Page 45

“Possibly.” Alcott just shrugs his shoulders, like this woman didn’t just sign her death certificate.

“You should have stopped her!” I shout.

Alcott smiles faintly. “Have you met her?”

I close my eyes. God help me. I have. And that is precisely the problem.

Alcott picks up his books and heads for the doorway. “She is not waiting to be saved, Edward.”

He pauses, glancing back.

“But she may yet allow herself to be joined.”

Then he leaves. I remain in the kitchen with bleeding knuckles, broken crystal, a ruined wall, and the unbearable knowledge that my brother may be right. The Collector wants The Widow. Olive wants war and I am running out of distance to put between them. Worse still, I am running out of strength to stay away.

16. Acquaintances Who Dismembered the Same Man - Alcott

Who Are You?

Lazarus Graves is waiting for me inside the corner booth of a public house that smells of smoke, spilled ale, and men avoiding their wives. He has chosen the darkest possible table.

Naturally.

A half-empty glass of whiskey sits near his hand, though judging by the looseness of his posture and the philosophical despair in his eyes, it is likely not his first. When I slide into the seat opposite him, he lifts his gaze, “Alcott Afton.”

“Slaying Sickle,” I retort.

“Please.” He presses a hand to his chest. “We are friends now. Call me Lazarus.”

I consider this for a moment and reply dryly, “We are certainly not friends.”

“Acquaintances who have dismembered the same man, then,” he jests.

“A stronger foundation than most friendships, I suppose.” He grins at my words and dare I say he has a very attractive smile with his five-o’clock stubble framing his mandible.

I order a drink.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. It is not an uncomfortable silence. More of an evaluative one. Lazarus studies me as though I am a puzzle box. I study him as though he may have explosives hidden somewhere beneath that tragic coat. With him, I believe both concerns are reasonable.

At last, he leans back and taps one ringed finger against his glass. I assess the intricate designs on the several rings adorning his digits.

“Your brother is an interesting man,” he states.

My smile thins. “That is a polite way of saying unbearable.”

“No, no. No, no, no, no-no. You are unbearable. Edward is sorrowful.” The accuracy of his statement irritates me.

Lazarus notices.

“For a man who looks as though he could tear a throat out with his teeth, he carries himself like someone waiting to be punished.” Lazarus cocks an eyebrow.

I take a slow sip of my drink then state, “Edward carries many things.”

“And Olive?” His fingers still around the glass.

There, the true reason for this meeting.

“Olive carries herself.” My reply is short and simple.