dressing as a boy, and he’s a quick runner if things turn sour.”
“I’m dressed as aman.” But that was not the point.
His brow arched. “Whatever you say,petite souris.”
She could feel her pulse in her temples. “He won’t need to run because no one will follow him! They’ll take one look and know he’s not me. And then your entire plan will amount to nothing!”
“It’s safer this way,” Knight pointed out.
“Safer?” And utterly pointless. “If you want to flush out whoever is following me, then you need to give them something worth following. They should know my face, my posture, the way I look out of a window. You think a street boy in a borrowed bonnet will fool them? They’ll be watching for me, not an imitation.”
Knight’s face remained carved from stone. “It’s our job to draw them out, not hand you over like a gift-wrapped parcel.”
“Oh? And here I thought you were going to prevent that from happening. Seems I was mistaken.”
Reaper shrugged. “Anything can go wrong.”
