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I can love her from a distance. The word strikes me so hard I nearly step backward.

Love. How Absurd.

Impossible. Reckless. I do not love Olive.

I know her favorite tea. Her handwriting. The way she argues when she is irritated. The way she hides grief beneath command. The way her voice softens when she thinks no one has noticed.

That is not love. That is information. That is— A violent hiss erupts behind the balcony glass. My eyes snap open. Two enormous golden eyes glare at me from inside the house. For one suspended second, I stare back at the creature. An indecently large feline. The animal has to be mythical. My words cannot manifest and it is a moment too late. The beast launches itself against the glass. I jolt backward, my boot slips on the damp earth, and the world tilts. Branches claw at my coat. My arms flail with all the dignity of a dying moth.

Then I hit the ground flat on my back. Hard. The air leaves my lungs in a single humiliating rush. Above me, the huge cat remains pressed against the glass, tail flicking with murderous satisfaction. A light shifts upstairs. Olive. I lie perfectly still in the mud, staring up at the balcony while my entire body throbs.

Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.

I have survived The Collector, assassinations, debtors, knives, and my brother’s alternate personality, but apparently, a decorative, miniature, jungle cat is what has finally brought me low.

14. Three Weeks of Sensible Mistakes -Olive

The Worst in Me

Three weeks have passed since I walked out of the Afton brothers’ shop and told myself I would not return. Three weeks since the world bled color back into itself. Three weeks since Edward’s voice began haunting the quietest hours of my mind. I have done everything a sensible woman should do. I have worked. I have managed Le Havre. I have comforted my girls. I have ignored every reckless impulse urging me to find the brothers’ shop again. Most importantly, Edward and I have avoided luncheon. That’s the most difficult part.

For years, my mysterious companion existed safely behind barriers and secrets. A voice. A mind. A man I could know without truly touching. Now I know his name. Edward Afton. I know his face. I know the shape of his mouth when he is angry and the way his eyes soften just before he says something honest.

Terrible knowledge. Dangerous knowledge. The sort a woman would be wise to bury, alongside her hopes and dreams. So naturally, I have buried myself in work instead. Tonight’s work is Lord Halston Mire. Wealthy. Widowed twice. Generous donor to several charitable organizations in public and a patron of The Collector’s criminal syndicate in private. A man with clean gloves and filthy hands.

Perfect.

This evening is our fourth engagement. He believes I am charmed by his influence, impressed by his estate, and flattered by his attention. He believes the lavish dinner arranged within the private garden pavilion is another step toward securing my affection.

Men such as Lord Mire often mistake patience for weakness. I had intended to let him enjoy one final meal. Perhaps a glass of wine. Perhaps two. Then I would begin the delicate planning of dismantling him. Instead, when I approach the curtained pavilion, I hear bickering. Male bickering. Familiar male bickering.

I cease.

“No, you have his leg wrong,” a voice whispers sharply.

“I do not have his leg wrong,” another replies.

“You are holding it at an unnatural angle,” the other states frustratedly.

“He is dead. Every angle is unnatural now.”

My eyes narrow. Surely not. The curtains shift. A polished shoe slides briefly into view. Then disappears again.

“Lazarus,” Alcott hisses, “if you drop him, I shall be very cross.”

“My hands are full of aristocrat. Forgive me if my grip lacks elegance,” Lazarus throws back sarcastically.

A thud follows. Then a muffled curse. I close my eyes, inhaling and then exhaling. When I open them, the world is still in color. I sweep the curtain aside.

Inside the pavilion, the table has been set for a romantic supper. Crystal glasses catch golden lantern light. Red roses spill from a silver vase. Silk cushions line the seating area, and several bottles of expensive wine rest unopened beside a platter of sugared fruits.

Lord Halston Mire lies dead across the carpet. Lazarus has him beneath the arms. Alcott has one ankle. Only one. The other leg has been abandoned entirely. Both men freeze. Lazarus looks at me. Alcott looks at me. Lord Mire, blessedly, looks at no one. For one suspended moment, nobody speaks.

Then Lazarus smiles. “Evening, love.”

My jaw tightens. Alcott releases the ankle. The corpse’s foot strikes the floor with a dull thump.

“Widow,” he says pleasantly. “You look radiant.”