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But I see she is pointing at my brother, currently sporting a wolf’s grin, “you were jealous.”

Alcott’s eyes brighten at her words. Lazarus slowly turns his head toward me.

“I was not jealous,” Alcott lies through his teeth playfully, purposefully egging her on.

Olive arches one brow. “Lord Mire kissed my hand.”

My jaw tightens before I can stop it. Now I am truly jealous at the imagery flashing through my mind. Damn her. Damn her mouth. Damn the faint amusement touching the corners of it.

“He is dead,” Alcott states.

“That was not a denial.” She cocks her head to the side, brown hair swaying across her shoulders.

“It seemed irrelevant.” Alcott feigns ignorance while inspecting his fingernails.

“It was not.” Olive places her hands atop her hips.

Lazarus lifts one finger. “For clarity, if another man kissed your hand, I too would feel some measure of distress.”

Olive’s eyes snap to him. “You are still not forgiven.”

His finger lowers. “Understood.”

Alcott claps once, making the prisoner flinch. “As much as I adore romantic discomfort, may we return to our guest? I have several ideas, and not all of them are practical.”

The man bound to the chair glares at us through swollen eyes. He is young, not young enough for mercy, but young enough that arrogance still sits badly upon his face. He has refused to give us his name. Men always believe silence makes them brave until pain teaches them otherwise.

I move closer. “Who sent you?”

The prisoner spits blood onto the dirt floor, as Olive’s mouth curls with disgust.

Lazarus sighs. “That is becoming a terribly popular response.”

Alcott crouches before the man, resting his elbows on his knees.

“You know,” he says pleasantly, “the foot is a marvel of engineering. Twenty-six bones. Thirty-three joints. More tendons and ligaments than most people appreciate.”

The prisoner’s expression flickers.

Alcott smiles playfully. “Finally, an academic interest.”

“Alcott,” I warn.

“What? I am educating him.” He feigns innocence.

“You are threatening his toes,” I state.

“I can do both. Toes are fun to pop off.” He reaches into his coat and withdraws a small surgical blade, turning it so the lantern light catches the edge.

“I have often wondered,” Alcott continues, “how much alteration a man can endure before he ceases to resemble his original design. A toe here, a finger there. A new arrangement of skin, a bit of stitching. A touch of creativity.”

The prisoner swallows. Alcott leans closer, with a taunting hiss of words, “shall we discover whether God appreciates revision?”

“Enough,” Olive says.

Alcott’s eyes flicker curiously to her as Olive steps toward the hostage. Her skirts brushing the straw beneath her boots.

“You were following us,” she says.