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All three of them, 'father figures', to my wretched menagerie, a sound escapes me, before I can stop it, laughter bursts from my chest. True laughter. Not a polite chuckle, nor a weapon sharpened into charm. Just laughter.

It shakes through me until I must grip the back of a chair for balance. Elisa’s face softens into something so tender it nearly makes the laughter turn to tears. I cannot remember the last time I laughed like this.

Years, perhaps. Before my mother. Before grief stole color and turned my life into shades of survival.

“Elisa,” I manage, breathless, “can you imagine Morrigan accepting Lazarus before Edward?”

Elisa grins. “Easily.”

“And Alcott trying to take notes on Thanatos?”

“He would lose a finger,” she jests.

“It would be deserved.”

We dissolve into laughter again. For one bright, impossible moment, there is no Collector. No dead girls. No syndicate. No men with knives and debts and dreadful secrets. There is only the stage, the lantern light, Elisa’s laughter, and the absurd thought of three dangerous men being judged by an ocelot and a vulture. Color, I think, is not merely something one sees.

Sometimes it is something one feels returning.

Lord Fallere’s manor is obscene. There is no gentler word for it.

The ballroom stretches beneath a painted ceiling of gods, storms, and winged creatures carved in gold. Two grand staircases curve along the outer edges of the room, sweeping upward toward a balcony that overlooks the guests like a royal box at a theater. Crystal chandeliers hang in tiers, their light scattering over silk gowns, polished marble, champagne flutes, and jewels bright enough to wound the eye.

Music swells from the orchestra near the far wall. Everywhere, people gleam.

Women in sapphire, emerald, ivory, and rose. Men in black coats and shining cufflinks. Servants passing trays of wine and sugared fruits. Laughter rising like perfume over rot.

Beautiful. Horrid. Exactly the sort of place where powerful men feel untouchable.

I step into the ballroom wearing deep garnet silk and black lace, my gloves buttoned to the elbow, my hair pinned beneath a delicate jeweled comb. At my throat rests a ruby pendant Lord Fallere sent ahead of the evening. A gift. A leash, if he were more imaginative. I intend to return it to him eventually. Perhaps after loosening the clasp with a dead man’s fingers.

My gaze moves over the room, searching. Lord Fallere should be easy enough to identify. Men who invite women to their own balls tend to arrange themselves where admiration can find them.

Yet I do not see him. I see a silver haired magistrate near the fountain. A trade lord I once considered poisoning out of boredom. A group of young nobles pretending not to stare at my neckline. Then— No. My heart stutters. At the edge of the ballroom, beneath a marble archway, stands Lazarus Graves. He looks divine and proper, with his signature loose hair. Rings gleaming. A smile that suggests he has already done something either illegal, dramatic, or both. Panic sparks through me, but not fear. Irritation.

“No,” I whisper.

Absolutely not. If that man has stolen another mark from me, I will mount his sickle above my mantel as a warning to all future suitors. He spots me. His grin widens, and seething anger slithers down my spine at how handsome he is. I turn immediately and step into the flow of dancers. A gentleman in navy offers his hand and I accept it without looking at his face, and we spin into the waltz. From over my partner’s shoulder, I see Lazarus begin moving through the crowd. I change partners at the next turn.

Then again and again. Panic rising within me as this cat-and-mouse game begins beneath chandeliers and painted gods. I pass from a baron, to a banker, to a widower with unfortunate breath. Lazarus follows without appearing rushed. I catch his haunting face staring me down like I am prey. Somehow, he is always there at the edge of my vision. Leaning near a column. Taking a glass of champagne he does not drink. Bowing to an elderly woman who looks delighted by him.

Infuriating. At the next turn, I attempt to slip toward the balcony stairs. A hand catches mine. Warm. Ringed. Unmistakable. I am pulled smoothly from one partner into another. Lazarus’s hand settles at my waist.

His mouth lowers near my ear. “Miss me?”

My traitorous body responds before my pride can interfere, as a shiver travels throughout my nerves.

“No,” I state coldly.

His chuckle brushes against my skin. “Convincing.”

“I was enjoying myself before you arrived.” My words try to sound severe but come out in a whispery tone.

“Were you?” he asks mischievously.

“Yes.”

“With Lord Fallere?” I stiffen at his last question. Lazarus guides me through the dance with surprising elegance for a man who once crashed through a window and called it an entrance.