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“Dorian.”

Lucien’s voice pulls me back. The ember was burning my fingers, I let it fall. Only then do I notice.

“Are you listening to me?” he sighs. “You cannot afford to have your head elsewhere.”

“That is not the case.”

“Tell me,” he says, his voice only seemingly light, “who exactly is stealing your sleep, little brother?”

“It is none of your business.”

“Oh, but it becomes exactly that,” he replies with a laugh. “I have never seen you quite so... distracted.”

“If I told you I were having trouble with an old associate of my late father,” I mutter, “would you believe me?”

Lucien twists his mouth and shakes his head.

“No.”

He pauses for an instant, then shakes his head again, this time with a faint smile.

“You know, Dorian, sometimes you are harder to decipher than a locked volume. And I read books for a living.”

I cross my arms.

“Then,” I retort, “perhaps you do not read all that well.”

“Perhaps. But I do not give up so easily.”

A sharp knock interrupts the exchange.

“Lord Vasiliev Ashford.”

“Come in, Laurence.”

Lucien composes himself instantly.

“Good day, Laurence.”

“Mr. Ravenswood.”

Laurence advances two steps, holding a silver tray covered by a cloche. He places it on the table with care, without letting it vibrate.

“This arrived for you, my lord.”

He tilts his head and withdraws, closing the door behind him with discretion.

I lift the silver cloche with two fingers, the metal clinking slightly against the tray. Beneath it is a small glass jar, closed with thin twine. Beside it, a note folded only once. Lucien leans forward, resting a hand on the table. His gaze meets mine.

“And this,” he asks, “who the devil sent you this?”

The heartbeat strikes me suddenly, sharp, like a blow to the chest.

I take the note, the paper is rough, thick. I open it slowly.

Brise-toi et supplie-moi encore.

My eyes narrow, a shadow of amusement crosses my face before I can stop it.