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“I do not always know how to be loved,” he says.

“Convenient. I do not always know how to love properly.”

“That sounds disastrous.”

“It has been.”

“And yet?”

I look toward the dying fire. Alcott breathes against my heart. Darkness listens from somewhere close and quiet. And I, who once believed death was the only constant companion worth naming, am surrounded by living things I cannot bear to lose.

“And yet,” I say, “we are learning.”

Alcott’s fingers tighten around mine. Outside, rain begins to touch the windows. Inside, the house settles around us. Only fire, rain, and the peace of being loved by someone who has seen the worst of you and stayed anyway.

32. A Kingdom of Blankets - Olive

The Death of Peace of Mind

The night before the party, Lazarus turns the library floor into a kingdom of blankets. He insists it is strategic.

“It is not,” Edward says.

“It is,” Lazarus replies, spreading another sheet across the rug with the grave concentration of a general preparing a battlefield. “Comfort improves morale. Morale improves murder. Therefore, blankets are tactical.”

Alcott looks up from the map table. “That is terrible reasoning.”

“But memorable.”

“Unfortunately.”

I sit cross-legged near the hearth with a cup of tea warming my hands, watching Lazarus arrange pillows, quilts, and folded sheets into what appears to be either a luxurious nest or the aftermath of a linen cupboard explosion. Edward stands over the maps, sleeves rolled, brows drawn.

Alcott sits beside him with a pencil tucked behind one ear, marking entrances, guard rotations, carriage placements, cellar passages, and what he calls “reasonable points of controlled chaos.”

Controlled chaos, I have learned, means Alcott is either planning something brilliant or something that will require us to flee through a window.

“The east corridor is still the weakest route,” Edward says, tapping the map. “Two guards at the outer door. One inside the service hall.”

“Three if Valehurst changes the rotation,” Alcott says.

“He will not,” Lazarus calls from the floor. “Men like him adore routine. It helps them feel less like cowards in expensive coats.”

I glance down at the ledger beside me. Lord Bertram Valehurst. Terrible man, with terrible deeds and terrible enough that when Lazarus first said his name, three women at Le Havre went silent. That silence is the reason I agreed, not because I am untouched by fear. I am touched by it constantly. Fear sits beside me in carriages, it waits in mirrors and stands behind closed doors, It asks whether I am certain I wish to open them. But tonight, fear has to share the room. There are maps, hot tea and my men. There is Morrigan curled near my ankle and Thanatos glaring through the rain-streaked window as though deeply offended that vultures are not permitted in tactical meetings. And there are blankets. So many blankets.

“Olive,” Lazarus says, “do you prefer this pillow here or here?”

He moves it two inches. I stare at him. “Those are the same place.”

“They are spiritually distinct locations.”

Alcott nods without looking up. “He is correct. That pillow has journeyed.”

Edward sighs. I smile into my tea. The smile comes easier these days. Alcott reaches into a small tin near his elbow and slides it toward me.

“Biscuit?”

I freeze. All three men look at the tin. Then at me. Then at Lazarus.