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I glance at him. “You have said that every night this week.”

“And every night it remains true.” His reply makes me chuckle as I rest my ankle atop my knee.

“You spilled gin upon a patron yesterday,” I state, wondering what he will do this evening.

“He insulted the violinist,” he replies, feigning innocence.

“You told him his ears were wasted upon his head.”

“They were. He is lucky I didn’t cut them off,” Lazarus states as if it were the only obvious answer to the scenario.

I smile despite myself. Cocking an eyebrow, I sit back in the seat to analyze him: his rings glinting in the candlelight reflection, tousled brown hair to his shoulders, and five-o’clock stubble resting on his mandible. His tattered coat lies across his lap while he gazes at the drink in his hand, occasionally swirling the liquid in a mesmerized state, then glancing up at the stage.

The mirrored walls of La Sirene shimmer beneath the lantern light, reflecting the stage into a thousand fractured angles. Crimson curtains frame the performers. Gold light glows along the edges of polished wood, velvet booths, glass chandeliers, and jeweled hairpins.

It is excessive. Theatrical and impossibly beautiful. A room designed to make a man forget he has sins waiting outside. I understand why Edward came here first. I understand why he avoided returning. This place is dangerous. Not because of the men who drink too much or the women who know exactly where to place a hand, a smile, or a knife. Because of Olive. She is not yet onstage, and still the room feels built around the possibility of her.

Lazarus leans closer. “Do you think she will perform tonight?”

I take a sip of wine. “You ask that every night as well.”

“You never answer.” He rolls his eyes at me and exhales dramatically.

“I am not her keeper,” I state, then take a sip of my concoction.

“No.” His mouth curves. “But you look for her first.”

I still my expression as Lazarus grins into his glass. Annoying man.

The first act begins with six women in emerald and black, moving like shadows through candlelight. They are excellent, truly. Every step is deliberate, each turn crafted to draw the eye, a smile an invitation that may or may not become a warning.

The audience claps along with the music. Lazarus watches with open admiration. I watch the mirrors.

One can learn a remarkable amount from reflections. Who stares too long, or who touches too freely. Who counts coins beneath tables and those entering alone and leaving with someone else’s secrets.

Tonight, the problem sits three tables from the stage. A broad-shouldered man with a red face, too many rings, and the unfortunate confidence of someone who has never been corrected properly in his life. He has heckled the women since the second song. At first, a muttered remark, then a louder one. Then something obscene enough that the dancer in violet misses half a step. My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass. Lazarus notices.

“Did you hear that?” I ask.

“I did.” Lazarus shifts within his seat.

“Perhaps he simply requires education,” I remark with intrigue.

“Perhaps he requires dentistry,” Lazarus murmurs.

The man shouts again. This time, several nearby patrons fall quiet.

Onstage, one of the younger dancers smiles through it, but the color has risen high in her cheeks. She continues moving as professionals do, because women in establishments like this are expected to swallow humiliation and make it look graceful.

Lazarus lowers his boot from the chair in front of him, the easy amusement leaves his face. Beside me is not the drunk philosopher nor the dramatic fool who crashed through our window, it is my Slaying Sickle.

“I dislike him,” Lazarus says, irritation seeping from his skin.

“I had gathered,” I chuckle, running my hand over the side of my face, assessing the drunkard.

“We should remove him,” Lazarus demands, as if it is our sole mission for the evening.

“From the theater?” I pose the question while cocking an eyebrow.