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He is failing spectacularly. The state of discomfort he is in gives me such joy.

“Oh, this should be good,” I murmur.

Alcott and I may have provided a gentle push. Nothing dramatic. Merely a few comments here and there. A suggestion that Olive might consider confronting Edward. A mention that Edward was becoming insufferable in his self-denial. Perhaps a tiny observation that the man looked like a starving hound staring at a locked butcher shop whenever her name entered conversation.

Helpful things. Brotherly things. Though I am not technically his brother. Details. Olive disappears after Edward into a hat shop. I pause beside a stall of pears, pretending to inspect the fruit while keeping one eye on the window. Inside, Edward lifts a hat. Olive says something. Edward says something back. The clerk looks alarmed. Then Edward smiles.

I know that smile.

That is the smile of a man lying politely, then he attempts to slink away from the shop to evade Olive’s probing. A moment later, Olive storms out with murder in her posture.

Splendid.

Whatever he said, it worked beautifully. They move through the market together now, her skirt swishing with each furious step, his shoulders stiff with the effort of not looking at her too long. They are arguing. I cannot hear every word over the vendors, but I catch enough.

“Coward,” Olive says.

Edward replies with something sharp. She throws produce at him and I nearly choke on my own breath. The fruit strikes his waistcoat as Edward stares down at it with disdain, then glances at her. To my immense delight, he picks up a piece of bread and throws it back. It hits her shoulder.

I press one hand to my chest. “God, young love is beautiful.”

The vendor beside me frowns, “you buying pears or not?”

“Emotionally, yes.”

He scowls at me, so I purchase three pears to maintain my disguise. By the time I look back, Olive and Edward have entered a full skirmish. Cheese is involved and a roll flies past Edward and knocks the hat from a passing gentleman’s head.

Olive looks outraged. Edward almost looks happy. It is the most alive I have seen him, but a cold feeling passes over me and my smile fades slowly. I’m not the only pair of eyes on them though, someone else is watching them too. Not with amusement, nor affection and not just curious onlookers.

Two men linger near the butcher’s awning, their eyes too fixed upon the pair moving through the market. A third stands by the alley mouth pretending to light a cigarette that has already burned halfway to ash.

I stop chewing my pear. Interesting.

Olive and Edward are too consumed with their argument to notice. That will not do.

I trail the watchers instead. The first two move when Olive and Edward turn down a side street. The third follows at a distance. Their formation is not perfect, but it is practiced enough to irritate me.

Professionals, perhaps. Or men who believe themselves professionals.

There is a distinct difference. Olive and Edward vanish into an older section of town, where the market noise thins and the buildings lean closer together like gossips eager for scandal. The watchers quicken their pace. So do I. One reaches inside his coat. Ah.

No. Absolutely not. Edward may be a self-sacrificing fool, and Olive may be perfectly capable of terrifying half the city before breakfast, but they are occupied at present. Someone must preserve the sanctity of their impending emotional breakdown. The man nearest the alley draws a pistol. I throw a pear at his head. It strikes him just behind the ear. He stumbles with a startled curse. Admittedly, I had intended to strike his hand. Still effective. He turns.

I wave like a buffoon. “Good afternoon.”

His companion reaches for a knife. I sigh exaggeratively while placing my hands atop my hips. “Must we?”

He lunges. I step aside, intending to trip him neatly with my foot. Unfortunately, I misjudge the distance, catch my boot on a broken cobblestone, and collide with him chest-first. We both go down to the cold ground. His knife skids away. I strike swiftly elbow jutting into his jaw and hear a crack. He goes limp beneath me and for a moment, I stare at him.

Then at my elbow. “Hm.”

The second man rushes me. I roll off the unconscious one and scramble upright with less grace than I would prefer. The remaining attacker swings. I duck, slip on the pear I threw earlier, and accidentally drive my shoulder into his stomach.

We crash into a stack of empty produce crates. Wood splinters. Chickens scream from somewhere nearby.

A woman shrieks, “Not again!”

Which feels personal.