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I smile. His face changes. There.
That delicious little flicker of horror. Even now, even with Olive gone, with his heart torn open and bleeding across Lazarus’s expensive carpet, he still has room to fear me.
“Not quite,” I say.
Lazarus straightens.
“Darkness,” he says.
My smile widens. “Sickle.”
Edward steps toward me. “Give him back.”
“No.”
“We do not have time for this.” Edward clenches his fists as he takes a step toward me.
“That is the first intelligent thing you have said in four days.” I retort.
His jaw ticks with irritation as I button Alcott’s coat, smooth the lapels, and take the knife from the table. Lazarus watches the movement. “Where are you going?”
“To find someone useful.”
Edward’s eyes narrow. “We are already doing that.”
“No. You are circling the same scraps and calling it progress because the alternative is admitting you have nothing.”
Lazarus’s expression hardens and Edward looks as though I have struck him.
Good. Pain wakes men when gentleness fails.
I gesture toward the board. “Threads. Names. Ports. Theories. How quaint. How academic. How very Alcott of you.”
“Then enlighten us,” Lazarus says quietly.
I meet his gaze. The stillness in his voice pleases me, there is anger there. Not frantic, not foolish, but a dark, banked thing waiting for permission.
“The Collector emptied his office before the party,” I say. “He moved ledgers, men, and money before the fire. That means he knew the house might be compromised.”
Edward goes still. “He knew we were coming?”
“Perhaps not we, but someone. Something. Enough to prepare,” I explain.
Lazarus steps closer. “And?”
“And prepared men leave trails through the cowards they pay to carry their preparations.”
Edward’s gaze flicks to the maps. “We questioned the dock boy.”
And I chuckle menacingly.
“Of course you questioned the dock boy. He is poor, frightened, and easy to find. Which means he was meant to be found.”
Lazarus’s mouth tightens.
“Who, then?” he asks.
I slide the knife into my sleeve. “The man who arranged the false manifests.”
