“About the beasts that patrol the streets of Brighton?” She refrained from pointing out that Mr. Rollings asked her to meet in the very streets they patrolled. Instead, she said, “Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rollings. Fate had other plans. And they have been nothing but kind to me.”
“To Calliope Turner, yes. Not Calliope Balfour.”
“What do you mean?”
“How do you imagine they’ll react once they discover your blood is just as blue as the people who tortured them into becoming the beasts they are today? My advice, Miss Turner: run. If we survive this, if we escape here, run as far from Brighton as you possibly can.”
“Torture? You mean how they were treated by nobles?”
“Precisely that, Miss Turner.”
Would they truly shun her if they discovered the truth?
The ropes at her wrists suddenly felt too tight, the room closing in with the heaviness of his words.Calliope Turner. Not Calliope Balfour.The name struck like the edge of a blade she had thought long blunted.
And Maxen? His brothers? Surely they weren’t tortured in the literal sense? She thought of all their scars...
Her pulse thundered in her ears.
If Maxen learned the truth... would he cast her aside? Would he see her not as the woman who had escaped a nightmare and built a life from nothing, but as a reminder of the very world that had broken him?
“No, he—they—aren’t like that.” But could she truly claim that?
“Beasts are beasts.”
He couldn’t know what he was saying, could he? He couldn’t possibly understand. And yet, the way his gaze held hers, almost sorrowfully, told her he knew precisely what blade he had just twisted.
No.
Maxencouldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
But doubt, that sly devil, slithered into her heart. She couldn’t recall any disdain from him for nobles, but then, why would he discuss such things with her? They weren’t amongst nobles here. Would he lump her among them the instant he learned her name? Could sheever reveal her true identity now?
“Perhaps you are right, Mr. Rollings. However, beasts are often misjudged by us. They are, after all, humans too.”
Somewhere outside, a laugh cut through the air, followed by footsteps and the door unlocking. Light flared as it swung open, making her squint. A figure stood framed against the doorway. Tall, blond hair neatly arranged, eyes locked on her.
Mr. Peregrine!
Memory surged. His voice leaning into her... his hand covering her mouth... words she had dismissed as nightmare when blackness claimed her. So it had been him all along!
His mouth curved into a smile, almost pleasant, but his eyes—cold and flat—betrayed whatever mood he tried to create with that grin. “So we meet again, Miss Turner.”
Words lodged in her throat.
“You should have remained at Talon’s, where I left you. Then it might not have come to this.”
“Something tells me it would always have come to this.”
“Perhaps.” Then, with chilling ease, he pointed the black barrel of his pistol level with her heart. “Unfortunately, I’ve been instructed to take your life.”
“What?” Calliope managed, her gaze flicking between him and the pistol. “By whom?”
“It’s nothing personal, Miss Turner. Someone wants to teach Maxen Fury a lesson. You, it seems, are the means to do it.”
“So I am to die here today. And you are to kill me.” A strange calm settled over her. One she hadn’t thought possible in the face of this situation. If she were to perish at this moment, she would perish only with one regret. That Maxen’s was not the face she’d take to the afterlife.
