Leena shook so hard that she could not focus on St. Silas’s words, her eyes still trained on the phantom that now lay weeping over his own grave. “No, he didn’t have a choice,” she replied brokenly. “That is what happens to people who look like me. They take our homes, they take our fathers, they take the very food from our bellies—”

  “He tried to kill you. It was either be slain or live.” His voice tightened as he looked at the nothingness, jaw rigid. When he glanced down at her still-pale face, he added, “He was a Black Coat.”

  It was no real comfort to her that the young dead boy had been a gang member. “Rami could’ve easily been a Black Coat.” The metallic taste of copper coated Leena’s tongue. “The Black Coats are filled with immigrant children—children whose homes could be found on the opposite end of a closed fist—”

  “I understand—”

  “No, you don’t understand. How could you?” Her cheeks were wet, the cold air biting her face. “You are Morish. The soldiers on the street stop to interrogate me daily, but they bow to you. The color of your skin, the tenor of your voice, even your accent, all proclaim your right to exist here, whereas anyone who looks like me—like that boy buried in this unmarked grave—is wrong. He never had a fighting chance.” The rise and fall of her chest felt like she was squeezing air through clogged vessels. “It is beyond you being the Saint of Silence. You belong to this land, hold superiority in it.” She wiped her face with her dirt-crusted sleeve. “You always have a choice.”

  St. Silas looked away from her, his stare now locked on the rising sun behind the treeline. The hard lines of his throat worked, as if he was trying to swallow down words—or memories.

  When he spoke next, his voice was carefully detached, his expression fixed. “I was very young when I buried my first body. I was sobbing so hard I could not hold on to the shovel.” His voice barely changed, but she caught the fragmented borders of it anyway. “Believe me, Miss Al-Sayer, I also had little choice then.” His stance was rigid, muscles coiled, as if he still held that same shovel. “The boy I buried was fourteen. I was twelve. The earth was not soft.”

  Leena stared at him in astonishment, feeling a sudden, visceral, burning shame. The need to desperately take back her words rose through her like a tide. At twelve she had been holding her father’s hand, eating halwa on lazy summer days, not learning her way around a grave.

  But Leena’s tongue didn’t know how to form words of remorse, so instead she continued to mutely watch St. Silas. She found he was staring back, equally wordless, equally weary.

  “Survival is a sordid business.” There was an odd aloofness in his voice, as if he was not speaking to her.

  His choice of words did not immediately make sense to Leena, and it took her a long moment to realize that the Saint of Silence was attempting to comfort her.

  She could not explain why such an unexpected act of kindness brought forth another rush of tears. She pressed her closed fists against her eyes, turning away rapidly, unable to reply; her aching mind could not lift the weight of so much heartache.

  Leena’s blurring eyes returned to the grave they’d left behind. The ghost of the young Black Coat was gone, and she was relieved that he hadn’t lingered to haunt her.

  St. Silas’s voice when he called for them to continue sounded distant in her ears, but she managed to put one foot in front of the other to follow him through the clearing. The birdsong continued, drowning out her thoughts and all other sounds of the forest, a symphony of farewell.

  Insomnia once again settled behind Leena’s eyelids.

  It had been one week since the events at the cottage, and the days since had passed slowly. She’d seen death before—multiple times, in fact—but never had such a direct hand in it. Her skin still smelled of burial.

  In the rare few hours when she was not busy looking after Rami, she could not find rest. She searched for a way to stop her consistent deliberations. Amid the usual assortment of ghosts that lingered around her in the late hours, Leena paced, she read, she even sewed—anything not to face how skewed her life had become.

  Why, Leena thought with a groan, pricking her finger for the fourth time, did his voice and shadowed face keep finding a home in her late nights?

  But, of course, she knew. She knew exactly why.

  She was contrite—and her contrition would not allow her the respite of sleep.

  She had given him little choice that night but to help her bury the young man, threatening him with the one thing he wanted: finding Lord Avon’s ghost.

  And she did not need to be a palm reader to be able to see, with sharp clarity, that burying the body had pained him.

  Speak, he had said.

  The methodical, detached way he had dug, the grinding of his jaw and the untethered look in his eyes spoke of a wound he was resurrecting alongside the thick, iron-rich earth.

  Giving up with disgust, Leena threw her embroidery onto the bed, instead choosing to vigorously brush her hair for the third time that night. She stared at the mirror without seeing her reflection.

  It was no wonder the look he had given her as he’d told of the boy he had buried at twelve spoke of laceration.

  She’d forced a confession from him, just as she had seen him do to so many of his customers. The only difference was that all of his customers came willingly, lined up for hours, and knew the price they had to pay, yet their reward was ample.

  That night, St. Silas had paid the price without the reward. And that was what troubled her—the fact that she’d taken the choice from him.

  It made matters worse that the ghost of the servant-boy—the very same one she’d acknowledged in Orley’s office—had begun to follow her. He stood by her bed, watching her from outside the salt circle. That first night, it had been him, the weeping cobbler, and an old woman whose clawed hand begged for offerings. The second night, it had been only the servant-boy and the weeping cobbler. The nights after that, it was only the servant-boy. His twitchy, gaunt face molded into a smile of greeting every time Leena stumbled out of bed, and she stared in amazement at the emptiness of her room.

