The words seemed driven out of him. “I will go with you.”

  She lurched to face him, gaping. “Why?”

  He shrugged his shoulders, an indolent gesture that seemed almost forced. “Protecting my own interests, Miss Al-Sayer. Isn’t it obvious?”

  * * *

  —

  The smog from the factories that lined Ridgeways touched everything, smothering lungs and blackening hearts. Shops were shuttered, debris piled on the pavement, and rough sleepers warmed their hands on makeshift fires contained in steel cans. So many of these people, Leena thought, were not Algaraan refugees, but native Mors who did not even have enough coins to house themselves. Little wonder revolution brewed.

  Further along the road were the laundry factories, and Leena’s hands burned just thinking about the harsh lyes stored there. She credited St. Silas for one thing: She would never have to lean over those steaming vats of water again for as long as she lived.

  The carriage stopped at the only establishment that seemed to be thriving at this time of night. Welcoming lights blazed through the windows, and three heavyset men stood guard. A few spirits mingled among the downtrodden, but they were only hazy specters, filtering in and out of existence like dying candlelight.

  Once she stepped out from the carriage, a thickly perfumed smell wafted in the air, triggering a memory: Margery sitting in a lonely house as the sugary smoke coiling from her hookah masked the scent of neglect.

  Tar.

  Apprehension filled her stomach at the realization that Orley’s was a place that dealt the drug. Leena pulled Margery’s timepiece from her bodice and held it in her hand now as a reminder of her friend.

  St. Silas nodded at one of the mean brutes who stood over the entrance, and he let them pass with a bow of deference. St. Silas then led her through a hallway and into a large circular room thick with smoke. Leena froze at the threshold. Tulle curtains hung from the ceiling for privacy, but did little to hide the various men and women lying on beds. Tiny fires burned in hookahs all through the room, small lighthouses leading the blank travelers home.

  St. Silas turned to urge her through, but his gaze caught the glint of gold within Leena’s clenched fingers. He inclined his head to look closer, but when he saw the name engraved on the cover—Fray, in bold cursive letters—he wrenched himself back.

  “Where did you get this?” he hissed, startling her from her thoughts.

  “It was given to me,” Leena replied, astonished, looking down at the timepiece.

  “By who?”

  Leena held it possessively in her hands. It was her one gift from her friend, the old woman’s last possession that she had entrusted to Leena. She had often wondered how Margery had got hold of this precious object. Likely, Leena tried to reassure herself, it was a family heirloom.

  There was a small part of her, however, that did worry that the timepiece had been stolen, and that part reared its head now, for how could Margery own something so valuable that the Saint of Silence would recognize it? At Leena’s first opportunity, the moment St. Silas gave her leave again, she would go back and ask Margery more about the origins of this gift.

  Leena quickly hid the timepiece in her pocket and took a step back from him. “Why does it matter who gave it to me? It is mine now and I have not stolen it.”

  The suspicion on Leena’s face caused St. Silas to recollect himself. With a last searching look, he spun away from her. “Then let us not delay any further.”

  Fray. She also made a note of that name.

  Every trivial secret can lead to ruin.

  They weaved their way through the multitude of stray limbs and smoking pipes to the other end of the room, then down a long narrow hallway and up several flights of stairs.

  The door to the room was unlocked and St. Silas entered without knocking. Taking a deep breath, Leena followed.

  She had never seen a more claustrophobic room. It was a magpie’s nest of trinkets. By her feet, large wooden blocks with brightly painted letters and pictures lay scattered—the kind used by children learning to read. Vases with decaying flowers cluttered a writing desk. Oddly shaped perfume bottles rested on the windowsill. Above the desk hung a parchment within a gilded frame, only four inky words drawn on the aged sheet:

  No Burials for Lambs

  Leena’s gaze stayed there for a moment—what an odd turn of phrase—but she knew, without knowing how she knew, its exact meaning: Only lions are mourned.

