Page 46

“A lovely answer.” Lazarus tilts his head. “Entirely useless.”

I sigh.

“You wanted to ask why Edward is avoiding her.” Annoyance slides off each of my vowels.

“I wanted to ask why he looks at her like she is air and then behaves as though breathing might kill him.” Despite myself, I cannot stifle my laugh at his words. Lazarus’s mouth quirks. “There is a woman at Le Havre who once told me that men are at their most ridiculous when they believe suffering makes them noble.”

“She sounds wise,” I murmur, then take a sip of my drink.

“She charged me extra for the advice,” Lazarus states while slowly circling the rim of the glass with his finger.

“Still wise,” I mutter.

Lazarus nods solemnly. I glance toward the window, where rain slides down the glass in thin silver trails.

“The Collector wants The Widow,” I say.

Lazarus goes still. Not dramatically, not loudly, but every trace of foolishness leaves him with a word as weighty as stone. “Explain.” He seethes between gritted teeth.

“He set Edward and me upon her before we knew who she was. He wants her alive, not dead. Alive.” I stare at him, searching.

Lazarus’s expression darkens. “Men like that only want women alive when they intend to make death feel merciful.” His words are cold and heavy, like marble. For once, I have no clever reply. He looks down at his glass. “Does Olive know?”

“She knows The Collector exists. She knows enough to want his syndicate dismantled,” I answer.

“Good girl.” His tone is playful and slowly coming back to life.

I raise an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His gaze flicks to mine. “As possessive as your brother, then?”

“No.” I smile. “Merely territorial in different ways.”

Lazarus laughs into his drink. Then his expression settles again. “What is this syndicate?”

“Rot wearing silk.” I lean back. “Men with titles. Men with estates. Men who call themselves patrons, philanthropists, investors, collectors. Every few years, a gathering is held. Invitation only.”

His jaw tightens. “What sort of gathering?”

“The kind no decent person should attend.” Then I chuckle to myself, for I am not decent.

“That excludes most of Lockham’s upper class,” he replies. “I’ve heard of these parties but never had the curiosity to investigate.”

“Indeed.” I drum my fingers along the table.

“I have heard whispers for years. People sold behind velvet curtains. Girls and boys passed between men as favors. Debts exchanged for bodies. Games played with human lives while orchestras perform in the next room,” I explain.

Lazarus’s face changes and the drunken pirate vanishes. The philosopher vanishes. What remains is the Slaying Sickle. “You are certain?” A shadow casts over his eyes.

“No. But I am certain enough,” I state.

“And you have been invited?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Several times over the years.” I smile without humor. “The Collector enjoys showing off what he believes he owns.”

“You?” He cocks his head in question.

“Edward and me.” Lazarus’s eyes sharpen at my answer.