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“I know.”
Lazarus’s voice is softer than I expect. “We can stay exactly as we are.”
The words almost undo me, because they mean it. They would lie on this floor all night, surrounded by maps and uneaten biscuits, and count my breathing as victory if that was all I wanted. I sit up slowly and the blanket slips from my shoulder. “I do not want only enough tonight.”
Edward’s eyes darken, Alcott’s mouth parts slightly, then closes as I look at each of my men.
“I want soft,” I say. “I want slow. I want to remember before tomorrow that my body belongs to me. I want to choose something good before we walk into something terrible.”
No one moves. So I do. I lean forward and kiss Edward first. His hand rises to my face as if he has done it a thousand times and still cannot believe he is allowed. The kiss is tender enough to hurt. I feel the tremor in him when I deepen it, feel the restraint, the reverence, the old devotion that began behind a carved screen with coffee and secrets.
Then Lazarus is there, kissing my shoulder over the fabric of my gown, pausing when I turn toward him, waiting until I smile before his mouth finds mine. Alcott touches my hand last. Just my hand. The question in it is somehow more intimate than skin. I lace my fingers with his and pull him closer. The night unfolds slowly. No rush. No performance. No roles except the ones we choose and set down again when they become too heavy, the maps are pushed aside, and the pillows shift.
Edward kisses the inside of my wrist and waits there until my breathing steadies. Alcott murmurs something wicked enough to make me blush and gentle enough to make me trust him. Lazarus keeps one hand near mine, grounding me whenever memory flickers too close to fear. Every touch is asked for. When I say slower, the world slows. When I say stay, they stay. When I ask for more, they give me what I want. When I close my eyes, Edward whispers my name until I feel consumed by their voices, their touch, their breath, everything.
Later, we lie together on the library floor beneath quilts Lazarus insists he arranged perfectly despite all evidence to the contrary. Edward’s arm rests beneath my head. Lazarus is draped dramatically across my legs. Alcott lies on his side facing me, fingers tracing idle shapes over the blanket near my hip but not touching skin unless I shift closer. For a while, no one speaks. Tomorrow waits. The party waits with its false music, polished monsters, and rooms full of danger. But tonight belongs to us. My monsters. My home.
“Polar bears are white,” I whisper sleepily.
Edward stills. Alcott lifts his head. Lazarus blinks. “Why are polar bears involved?”
I smile into Edward’s chest. “No reason.”
Alcott huffs a laugh, low and fond. Edward presses his mouth to my hair. The phrase means something different here.
33. Rules Without Morals - Edward
Artificial Suicide
The mask itches against my face. A ridiculous thing to notice, perhaps, given the horrors unfolding around us, but the mind is a cowardly little creature. It clings to small irritations when larger ones threaten to swallow it whole. The mask is black lacquer, shaped elegantly around my eyes, edged in gold. It smells faintly of perfume, dust, and someone else’s hands. I want to tear it off, but I do not. No one here removes their mask unless invited to do so. That is one of the rules. There are many rules in this place. None of them are moral.
The estate sits beyond the coastal town, hidden behind black iron gates, imported trees, and enough hired men to protect a king or conceal a massacre. From outside, it might be mistaken for a grand convention of wealth. Carriages lined the drive. Servants carried trunks. Musicians played in the entry hall. Men and women in silk, velvet, diamonds, and feathers laughed beneath chandeliers as if they had gathered to discuss art, trade, or politics.
They had not, this was a market, a temple. This primal hunting ground and every corridor led to another altar. Olive walks beside me in a mask of black lace and garnet stones. She is radiant enough to make men turn as we pass, but her hand trembles once against my sleeve.
Lazarus moves ahead of us, uncharacteristically silent. His usual sway, his theatrical laziness, his half-drunk philosopher’s grin are all gone. Tonight, he is as sharp as the blade beneath his coat. His eyes move constantly, counting doors, guards, exits, faces.
Alcott should be behind us, but he is not. That fact sits between my ribs like a hook.
“We keep moving,” Lazarus murmurs without turning.
Olive’s voice is low. “Where is Alcott?”
“He was here a moment ago,” I say.
The words taste like ash. A moment ago.
That is how loss happens.
A moment ago, your brother was beside you.
A moment ago, the door was open.
A moment ago, you were children, and then men came to collect a debt your parents carved into your bones. My vision blurs. Shit, no. Not now. I force my breathing to steady. We pass through the first hall and a raised platform dominates the center of the room. Velvet curtains hang behind it. Lanterns burn low and red, turning the gathered crowd into a sea of masked faces and hungry mouths.
People stand upon the platform, a woman. Men, some defiant and glassy-eyed. Some trembling so violently the attendants beside them have to hold their arms. A man with silver gloves calls out prices as though discussing horses. My stomach twists. Olive ceases and I stop with her.
“No,” she whispers.