  On the floor, in the middle of this madness, sat a ridiculous-looking man on a cushion. He was small of stature with hair sprouting from his scalp like weeds, but the bones in his face stood out too far, and the fingers on his hands were unnaturally stretched, curling like a spider’s legs. And…the pupils of his eyes—fathomless dark holes, expanding, the whites no longer visible…

  Yet within seconds, the man’s eyes were back to normal, leaving Leena to wonder if her mind was playing tricks on her in this drug-filled den.

  Then she thought of Mrs. Van. She and this man shared the same look, the same abnormally curling hands. A wave of nausea unsettled her.

  Orley is the worst sort of creature.

  Her panicked gaze met St. Silas’s, but there was neither confirmation nor denial in his look.

  “Mr. St. Silas? What a pleasure,” said Orley, his voice unnaturally high. He bowed his head while still sitting cross-legged. St. Silas did not return the formality, and neither did she.

  It was odd to Leena that any sort of pleasantries could still be exchanged between these two men. Orley had sent spies after St. Silas, and St. Silas had disposed of those spies. While they each sidestepped these recent bloody events, they still hung in the air like smoke. “And who is this beautiful young lady?”

  “She is under my protection,” St. Silas said. His voice carried an unmistakable warning, and Leena narrowed her eyes at his choice of words. “She has come to ask for a favor.”

  “Does the young lady not speak for herself? Or has the…er…good fortune of being under your protection robbed her of that ability?”

  “I speak,” Leena interjected. During their exchange, her attention had been momentarily diverted by a ghost that appeared by Orley’s elbow. A boy wearing a servant’s livery. His eyes were hollow, his movements twitchy—as if he craved something he could not taste in the afterlife. “I am looking for my brother, Rami Al-Sayer. He is a duelist who competes in fights hosted by your gang. He had one yesterday, but he has not yet returned.”

  Orley scratched his arm. “Ah, yes, the cripple?”

  “I do not like that word,” Leena snapped, her eyes burning. “He is a sword fighter who has never been beaten.”

  Orley’s face once more curved into a wide-toothed smile. He seemed to enjoy her offense.

  “That’s his problem, dearie. We instructed him to lose the fight yesterday, but he went against our orders. One particularly wealthy tradesman was very keen for that match to be fixed against Rami, and he would’ve rewarded us handsomely for it. Yet your brother decided his legacy mattered more than our profit. A pity.”

  Her head jerked. This was the second time loyalty to a legacy would be someone’s undoing. Maybe the destitute Al-Sayers had more in common with the Avons than she’d first thought.

  She wanted to throttle Rami, and she would when she saw him next. How dare he compromise their future and her only family for an ideal?

  The ghost of the servant-boy jumped from foot to foot, and Leena stared at him longer than she should have, her mind blank with worry. Their eyes met. His mouth fell open and he pointed at his chest as if saying: You can see me?

  Leena wondered if he could be a useful asset. Haunting the leader of the Black Coats must mean he overheard important information, so she gave a short nod.

  “Will you tell me where he is?” Leena asked, still staring at the boy.

  It was Orley who answered. “Unfortunately, my dear, my customers require the strictest of confidentiality—”

  She cut him off impatiently. “What is your price?”

  He wagged one long finger. “From you, nothing. No offense, but, lovely though you are, you are of little importance to me.”

  She knew that this was precisely why St. Silas had elected to come with her, but his demand for caution did not matter. Her brother’s life lay in her ability to bargain for it—and she would bargain, once again, with whatever she had. “I do, in fact, have a payment that you’ll never receive from anyone else—”

  “I will tell you something, Orley,” St. Silas interrupted smoothly, a hand in his pocket.

  Leena’s eyes widened and Orley gasped. The prospect of a secret from the Saint seemed to excite him beyond measure. Even the ghost of the servant-boy jolted, shrunken eyes widening in shock as he stared intently at St. Silas. Distantly, Leena wondered if this ghost had been one of the Saint’s confessors in his previous life.

