Calligan’s expression changed from annoyance to astonishment. “Lord Hargreaves, I worry you have lost all your senses today. You know he cannot lie to my father.”

  “Nevertheless, I am certain he has.”

  Lord Calligan opened his mouth to argue further, but Lord Kilworth interrupted before he could, leveling a heated glance at Hargreaves. “I still fail to see why you would be open to their kind coming into our world. They would kill us all in our sleep.”

  “I grow weary of your interruptions, George. As I have told you previously, we will reach an unshakable agreement with the demons before we commence anything.” Hargreaves did not mask the irritation in his voice this time. “Or would you rather see your estates, your beloved hunting grounds, your entire lands in the hands of lowborn revolutionaries? Your head on a pike?”

  Lord Kilworth ground his jaw but did not answer further.

  Martin narrowed his eyes at Hargreaves. “Forgive me, my lord, but you seem to know a great deal about the Saint of Silence. What else have you kept us in the dark about?”

  A recurring nightmare had terrorized Hargreaves’s mind for many years. It always began the same way. He dreamed he was in Weavingshaw, and St. Silas was hunting him. Hargreaves would awaken just as St. Silas had caught him and begun to carve an X through Hargreaves’s mouth.

  After what he and Percy had done to St. Silas, it would be a foolish thing to allow the Saint’s power to go unchecked. Especially when Hargreaves knew, with intense clarity, that the Saint of Silence did not forget. That he would seek his retribution.

  Hargreaves’s smile was mild. “Apologies for my secrecy thus far. I only wished to gather more information before I revealed my plans to you all.” He inclined his head to Lord Calligan. “I do wonder if your father could be persuaded to speak to the Saint of Silence again on the matter of finding the Limitless Vessel.”

  “As I’ve already explained to you thrice before: First, I have no sway over my father, nor does he care for my opinions. Second, my father has no sway over the Saint of Silence in any other capacity. Third, my father cannot be lied to, therefore making the second point moot.”

  “Then that leaves it to us, gentlemen, to persuade the Saint to work with us.” Hargreaves held out his hands. “To do this, we must find a weakness with which to exploit him. Should he turn his formidable resources to helping the Wake, I am sure we will find this vessel before the revolutionaries form any lasting plans. But time is of the essence. Every one of you must be in search of any means, any weakness, with which to blackmail the Saint.”

  Hargreaves had no faith that this would be accomplished by Lord Kilworth, or even Lord Calligan, who would return to the demon world to live his life of debauchery while making only mild inquiries to his father. Perhaps there was more to be had from Martin, but Hargreaves could not bet all his cards on the tradesman.

  Years ago, Hargreaves would’ve trusted Percy. It had proved to be to his detriment.

  Percy had held a red diary in his slightly shaking hand. “It’s all here. This will lead us to a vessel that cannot die. The demons foolishly think it a mere broken trinket, but I possess the knowledge on how to revive it. We can control both worlds with this vessel. In demon lore, they call it the Limitless Vessel.”

  Yet all Percy’s secrets had died with him.

  The red diary.

  The whereabouts of the Limitless Vessel.

  All lost in Weavingshaw.

  Hargreaves had spent the last ten years searching for the diary, but the estate knew how to keep the secrets of an Avon. Weavingshaw would devour itself before allowing a stranger like him to unveil those mysteries.

  He knew only the Saint of Silence, master of secrets, could reveal what the dead had hidden.

  That night, after returning from Lord Avon’s house in town—the night before she was due to meet Rami—Leena awoke to whispers.

  She had dreamed of Mrs. Van.

  The housekeeper had appeared in a monstrous form. Her eyes, normally cool and impersonal, were forceful—the pupils blown, the black entirely overtaking the white. Her fingers, always so unnaturally long, were wringing themselves.

  “Do you wish to harm my master?” Mrs. Van demanded.

