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I stare at him. He stares back and the room feels suddenly very quiet. Then I glance at the tin again. “At least they tasted good.”

“Olive.”

“What?” My tone is irritated.

“You may be about to meet colors even you have not seen before.” His words should not make me laugh, but they do. A horrified, breathless laugh breaks out of me, and Lazarus looks even more alarmed, which only makes it worse.

“I am fine,” I say.

“No, you are an edible catastrophe in a silk dress,” he exclaims, placing his arms out in a grand gesture.

“You made the cookies,” I retort.

“You ate an armory of them.”

I press a hand over my mouth, trying to stop laughing. It does not work. From down the hall, Edward calls, “What happened?”

Lazarus and I look at each other. For one terrible second, neither of us speaks. Then Lazarus whispers, “He is going to kill me.”

I wipe at the corner of my eye. “Possibly.”

Edward’s footsteps approach, swiftly. Lazarus points at me. “Do not laugh.”

“I am not laughing.” But I cannot cease my laughter.

“You are absolutely laughing,” he hisses between his teeth.

The door swings wider, and Edward appears, Alcott just behind him. Edward takes in Lazarus’s panic, my face, the open tin, the missing cookies. His expression changes. Very slowly.

“Olive,” he says.

I lift one finger. “In my defense, they were very good and I don’t feel anything.”

Alcott steps around Edward and peers into the tin. Then he looks at Lazarus asking, “How special were these biscuits?”

Lazarus grimaces. “Extremely.”

Edward closes his eyes, shaking his head as Alcott’s smile begins to spread. “Oh,” he says softly. “This is going to be fascinating.”

Edward’s eyes snap open. “It is not fascinating.”

“It is a little fascinating,” Alcott states.

“It is not,” Edward snaps.

I lean against the washstand, still trying not to laugh. The panic is not gone. The horror of the maps waits for me in the library. The names, the parties, the children, the empire of rich men and their blood-soaked appetites.

All of it remains, but for one absurd moment, surrounded by three alarmed murderers because I accidentally ate too many of Lazarus’s special biscuits, I can breathe.

Not well. Not gracefully.

Lazarus reaches for the tin and snaps it shut. “No more biscuits.”

I glare at him.

He points at me. “Absolutely not, darling. Do not start.”

Edward steps closer and takes my hand. His thumb brushes over my knuckles, worry carved into every line of his face.