  She looked up at St. Silas mutely. Why…?

  “Protecting my interests,” he reminded her flatly.

  It wasn’t an act of kindness; it was an act of commerce.

  Orley began without hesitation, licking his lips as if preparing for a meal. “Tell me something that has wounded you.”

  The Saint was still for a long moment, his countenance carefully remote. Then he tilted his jaw upward, exposing his throat and the thin pink line that ran in the shape of a knife’s blade. He’d taken the request literally, confessing the history of something that had left a scar on his body, although Leena didn’t think Orley had meant it in that way. “Courtesy of a mother whose son went mad after confessing to me.”

  Orley’s tongue poked out as if tasting the air. “How old were you?”

  “A few days past seventeen. I’d only just begun my business.”

  Leena’s gaze sharpened on him, but the Saint’s attention was on Orley, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face. He was carved from stone, unwavering, dark brows set and firm, corrosive eyes that knew how to conceal every shift of expression.

  “What did you do to the mother?” Once more Orley’s eyes seemed to expand, the dark overtaking the white entirely, before constricting suddenly—though Leena told herself shakily that it was likely a trick of the candlelight.

  St. Silas’s drawl was bored. “I took the knife from her.”

  “And then…?”

  Leena held her breath as she waited for his answer.

  “It is not relevant.”

  Orley edged forward, a frustrated notch puckering his cheeks. “Then you’ve delivered an incomplete payment.” This exchange baffled Leena—why was St. Silas’s own confession important to Orley, and why did he consider it incomplete?

  St. Silas’s mouth curled into impatience before he molded his face into indifference once more. “That is all; I merely took the knife from her. Make no mistake—rarely do I forgive any threat against my life.”

  Very briefly, the Saint’s eyes pierced Leena.

  Yet he’d forgiven her. She’d pointed a pistol at him and he had not punished her for it. Perhaps even the Saint of Silence had rare inclinations to mercy.

  Leena wanted to continue to think of him always as a beast. Any shred of kindness attributed to the Saint would discolor the image she’d built of him in her head. She understood monsters—their selfish wants, their relentless desires. It was the monsters that flickered in and out of humanity that could never be accounted for.

  It was for this reason that the next question burst from her own mouth, even though she knew such interruptions usually brought the wrath of St. Silas down upon her. “How old was the son?”

  She imagined a young boy sitting on that wooden seat in the Saint’s confession room, sobbing as his secret was written in the ledgers, the pain ripping through him with jagged cruelty.

  His answer surprised her. “Older than me.” Then, as if sensing where Leena’s mind had taken her, he met her gaze again. “I do not take the confessions of children, Miss Al-Sayer.”

  She filtered through all the confessions she’d witnessed, and she was shocked to realize that she’d never once seen a child cross the threshold into the Saint’s shop.

  Orley continued in a low whisper. “Do you regret reaping the confession from the son? Do you ever feel any shame?”

  St. Silas showed his teeth. “If it is shame you want, Orley, you won’t get it from me.”

  “Such a waste,” Orley whined. “I cannot get a feel for you at all. Why such a hard shell? The girl might’ve proved to be more delicious.”

  “You are likely very right. Unfortunately, you’ve lost your opportunity to find out.” St. Silas’s smirk was obvious, but for the first time since she had entered his employment, he touched her intentionally, laying a warm hand at the base of her back.

  Standing in that claustrophobic room, surrounded by Orley’s life trinkets and a young, pained ghost, Leena felt choked. It was almost natural for her to step back into St. Silas’s hold, allowing herself to be grounded by what felt like the only other living, warm thing in the room.

  St. Silas flashed a surprised look at her unexpected reaction before once more schooling his features into nonchalance.

  Leena could not silence the echo of St. Silas’s secret reverberating throughout her skull. For a wild moment, she wished that he’d never confessed at all.

  She cleared her throat. “Tell us about Rami now.”

