*
Maxen didn’t believein coincidences.
Coincidence was for the idle. The easily fooled. For those who believed the world unfolded in a slew of accidents and misunderstandings.
He knew better.
The world moved in intentions—some merciless as sharpeneddaggers, some soft as the finest spun silk. And this little tenant of his, weaving through the streets with purposeful steps, was a bloody atlas of intention.
Calliope Turner.
His gut had been right.
She was a bloody complication. A spark in a gunpowder barrel. Thankfully, he’d kept an eye on her even as the smarter half of him warned to stay away. He’d almost listened to that part. Almost. But when something snagged his attention like she did, there was no way to turn.
Deuced troublesome.
Trouble he didn’t know what to do about.
If she was a spy, she was a bloody good one. Or the bloody worst. He honestly couldn’t tell. On the one hand, she walked like someone used to being unnoticed—efficient, light-footed, vanishing between crowds and carts with impressive grace. For all that, not perfect. She checked over her shoulder too often. Noted the passersby too carefully. And most telling of all—she clutched her satchel like her life depended on the damn thing.
Perhaps it did.
What are you hiding, little tenant?
The tips of his fingers twitched.
Hewantedto unearth every single secret she possessed. Wanted to unravel them all. And that... well that made her the most dangerous thing of all.
When she stopped beside the entrance of a narrow side street—an unremarkable slit between shops—he knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, this was the climax of her little mission. Her visit to the posting inn hadn’t rung any alarms. Since her solicitor had handled her lease, he’d expected her to inform him of their meeting. But this stop here, this was ripe with suspicion.
He eased closer, careful not to arouse any notice.
Her hand disappeared beneath the flap of the bag. Interesting. Was she about to discard something? He waited, tension coiling tight with each second her hand stayed hidden from his view, but she didn’t withdraw anything.
Another heartbeat passed.
Another.
Then she pulled her hand from her bag and continued walking.
Maxen’s eyes narrowed.
What the devil was she doing?
“So, is she the mouse from that night,frère?”
Maxen grimaced, turning to find Reaper leaning against a stack of crates, his expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat. His brother had a way of appearing when least wanted. And his use of the French word for brother made Maxen grit his teeth even as it had the maddening habit of softening his annoyance. Christ. “Are you following me?”
“What are you doing followingher?”
“Don’t waste my time asking questions you already know the answers to.”
“Dagger is worried.”
“About what?” Maxen turned back to Calliope, and his face darkened when Peregrine appeared at her side.
A coincidence? He thought not.
