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“Not thirty at once.”

She bares her teeth at him. I almost admire that she can still produce rage. I feel only sick. Then we hear it, a child crying. Everything inside me stops, as Olive turns toward the sound.

“No,” Lazarus says.

She is already moving. We follow.

The hall narrows toward a closed door guarded by two men in bronze masks. One stands with arms folded, as the other laughs at something a passing guest says. Behind the door, another small voice whimpers. Olive’s hand goes to the blade hidden beneath her sleeve. I catch her wrist.

She looks at me as if I have betrayed her. “Let go.”

“Olive,” we both warn in unison.

“Let go of me.” She struggles her wrist from my grip.

“There are two guards here,” I whisper. “There will be more inside.”

“Then we kill them.”

“And then?” Lazarus asks.

She says nothing. Her eyes shine. God. The sight of it almost destroys me.

“Then we keep killing until they are free,” she says.

Lazarus steps close enough that only we can hear him. “Darling, listen to me. I have dreamed of killing every soul in this house for years. I have imagined it in detail. With poetry. With fire. With knives. With pigs, once, though that required a much more complicated schedule.”

“Lazarus—”

“But there are four of us.” His voice hardens. “Four. The police are bought. The magistrates are guests. The guards are paid more than soldiers. If we pull that thread now, the whole web tightens around the children before we can reach the door.”

Olive’s face crumples for half a breath before she masters it. A half breath is enough. Despair opens between us like a pit.

“You are telling me we leave them,” she whispers.

“No,” I say.

My own voice surprises me. She looks at me.

“We do not leave them,” I force out. “We learn how to come back with enough force to make leaving impossible.”

Her lips tremble, she turns away before the tear can fall. A man in a peacock mask notices, of course he does. Men like him can smell distress and will mistake it for an invitation. He approaches with a glass in one hand, eyes moving over Olive with open interest.

“Well,” he says, voice slick with amusement, “what a pretty tragedy. Is this part of the evening’s entertainment?”

Lazarus turns slowly and he does not have a playful smile.

The man does not seem to understand the danger. “May I join?”

Lazarus steps between him and Olive.

“You may attempt it,” he says softly. “But I should warn you, I have not eaten, and I have always wondered whether men like you are as hollow inside as you sound. Blood and all, I suspect you would make a disappointing meal.”

The man’s expression falters. Lazarus leans closer. “Run along before I develop an appetite.”

The man laughs weakly, but he leaves. Smart enough, then.

Barely.