  “Are you keeping the other ghosts away?” Leena asked in awe.

  He bowed, as if she was a lady and he was her servant.

  “How do you do that?” she begged. “Can you teach me?”

  He pointed toward his chest and nodded, then pointed toward Leena and shook his head. She understood. He could better control the dead because he was one of their number. Leena, who was still living (even though she didn’t always feel like she was), could not choose her hauntings.

  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, feeling slightly deflated. “Will you keep the other phantoms away from me at night?”

  Leena had asked this without any hope, as the ghosts never did what she wanted, so was startled when the servant-boy nodded. She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest.

  “Thank you,” she said haltingly. She had never thanked any of her phantoms before. He even turned around when Leena dressed—unlike a few of her leering ghosts, who forced her to change while under the covers, stripping her of her dignity.

  This morning, she had a sudden desire to humanize the ghost, so she did something she’d never done before. She asked for his name.

  She found yesterday’s newspaper and ripped out the margins, quickly writing the letters of the alphabet in as big a font as she could within the tight space.

  “Point to the letters and tell me your name,” Leena told the boy, hoping that he knew how to read.

  The ghost furrowed his brows, his lips mouthing the letters as he painstakingly pointed them out. It was clear he knew how to spell his name and very little else.

  Theodore Daye.

  Leena smiled. “Thank you, Theodore Daye.”

  Suddenly shy, the ghost dropped his gaze, tugging at the collar of his livery.

  “How do you know Mr. Orley?”

  A shivering fear transformed Theodore’s face, and he backed a step away.

  Leena understood.

  She thought of Orley and Mrs. Van—their creeping long hands, their expanding eyes, their overwhelming presence—so inhuman, so other. It had become an obsession of hers, even as she spent her time tending to Rami alongside Mrs. Van. The housekeeper had proved to be an essential asset in the sickroom. Her knowledge regarding herbal remedies far superseded Leena’s own, and they spent the long hours boiling broths and preparing poultices.

  A tepid understanding had arisen between them.

  Yet although she was grateful for the housekeeper’s assistance, all her previous misgivings about Mrs. Van still lay like a hard lump in her throat. In those wakeful nights, Leena thought of the dream she had had—How long must he survive this?—and she could not shake the feeling that it was essential that Mrs. Van confirmed Leena’s suspicions. That if the Saint dealt with other creatures, then to be left in the dark might prove dangerous for her and her brother. Especially in her hunt for Lord Avon.

  She found Mrs. Van in the kitchen. Leena seldom wandered in there, it being the domain of the stern housekeeper, but it was surprisingly cozier than the unlived-in state of the rest of the house. The fire in the grate was welcoming, the herbs procured from the market hung by the window wafting scents of lemongrass, and somewhere a kettle had been set to boil.

  Mrs. Van was finely mincing roots with an experienced hand. She turned at Leena’s approach and wiped her bony fingers on her apron. Theodore Daye followed closely behind her and planted himself in the open doorway.

  “Miss Al-Sayer,” Mrs. Van said, briefly curtseying before adding the roots into a mortar.

  Leena smiled tentatively. “Rami’s been complaining that you are going to bully him into good health.”

  “It is as the master wanted,” she said, but the corner of her mouth lifted.

  “Where did you learn about healing?” Leena asked.

  Mrs. Van crushed the roots into a fine paste. “I’ve lived many lives.”

  “Any of them good?”

  “This one is,” she replied softly.

  Leena slid onto a stool and began to peel the potatoes Mrs. Van had left soaking in brine.

  “Do you know why Mr. St. Silas hired me?” Leena asked.

  The crushing sound of mortar and pestle stopped. “He has not told me. The contract forbids him.”

  “Ah, yes, his contracts. How he enjoys those.” The potato slipped from Leena’s hands and the knife almost slid into her bare skin. “Would you like to know why?”

  “If you are willing.”

  “Will you answer one of my questions in return?”

  The kettle whistled.

  Mrs. Van seemed to think for a moment. Then she nodded slowly.

  “The reason Mr. St. Silas hired me is because I can see ghosts.”

  A moment passed. Mrs. Van blinked. Theodore Daye nodded as if he already knew this.

  “Ah.”

  “That’s exactly how he reacted.”

  “And he believes you?”

  “I’ve passed his tests.”

  “Then it must be so.” Mrs. Van’s long fingers played with a brooch pinned to her lapel. “A long time ago, there used to be many who claimed to be able to speak to ghosts. I’ve never heard of one who is able to see them. Still, I’ll trust the master’s judgment.”

  “How do you know him?”

  Mrs. Van sighed, and went to remove the kettle from the fire, pouring Leena a cup. “Is that your question?”

  Leena nodded.

  “I worked for his father, and his father before him…”

  They stared at each other. Leena’s heart thudded.

  “How old are you?” Leena whispered. The other woman’s face was oddly devoid of wrinkles—stone smooth, but aged in the same way bricks and boulders age.

