There was a frown between Honor’s brown eyes. “Is everything all right?” she asked, and the real worry in her voice soothed some of the raw places in Vivian’s heart.
Honor of the sometimes-criminal childhood, who had built a back-alley kingdom for herself at the Nightingale in defiance of the outside world, who ruled over it with fierce pride… Honor would know what to do. She collected information and favors like a child gathering candy. If she doled them out sparingly, she had also made it clear, to many curious players in her underground world, that her employees were under her protection.
Vivian had been hoping to see her. She took a step forward. “I need your help.”
“Oh, pet.” Honor’s voice was soft as she replied. “It’s bad this time, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Honor glanced upward, in the direction she had come, then nodded. “You know I’ll do what I can,” she said. Her words gave away none of her thoughts, but her voice was gentle. She put her hands on Vivian’s shoulders, turning her back toward the basement. “Let’s talk in private, and you can tell me what you need.”
The music was a distant brass wail, and Vivian paced to its rhythm without realizing it as she told Honor what had happened that day. She didn’t think about the slip of Buchanan’s blood against her hands or the commissioner’s cold gaze as she spoke. None of that mattered. Favors needed confidence, and she could put on plenty of confidence when she had to.
“He gave me one week,” she said at last. Her voice shook a little, but she pushed that tremor down. “So I’m hoping—” Vivian turned back to her boss at last but fell silent instead of continuing.
Honor had been watching her without speaking, her body held perfectly still, but there was something painful in that stillness. Exposed by the glare of the electric lights, there was a glittering in her eyes that Vivian thought might have even been tears.
Was Honor, who usually showed as much emotion as a statue, crying for her?
But a moment later that was blinked away, and Honor’s mouth pulled to one side thoughtfully. “You’re hoping,” she prompted, her voice soft and impossible to read once more.
“A week isn’t much time, but there’s plenty of secrets to be unearthed in this city, right? It just depends on who you talk to and who owes…” She trailed off. Honor was still watching her, saying nothing. Vivian lifted her chin. “I don’t even know where to start. But sometimes it feels like you know everyone. You’ve got ways to find things out. And I could sure as hell use that right now. So can you help me find out what happened to this Buchanan fella?”
In the silence, Vivian could hear the song changing upstairs, the rush of feet as dancers scattered to find new partners, the shouts fromthe bar. She could tell just by the noise that it was a crowded night. Someone would be coming down to restock the bar soon; they wouldn’t have privacy for much longer.
Then Honor stepped forward, and for a moment everything else fell away. She laid her hands against either side of Vivian’s face, thumbs brushing lightly, soothingly, over her cheekbones.
“I’m sorry, Vivian,” she murmured. “I’m so sorry for what you’ve gone through, and for what you’ll have to face next.”
The warmth of the touch melted some of the bravado that was keeping Vivian going. She didn’t want to let it go—she needed it—but she also wanted to lean into Honor’s hands, to believe that someone else could solve the mess she was in. Her eyes fluttered closed when Honor leaned forward. She felt the brush of lips against her forehead, a kiss like a sister, like a mother.
A kiss like an apology.
Vivian’s eyes snapped open, meeting Honor’s, her breath coming faster when she saw the regret there.
“I wish I could help you. But I can’t. Not this time.”
Honor let her hands fall, her smile like heartbreak. Vivian watched, too stunned to speak, as her boss stepped away. At the foot of the stairs Honor paused, her hand on the railing, and half turned back. But it wasn’t far enough to meet Vivian’s eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
EIGHT
Vivian didn’t know how long she stood there after Honor left. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense.
Whatever history there was between them—and there was plenty—Honor had never hesitated to help her before. Hell, she had volunteered for it, even when it was downright illegal. And she had to know what a thing like a murder charge would mean to a girl like Vivian. There was no way she would let that happen.
Can’t,she had said. Notwon’t. Vivian clung to that word, desperate for it to mean something. Honor never said anything without a reason. So what was the reason this time? Who was she afraid to cross?
It didn’t matter, not now. Maybe she’d find out later. But if Honor wouldn’t help her, all right then. She would help herself. She’d been doing that her whole life. She’d do it now, too.
And she wasn’t getting any closer to answers standing in a cold cellar. Vivian took a deep breath, checked the pin in her hair and the cinch of her garters, and made her way upstairs for her shift.
She scanned the dance floor when she arrived. A few regulars, plenty of strangers. No one yet whose help she wanted to seek out. That was all right. There was time. Vivian made her way to the bar to scope out the patrons there and get her marching orders for the night.
Danny Chin was the Nightingale’s head bartender and, unknown to most of its patrons, Honor’s second-in-command. Right now, he was watching her as she stepped up to the bar. Once upon a time, he had been the dance hall’s biggest flirt as well, infamous for the killer smiles and soulful eyes that could make women of any age blush and stammer. These days, though, he saved his most decadent smiles for the woman waiting for him on Spring Street, in the cozy, cluttered rooms they shared above his parents’ restaurant.
Danny had married that fall. And his new wife was Vivian’s older sister, Florence, now expecting their first child.
