The patronizing curl of his voice made Vivian grit her teeth. But she didn’t argue; they both knew he held all the cards in this game. He stood, looking satisfied, and Vivian climbed to her feet too. God, she was tired.
“You do good work when I need you to, Mr. Green,” the commissioner added as he crossed to the door. “So I don’t mind you asking for an occasional favor. But I’d hate for one of those favors to cause trouble between us.” He met Leo’s eyes, his hand on the doorknob. “Doyouunderstand?”
Vivian could see the muscles clench in Leo’s jaw. “I do, sir. Here’s hoping we can all be pleasantly surprised by the end of the week.”
“I do enjoy your optimism, young man.” The commissioner gave them both one final considering look before turning to open the door,as though they were already dismissed from his thoughts. “You’ll hear from me if I need you.”
And then he was gone, though the chill of his presence lingered, and silence filled the room where he had been. Leo was staring at the door, though by the rigid set of his neck and shoulders, Vivian suspected he wasn’t seeing it at all.
The silence continued to stretch between them, and Vivian wasn’t sure how to break it. “Real charmer, your uncle,” she said at last.
That made Leo laugh shortly. “Don’t let him hear you calling him that,” he said as he turned away from the door.
Vivian hesitated a moment, then went to him, laying a hand on his arm. “You’re better off, you know,” she said gently. “Without him. Without any of them. It’s a hell of a raw deal, having family that doesn’t want you. But imagine if you’d grown up into someone like that.”
Leo wrapped his arms around her, and Vivian burrowed against his warmth, her eyes closed. He rested his chin on top of her head. He didn’t reply, and she could still feel the tension in him, but he didn’t push her away either. At last he sighed. “Well, sweetheart, what do you want to do?”
“With my one week?” Vivian pulled away, walking three jittery steps into the room. “If running away isn’t an option, I guess it’s time to start calling in some favors.” She glanced out the window. “And if I’m going to be asking for favors, that probably means I shouldn’t be late for my shift.”
He nodded, his eyes back on the door as she collected her shoes, her dancing dress, her treasured pair of silk stockings, tossing them on the bed one by one. Then she hesitated. She and Leo had gotten a bit frisky a time or two, enough that she shouldn’t feel so strange changing her dress with him there. But tonight, she felt raw and exposed, even with all her clothes still on. One week. Only one week.
Snatching up the pitcher from the washstand, she thrust it toward Leo. “Will you get fresh water? The washroom’s up one flight.”
He frowned as he took it, still looking distracted. “You sure you’re up for it tonight? You’re all right?”
“Of course,” Vivian said, giving her head a little toss to settle her hair and beginning to hunt for her lipstick. “All things considered, I’m swell.”
She didn’t look back toward him, and after a moment, she heard him go out into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Her hands were shaking as she reached for her dress. She clenched them into tight fists until the tremors stopped. Then she yanked the pretty gown—she had raised the hem and sewn the fringe on herself—over her step-in, shimmying her hips until it fell into place. When she glanced in the mirror, her cheeks were pale against the stark black frame of her hair, her eyes wide and scared. She took a deep breath and smiled at her reflection until the expression felt right.
If she didn’t think about the future, if she just kept moving forward, she could get through it. She had one week. And, as she had said to the commissioner, a lot could happen in a week.
By the time Leo came back with the wash water, Vivian was able to take the pitcher from him with hands that were steady. “Thanks, pal,” she said, pouring out just enough to wet her hairbrush and slick down her bob. When every sleek hair was in place, she twisted it back on one side, sliding in a pin decorated with feathers and glass pearls. Tilting her head as she considered her reflection, she met Leo’s eyes in the mirror. “Ready to get to work?”
For a moment, she thought he would say something that she would have to ignore, something that matched the worry in his eyes. But instead, he nodded and held out his hand. “Let’s see what we can find.”
SEVEN
Seven Days Left
There were half a dozen doors into the Nightingale. They led into alleys, snaked through tunnels, opened up in trapdoors and closets and the storeroom where bathtub gin from Chicago kept company with cases of French champagne.
That was where the employees entered these days; they were expected to change it up every few weeks so no one could track their comings and goings too closely. But Vivian sent Leo around to the front before she ducked into the alley that wound its way to the basement door. He knew a lot of the Nightingale’s secrets by now, but Vivian didn’t want to get caught breaking the rules right before she started asking for favors.
After everything that had happened that day, she was running late, and she could already hear the band. The music, a joyful Charleston beat, unknotted something inside her chest, and Vivian took a deep breath as she headed up the stairs. The night was young, but the scent of wildness lingered in the air from the countless nights that had comebefore, smoke and Shalimar, promises and secrets. Already there was laughter echoing through the air.
The Nightingale was home. It wouldn’t let her down.
But before she reached the top, she heard footsteps coming down. Vivian pulled against the wall, pushing down a burst of panic. Anyone coming down here worked at the Nightingale. There was no danger.
Vivian straightened her spine just as her boss came around the corner.
“Vivian.” Honor Huxley paused, her surprise, for once, not hidden. “I was wondering where you were.”
Vivian’s eyes drank in the familiar sight: the curly blond hair pinned back around Honor’s head, the bright slash of red lipstick visible even in the dim light. Her long legs in dark trousers, her white shirt open at the neck, the sharp lines of her suspenders. If she let herself, Vivian could remember the smell of Honor’s skin, the vanilla and vetiver scent of her perfume.
But she wouldn’t let herself. Not anymore. Vivian dragged her gaze up.