  Leena felt as if she was being torn apart beneath the housekeeper’s glare. She wanted to fall to her knees, but a cold prickle on her neck kept her upright. Gritting her teeth, Leena gathered her strength. “Not if he does not harm me first.”

  “What are you trying to do, girl?”

  Leena didn’t answer, but lurched forward. The power shifted between them. There was a sliver of fear in Mrs. Van’s face as she took a few uncertain steps back. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”

  Leena reached out a hand. There was a secret imprinted on the woman’s skin…something essential to know.

  Mrs. Van staggered, her long fingers covering her face. “Protect him, please protect him. Find Lord Avon. How long must he survive this?”

  And when Leena touched the housekeeper’s forearm, she understood what bound Mrs. Van to St. Silas. A hidden memory: a woman sweeping the floors before a small, sleepy-eyed boy runs in, crying over a scraped knee.

  Mrs. Van disappeared and Leena jerked awake. By then, the dream was only a subtle aftertaste in her mouth, a lingering taste of rot. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dark. The only ghost who haunted her that night was a shoemaker who wept as he held up a leather heel to the moonlight, but he stayed beyond the circle of salt. Dim lights flickered through the crack beneath her door, and a sudden fear gripped her. Why was her door ajar?

  Had someone been in her room?

  Horror tightened her stomach.

  Whispered arguments and the sound of pacing carried from the hallway. She listened intently, not daring to move.

  “…leave her be.” A harsh voice filtering in and out—St. Silas, uncharacteristically furious. “You should have sought my permission—”

  Another voice responded, pleading. Mrs. Van. “It had to be done…”

  Leena strained her neck but could hear no more. Quietly, she slipped from her bedcovers and crept toward the door until she could hear the housekeeper’s voice once again.

  “…she took something from me.”

  The pacing stopped. She heard his disbelief. “From you? How is that possible?”

  Just at that moment, Leena rested her foot on a loose floorboard and a loud creak sounded. She froze, then cursed herself when she was met with silence behind the wall. She’d no choice now but to make her presence known. Opening the door fully, she was met by the impenetrable faces of St. Silas and Mrs. Van. He bowed to her.

  “Have we disturbed you?” St. Silas asked, the previous fury extinguished so completely from his voice that it almost convinced Leena that she’d misheard it.

  Then his gaze slid down from her face, his eyes widening, and only then did Leena realize that she was wearing her old nightgown, so thin that it was almost transparent in the candlelight. His throat moved and he tore his gaze away just as she dived behind the door. Utterly mortified, it took all her courage to poke her head back out.

  St. Silas’s voice was rougher than usual, his eyes still focused on the ceiling. “My apologies, madam.”

  “You’re awake,” Mrs. Van said in the long awkward silence that ensued. The housekeeper’s body was unnaturally still, like a scorpion before the strike.

  “I had a strange dream,” Leena replied, her loose hair cascading across her shoulders as she continued to hide behind the door. “Then I awoke to the sound of arguing.”

  She didn’t miss the quick look shared by St. Silas and Mrs. Van. No one asked her what the dream was about. For a wildly paranoid moment, Leena thought it was because they knew.

  The Saint showed his teeth, his tone persuasive and smooth. “A minor disagreement about household manners. Nothing that should trouble you.”

  Mrs. Van remained silent.

  Perhaps it was the time of the day, or the tendrils of sleep that still clung to her eyes, but the house suddenly felt like a prison, St. Silas and Mrs. Van its guards, and the night a fortress. Leena stared at the long shadows flung from the candlelight, expanding and moving like quivering creatures only brought forth in the dark. Suddenly, she swerved her gaze to meet Mrs. Van’s, and the dream came back to her in tidbits. The black, fathomless eyes, the accusing question, the general feeling of un-rightness…There was something very wrong with Mrs. Van. Something that didn’t belong in this world.

  She tried to shake the disturbing thought away, but she knew that if ghosts could exist, if those ledgers could exist, then whatever creature—or monster—Mrs. Van was could, too.