  “Ah, yes,” Orley said in the tone of a child who has lost a game. “He forced our hand, you see. We had to teach him a lesson.”

  “What have you done to him?” Leena demanded, taking a panicked step forward.

  “Are you asking if my bruisers mean to keep him alive? How should I know? It’s up to the tradesman who asked us to fix the fight,” Orley replied, his attention already slipping away from the conversation. “Frankly, this whole affair has already bored me.”

  “Where have they taken him?” Her voice cracked.

  “The place we use is an abandoned cottage on the edge of Bromley Forest. It is a few minutes east of Wringer’s Pub.”

  “Who was it that wanted the game fixed?” St. Silas was already half turned toward the door.

  “Tsk, tsk.” Orley waggled his eyebrows. “For that, I will need another payment.”

  St. Silas’s voice was mild. “No matter. I shall soon find out.”

  The servant-ghost raised his hand in a farewell and Leena acknowledged him with another nod.

  But before leaving the cluttered room, Leena looked back toward the hanging parchment once more.

  No Burials for Lambs

  Grimly, Leena knew this to be true.

  The cottage stood on the edge of the woods, its boards rotted from years of neglect, the steps broken, the rail missing, paint peeling from the beams. It had taken less than an hour to reach the fringes of Bromley Forest. During the carriage ride, St. Silas had turned to Leena. “No burials for lambs?”

  Leena was so preoccupied with thoughts of Rami, she hadn’t realized that she’d been muttering that phrase beneath her breath mindlessly over and over again. “It was written on Orley’s parchment—the one in the gilded frame.”

  She didn’t miss the furrowing of St. Silas’s brows. “There was nothing written on that parchment.”

  Leena stared at him. “There was. I saw it.”

  He looked oddly at her. “I’ve been in that room many times. I have never marked it before.”

  “Perhaps it is new?”

  “Perhaps…” Although his tone was veiled, he did not comment further.

  “How does your confession act as payment for Orley?”

  Unsurprisingly, his response was unforthcoming.

  Before she could question him any more, they had arrived at their destination.

  Leena and St. Silas now stood at the edge of the clearing in front of the cottage, eyes alert to any movement within. Nothing stirred. All was quiet.

  “A loaded peace,” St. Silas murmured, retrieving his pistol. It was one of those new broad barrels—a recent invention that gave the shooter two bullets before the weapon needed to be reloaded.

  “Where are the Black Coats?” Leena whispered.

  He shook his head and began making his way through the clearing. “Let’s find out.”

  They reached the cottage unchallenged, and the horror of what might be waiting was almost too much to bear. She peered through a muddy window into what looked to be a sparse reception room, and gasped when she saw a lone figure tied to a chair.

  Rami.

  He barely moved.

  “Ah, so we’ve located Al-Sayer—alive, fortunately—but where are the others?” St. Silas drawled, looking over her shoulder.

  No footsteps approached them. No cries of warning. A crow cawed. A few raindrops scattered across the roof. But they were otherwise alone.

  That notion was oddly terrifying.

  Leena wet her dry lips. “Perhaps they’ve already gone. Let’s finish quickly.”

  The front door was left slightly ajar. The cottage consisted of only one large room, empty save for a few chairs left askew.

  Leena wanted to rush in, but St. Silas stopped her with one hand. With his revolver outstretched, he made long strides around the room. Finally, when he was sure they were alone, he waved her through.

  She knelt by her brother and shook his shoulder. “Rami? Wake up. It’s me.”

  He stirred.

  “L-Leena?” His eyes were bloodshot and bruises peppered his jaw.

  She slumped in relief.

  “Rami…” she repeated, tugging the rope that bound him to the chair.

  Sudden alertness passed over Rami’s face. He jerked in his restraints. “Leena? Get the hell out of here! My captors have only gone temporarily, but they’ll be back soon.”

  St. Silas stayed near the door, unconcerned with Rami’s welfare. “How many men are there?”