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“Business.” His voice is hollow, “he took her out of the country and called it business.”

“We do not know that,” Alcott says.

Edward laughs again, louder this time. “We do not know anything.”

He grabs the edge of the desk with both hands and leans over it, shoulders shaking. I think he will be sick and for a moment, I think I will be. Because I see her again, not Olive. Delphi. A different night, an entirely different loss. My same useless hands. I had followed blood then too, found pieces, silence and every reason to hate myself for arriving too late.

No.

I close my eyes.

No.

Not again.

When I open them, Edward is staring at me. He sees it. Damn the way grief recognizes its own reflection.

“We will find her,” I say.

It sounds weak.

Edward’s voice drops. “How?”

I do not answer quickly enough.

His face hardens. “How, Lazarus?”

Alcott moves between us before the fight can become physical. “Not here.”

Edward’s jaw works, and for several seconds, I think he may shove past his brother. Then the rage leaves him all at once, and what remains is worse. He looks lost. My God, Edward Afton looks like a boy standing in an empty room, waiting for the door to open. I cannot bear it, so I turn away first.

“Back to the manor,” I say. “We start again.”

Starting again is an imprecise phrase. What we do is descend into ritual. We search, question and bribe. We threaten. We return to Le Havre because Olive would haunt us all if the women were left unprotected while she is missing. Elisa meets us in the courtyard with red-rimmed eyes and a fowling gun held low at her side. She does not ask whether we found Olive, our faces answer. She looks past us toward the gate, as though expecting Olive to appear with torn skirts, a bloodied mouth, and some cutting remark about men being useless when unsupervised. She does not appear and Elisa’s grip tightens around the fowling gun.

“What do you need?” I ask.

Her gaze returns to me and it is not soft. Good.

I do not deserve soft things today.

“Coal,” she says. “Medicine. Two of the girls are fevered. Food enough for the week, and men at the rear gate, someone has been watching.”

Edward’s head lifts. “Who?”

“We do not know.”

“We will know,” Alcott says.

There is nothing playful in his voice.

Elisa studies him, then Edward, then me. “You look like hell.”

“Hell is better lit,” I reply.

She does not smile and neither do I, but we promptly arrange what she needs.

Money first. Then men we trust, as much as men like us can trust anyone. We deliver those supplies before dusk and Edward pays for all of it with trembling hands. He says nothing when Elisa presses a palm briefly against his bandaged knuckles.