  “I would like a lock on my door,” Leena said firmly, her eyes unwavering from Mrs. Van’s face.

  The Saint replied without hesitation. “Done. First thing in the morning.”

  There was nothing else to say. Leena knew that she could not bring up her suspicions without sounding ridiculous, any more than they could convince her that everything was as it should be. Because it wasn’t.

  Nothing was right within this house.

  * * *

  —

  In the morning, the dream had blurred in Leena’s mind the moment she awoke again. Just as she’d given up hope of recalling the dream, a familiar phrase swam before her eyes:

  How long must he survive this?

  Must who survive what? St. Silas? He wasn’t surviving; he was thriving. He inspired both awe and dread, his business was heaving with confessors, and he was obviously swimming in wealth.

  But he wasn’t satisfied with any of it. It was an odd thought—one Leena could not dwell on, for it was her agreed-upon day for meeting Rami. St. Silas had not said anything about the change in date; nor had Leena asked. She thought it was one of those times when it was more prudent to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission. She left at dawn. Yet by the time noon arrived, morning had come and gone and Rami had still not appeared.

  All thoughts of Saints and the Wake and Weavingshaw had vanished from Leena’s mind. Usually, by lunch at the very latest on the day after a fight, Rami would be walking in, whistling and swinging a bag full of coins. Leena lingered inside her childhood home in the New Algaraa District, sweeping the floors again and again in agitation as she waited for her brother to arrive.

  But he didn’t come.

  Rami fought for the worst men in Golborne—the Black Coats—and was completely at their mercy. Working for St. Silas had been a lesson for Leena; she now understood the brutality that existed within the underbelly of the city. Perhaps Rami had displeased the Black Coats, lost money for them—

  Perhaps they’d hurt him.

  A slow horror spread through her and she tried to swallow the panic down.

  Margery didn’t know where Leena’s brother was, either. The old woman, Tar staining her lips black, only asked Leena if she still carried the timepiece that Margery had given her.

  When Leena pulled the gold watch out of her bodice to show her, Margery’s eyes fluttered closed, the effects of the drug making her near comatose. “Good. Keep it with you always.”

  As night fell across the city, fear dogged her steps. She trudged back to St. Silas’s residence, hoping that Rami might have misunderstood and would be waiting for her there instead. But only the ghost of the boy dressed in white haunted the steps of the Saint’s shop—the same phantom that had led Leena to St. Silas on that first fevered night. She averted her gaze from the boy’s right browbone, which had been shattered in his living life. He ignored Leena’s questions about Rami, turning away from her in irritation.

  It was time to knock on the Saint’s study.

  He had been there all day, and the door swung open after a long moment spent waiting on the threshold. In that interim, all her panicked thoughts roared through her with force. St. Silas would not help her; she was sure of it. She had interrupted his sessions spitefully. She had not yet found Lord Avon’s ghost—the very reason he kept her close.

  And worse still, she had told St. Silas, in no uncertain terms, that she loathed him.

  Then, salt into wounds, she had held a gun to him.

  Leena was sure at this point that St. Silas would derive great pleasure from knowing her brother was missing or dead.

  Not for the first time in her life, Leena wished she had more sense and less propulsion to push forward in spite of the consequences, but her foolhardy ways would likely see her in Newtorn Prison—if she survived this contract.

  “You are late,” St. Silas noted. His quick bow was perfunctory, his tone chilling. “How is your special friend?”

  “I do apologize for my lateness.” Leena barely curtseyed back. “I must ask, have you seen my brother?”

  “If I had seen your brother, believe me, Miss Al-Sayer, you would be the first to know.” He sat back down at his desk, attention already drifting to the assortment of parchments before him.

  She leaned over the desk, ignoring his taunts. She tried to force his eyes away from the ledgers and back to her.

