Miss Turner, please meet me at Fury’s at seven o’clock.
The request still made her skin crawl.
So ominous.
AndFury’s?
This establishment must belong to Maxen or one of his brothers. However, this missive could not be from any of them. No, Maxen and his brood weren’t the type to send over notes. They didn’t summon. They collected. There was only one man who might send such a thing, and who also had a similar scrawl.
Mr. Rollings.
Fie. What was she to do? Her heart told her not to go. Her brain shouted the same. After all, nothing good had come of the last time she’d followed such a request. However...
She wanted answers.
Which was why Calliope had once again ventured out dressed as a lad—the same garments she’d worn the night she’d fled the scene of Mr. Rollings’s... misfortune. Not smart. Not safe. But not entirely reckless either. After all, it was early evening, and it was public. People were inside. Light from candles glowed from the windows. She harbored no illusions that she passed for a boy, but the clothing was serviceable, unencumbered. It allowed her to move quickly, to melt into the edges of the street rather than announce herself as a woman strolling around in the dark.
She squared her shoulders, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.
The smell pressed against her first. Not of drink or smoke, but of absence—like her father’s study after he passed away, when his presence could no longer be found, yet the scent of him still faintly clung to his chair. The memory of herself curled in that very chair flashed in her mind.
How odd that it should resurface here.
Her gaze swept the room.
The tavern was all but empty—except for four men. One behind the bar, drying a glass with a rag, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A second had dragged a chair close to the counter and sprawled there as if the spot belonged to him, legs stretched out and crossed at his ankles. A third slouched in a far corner, his coat open, daggers visible along the inside cut. The fourth man across from him...
All had grim faces. Unsmiling. Watchful.
And all their focus turned to her the moment she entered.
A chill seized her.
Every single instinct demanded she turn and run. Who was she to deny that warning? Calliope spun toward the door. This was a mistake. A huge, colossal, dreadful mistake—
“Well, good day, little mouse.”
The voice curled around her nerves like a snare of thorns.
She froze.Mouse?
Slowly, Calliope turned. Was this the man from last night? Maxen’s man? The one who carelessly used the wordspy?
He grinned at her from ear to ear, pushing to his feet from his spot at the table, a coin moving over his knuckles. “What brings you to our humble lair this time of night?”
Her gaze couldn’t help but jump between that smile, the scar that slashed his brow, and the wicked flash in his eyes. Now that she took in him, his companions, the place itself, the tavern bore the unmistakable feel of alair. The space reminded Calliope of a bit of the attic where she spent much of her time as a girl. Although that place wasused to lock her away at times, that cramped room had become a refuge of sorts, even when the door locked shut.
“I am meeting someone.”
His smile turned wolfish. “Here?”
Her mouth dried.Where are you. Mr. Rollings?“Yes, here.”
The man arched a brow. “Is that so? Who would you be meeting, then, little mouse?”
She lifted her chin, challenging, “Is that any of your business, sir?”
“Of course. This is not just any tavern where people can meet.”
