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“You were serious?”

“I was.”

“How?”

I glance toward the painted ceiling. “The dead are famously generous lenders.”

Her eyes narrow. Ah, there it is. The look that says she is deciding whether to kiss me, kill me, or make me crawl first. I would accept any of the three.

“You are impossible,” she says.

“I have been told that.”

“You forged an identity?”

“Many.”

“You filled a ballroom with criminals.”

“For you.”

Her expression falters at my words. Enough to undo me.

“For me?” she asks.

“For you.” I take a step closer, noticing her throat move as she swallows gently.

The honesty sits between us, sudden and naked. How dreadful. How exhilarating. Olive looks away first, scanning the glittering room. Thieves in silk. Lords with rot beneath their rings. Men and women who would sell souls, bodies, secrets, and children if the price was pleasing enough.

A lesser gathering than the grand one to come, but useful. A rehearsal of bodies, a box of threads. I have collected what I can for her and, perhaps selfishly, one dance.

“I hate to say I am impressed that you made yourself my mark,” she exclaims.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I am vain.”

“Careful,” she says softly. “You sound as though you want to be prey.”

“Wound me if you must,” I reply. “Ruin me if you like. I have already given you the blade.”

Her breath catches.

“Do not say things like that unless you mean them,” she says.

“I have never meant anything more.” Her eyes flicker to my lips then back to my eyes, something stirs within them.

The dance ends around us as the applause swells. Neither of us move, we stay side-by-side, this unspoken thing. Around us, the other couples separate, bow, curtsy, return to their wine and secrets. Olive’s gloved fingers remain in mine. I lower my head near her ear. “Come with me.”

“Where?” She delights me with a whisper.

“Somewhere quieter.”

“To murder me?” Her tone is intrigued, laced with venom.

“Not tonight.” I chuckle.