  “As you know, Rami’s very talented with a sword,” Leena said. “Sometimes, to make a few coins, he participates in back-alley fights—fights run by the Black Coats. He told me he had one yesterday and he has not come home since. Even if the match was delayed until today, he should have been home by now. I know something terrible has happened.” Her fists were clenched so hard over the wooden table that her knuckles turned white. Desperation had led Leena once more to St. Silas’s door, and she was sure he would not miss the irony, or the chance to capitalize on it.

  St. Silas put his pen down slowly. “Be that as it may, I’m unsure why you’ve come to see me, madam.”

  Leena ground her teeth together in an attempt to bar the insolent words that threatened to explode out of her throat, making a hideous situation between them even more impossible. “You’re unsure why I’ve come to see you, the Saint of Silence, merchant of secrets?”

  His expression remained steady and, unlike her, he was clearly in total command of his emotions. “My hand—when it is my own to move—rarely lifts for others. It is how I’ve survived for so long. So, once again, I ask you: What do you want from me?”

  “He is my brother—”

  “There are many brothers in the world. I cannot help them all.” He looked away dismissively, returning once more to his ledgers. “Let the matter rest. I’m sure he’ll wander in at some point.”

  Leena stared at him. “You mistake me, sir. I’ve not come for your help. I’ve come only for information. I would be so very grateful, and in your debt, if you were to tell me where to look first. Then that is where I will go.”

  At her words, St. Silas’s eyes drew back to hers, a sudden stillness in his shoulders. “You will go by yourself?”

  Leena nodded.

  “To the Black Coats?” he amended, as if there had been a miscommunication.

  “Yes.”

  “One of the most violent gangs in all of Golborne?”

  Leena nearly replied that she already worked for the Saint of Silence and who could be worse than that, but kept her mouth shut. “He is my brother,” she repeated staunchly.

  His eyes narrowed, as if not quite believing her. “You’re either very brave or very foolish.”

  “Likely a bit of both.”

  Leena waited for it—his demand for payment. She braced herself, her entire body tense with anxiety. She had nothing left to give him other than the knowledge that she could be possessed by ghosts.

  The request did not come.

  St. Silas folded his arms. Gone was his habitual sly ease, and a strange tension now rolled from him in waves.

  “Orley is the head of the Black Coats. His headquarters are located in Ridgeways. He will know where your brother is.” His voice was a challenge, as if he didn’t quite believe Leena’s intention to go alone.

  Leena stood up, swiping a damp palm over her skirt. “Thank you.”

  She had barely stepped foot into the hallway when she heard St. Silas move to follow her.

  “You will go now? At this unsaintly hour?” There seemed to be an underlying sharpness to his question.

  She expected him to forbid her from leaving, as he had done previously. After all, she was his ghost-seer and was valuable to him. If he did forbid her, Leena thought with rising panic, there was little she could do to gainsay his command.

  Filled with dread, she quickened her steps toward the door before he could stop her. “I cannot wait until tomorrow morning.”

  His voice was hard, an angry tilt to his mouth. “How will you get there?”

  “I’ll walk.”

  “It’s raining.”

  “It won’t kill me.”

  She opened the door to the courtyard, but he slammed it shut with his palm.

  Leena waited with a held breath. Now his command would drop. Now he would force her back to her chamber.

  It did not come.

  Instead, he continued, in barely concealed irritation, “Orley is the worst sort of creature. He will want something in return for any information about your damned brother. What will you give him?”

  “For my brother, anything.”

  His eyes flickered down the length of her body, his eyebrows raised in a silent question. An irate flush rose on Leena’s cheeks, recalling in more detail than she wanted to admit the look he’d given her last night when he’d seen her in her nightgown—his tight throat, his burning eyes.

  “Not that,” she croaked, more furious because of how unbalanced he made her feel beneath his gaze.

  He stepped forward, looming over her in the narrow hallway. His very presence was a knife. “No, you will merely tell Orley that you can see the dead. The one secret that makes you exceedingly valuable to me.”

  Rather than answer, Leena turned away once more.