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I continue before he can ask too much.

“Never stayed long enough to see the worst of it. Edward made sure of that. But in Olive’s recent project, she took documents from Lord Mire. If those connect to the next gathering, then we may have a way in.” My explanation gives him pause.

Lazarus looks toward the window. Rain paints his reflection into something ghostly.

“And you want my help.” His question is soft, haunting.

“I want your sickle, your connections, your unreasonable affection for working women, and whatever investigative talents that have not been drowned in whiskey.” I try not to sound like a beggar.

“Flattery,” he retorts with a cheeky grin.

“I am told I possess a gift.” I dare to flirt back at him.

He studies me for a long moment. “You said ‘we’ earlier.”

“Did I?” I place my hand upon my chest and feign innocence.

“You did. ‘We’ may have a way in.” His reply and accompanying stare are annoyingly perceptive. “You mean you, me, Olive, and Edward.”

“Only if my brother stops behaving like a martyr with excellent cheekbones,” I murmur.

Lazarus snorts. “I like that. Martyr with excellent cheekbones.”

“It is unfortunately accurate,” I state while gesturing with my hands.

“He will not come easily,” Lazarus replies.

“No,” I swirl my drink. “But Olive might drag him by the heart without realizing she has it in her hand.”

Lazarus grows quiet at that.

Then, softly, “she has that effect.”

The admission settles between us. Not rivalry.

Not yet at least.

Recognition. A shared wound forming before either of us has earned the right to name it.

I examine him more closely. “You want her.”

Lazarus does not deny it.

Instead, he looks down at his rings. “I want many impossible things.”

“That was not an answer.” I retort.

“It is the only honest one I have,” he states in such a somber tone.

I expected flirtation, a jest. Perhaps some absurd declaration of instant devotion, given his behavior in the shoppe. Instead, he gives me restraint and that makes him far more dangerous.

“You know,” I say, “Edward would dislike this conversation immensely.”

“Excellent. Shall we continue?” I smile.

Perhaps Lazarus Graves and I may become friends after all. Or at least acquaintances who have dismembered the same man and intend to dismantle the same empire. A tolerable beginning.

Lazarus finishes his whiskey and stands. “Come.”