  “Very old, Miss Al-Sayer. Now drink your tea. Your brother needs tending.”

  * * *

  —

  Leena could not stop shaking as she went to see Rami. She couldn’t quite believe what she’d heard, and for one moment she’d desperately wished that Mrs. Van was lying. Life was tumultuous, and the one surety was that it eventually ended. To think that a creature like Mrs. Van could live and live and…

  It was madness.

  Theodore Daye followed her, his ghostly form flickering in and out like a mere trick of the light. It was also madness that Leena could see phantoms. It was madness that the dead did not always die.

  She swallowed—but what did that make Mrs. Van?

  More important, what was St. Silas dealing with?

  Rami was sitting up in bed; he had been given a chamber near her own. The bruises had transformed from a garish purple to a fading yellow. His left eye was still bloodshot, although less so, and he could now open the curtains without wincing at the bright light.

  It had been a rough week—and at the worst of it, Rami had cursed her when she’d suggested sending for the doctor.

  “No doctors,” he’d yelled on that second night. His forehead was burning by then and he’d begun to hallucinate, thrashing so violently that Arthur had to be called to restrain him. Once he was subdued, Mrs. Van had shoveled a sleeping draught down his throat. Just as Rami’s eyelids became heavier and his words slurred, he had tugged Leena’s arm. “No doctors…please.” There was such desperation in his voice that she couldn’t refuse.

  The last time Rami had seen a doctor was for his amputation. They couldn’t afford the anesthesia, and the surgeon wouldn’t take Baba’s shoes or Leena’s faux jewelry as payment. It had to be done without. Rami had been awake throughout the entire operation, witnessing his own butchering, falling into unconsciousness only afterward. Baba had wrapped the limb in newspaper and taken it to the cemetery, and Leena knew that Rami had never forgotten that a part of him had been buried while he slept.

  “You look awful,” Leena said—the same greeting she had given him every morning for the past week. This time, her voice shook with the weight that now plagued her mind, and she felt sick with it.

  “Still have all my teeth,” was his usual response.

  Leena had already told him of all the events leading up to her contract. His eyes had blazed when he’d heard of Leena bargaining her secret for Rami’s medication, the fire growing even steadier when he heard the details of her contract. The Saint will have to employ me as well was all he said. For as long as you are indentured, Leena, so am I.

  Leena didn’t know if her brother would be allowed to stay; St. Silas had already stretched his mercy to the limit by allowing Leena to shirk her duties to care for Rami.

  Rami noticed her pale, trembling face, and he told her to sit on the chair beside the bed.

  “What’s happened?” he asked, holding his ribs and grimacing as he turned to face her.

  A part of Leena was afraid that Rami might not believe her. That if she accused the housekeeper of being another creature, he might give her that same pitying look as her neighbors. She didn’t think she could bear that.

  “Are you thinking about the Black Coat you buried at the cottage again?” Rami asked. “Has his ghost come back?”

  That was somehow easier to speak about. “No, not again,” Leena said quietly. “Do you remember what Margery used to say?”

  “What did that old bat used to say?” Rami hated all their neighbors.

  She threw him an irritated look. “She used to say that it was bad luck for the old to bury the young.”

  His mouth twisted. “It’s all superstition, Leena. He would’ve killed you and not suffered your death as you are suffering his.”

  She let out a shaky breath, still feeling overwhelmed.

  Rami frowned as he pulled a piece of loose thread from his coverlet. “You shouldn’t have been there.”

  “Did you think no one was coming for you?” She watched his profile carefully.

  The thread snapped in his hand.

  After a long moment, he said, “I knew you’d come. That’s the only constant.”

  They had very few constants in their lives. They had both been forced to learn how to rebuild too early and too often.

  “Why did you refuse to throw the fight?” The question had been beating Leena’s chest throughout the long nights spent watching over his sickbed.

  His tone dripped with wrath. “Because devil take them, that’s why.”

  She stood up in a huff. “I could throttle you!”

  “Get in line, then,” he snapped.

  “You’re a fool, Rami. And your foolish ways will kill us.” She crossed her arms. “What will you do if Mr. Martin tries again? If the Black Coats try again?”

  The bruises on Rami’s face made him look like a ghastly, twisted reflection of himself. “I’ll make them pay.”

  Leena turned and walked out of the room, slamming the door in the process.

  * * *

  —

  Leena’s mind was a chaotic swirl as she left Rami’s room. What she needed was a semblance of her routine, repugnant to her though it was. For that, she would have to find St. Silas.

  She’d only seen him in passing during the week since Rami’s kidnapping. He had left a short note informing her that she would be excused from the duties of the shop while she tended to her brother. That was a courtesy any factory Warden would rather drink poison than give to their workers. For that, at least, Leena respected him. While the Saint was demanding, she had come to find he was also fair-minded with all his employees.

  Now that Rami was very much on the mend, she could no longer continue to take time off from both her contract and the hunt. So it was with deep reluctance that Leena knocked on the door of the Saint’s study.

  “Enter,” St. Silas commanded. He was sitting behind his desk in his usual fashion, piles of ledgers stacked on one side, accounts and papers filled with scribbles on the other.