The Black Coats’ threat sat heavily on her. She had begged Rami not to fight for the gang, knowing that whatever coins he earned in the process would never guarantee their safety, but as always her brother never listened.

  Although her joints ached, she forced herself to keep walking, now more desperate to trade for his medication than ever.

  As she continued to weave her way through the claustrophobic district, with its tilting tiled roofs and cobbled streets, she had to stop twice more to rest, frustrated with her own body’s needs. She was glad for the darkness of the night, which hid the ugliness that was Newtorn Prison—the ominous building that stood staring at her no matter the direction she went. She did not have money to hail a hackney, and not for the first time Leena silently loathed that her townhouse was situated where it was. Nearest to the docks and the Old Market, New Algaraa District was not only a constant cacophony of noises and drunken singing, it was also farthest away from the middle-class wealth of the Northern Quarters where Mr. St. Silas’s shop was located.

  It took her hours to reach her destination.

  Within the Northern Quarters, the townhouses were far more respectable, surrounded by black-painted gates and thick rose bushes. Raised three stories high, each house held a vestige of glamour. Leena knew that although the aristos did not reside here, instead situating themselves within the far more exclusive Maybury District, a lot of the middle-class tradesmen built their homes here to mimic the architecture of the nobility. To Leena, it felt disorienting to see such old styles replicated in such modern ways.

  The district might have been charming in the daytime, but at night the lamplight threw tall shadows on the clean streets, distorting shapes and creating faces where there weren’t any. More than once, Leena halted suddenly, a cold sweat beading her brow, only to find herself staring at a tree or a postbox.

  Her heart was galloping in her chest by the time she reached the Saint’s shop.

  It was a surprisingly discreet building—too immaculate for such a sordid business. On either side, the houses were vacant, a “to let” sign creaking and swaying in the wind. The shop was bereft of any vulgar advertising, the steps swept clean, the door freshly painted. A single neat sign had been hung, which read: Mr. St. Silas, an inquisitor.

  Leena swallowed, her throat dry.

  An inquisitor.

  He can taste lies.

  She pounded at the door.

  No answer.

  She tried until her knuckles throbbed. Then she rattled the lock.

  The shop was closed.

  Of course it would be at this time of night. How could she have been so foolish? She had come too late. Fear had stalled her. Now fear would sign her brother’s death certificate.

  No. Her eyes jolted to the empty street. Then she cried out, “You have taken everything from me. Give me something back. Lead me to the Saint of Silence.”

  Nothing stirred.

  “Please,” Leena whispered. Then she tilted her head as if she’d seen a flutter of movement, although anyone peeking through the window at that moment would have seen only a girl standing by herself.

  She began walking again, now to the back of the shop. There was a house attached to the rear, complete with a stableyard and a small stone courtyard enclosed with elegantly trimmed trees. Leena knocked once more at the back door, flinching from the ache in her knuckles.

  After another minute of tense waiting, the door did swing open.

  A woman stood at the threshold, wearing a spotlessly ironed apron over a plain black dress. The candle in her hand flickered, bathing her harshly angled face in light. Leena stepped back—those eyes. For a moment she swore that the woman’s black irises swallowed the whites entirely.

  Leena quelled her panicking thoughts, telling herself that she was not mad. The woman’s eyes were now perfectly normal, merely a trick of the shadows.

  “I’ve come to see the Saint,” Leena said, more confident than she felt.

  The woman’s voice carried no emotion. “What business do you have with him?”

  “A secret to share,” she responded, even louder this time.

  “The master is unavailable.” The woman moved to shut the door. “Come back during business hours.”

  Leena jammed her shoulder into the narrow opening. “He will not forgive you if you let me leave.”

  Leena knew it was an odd statement—especially coming from a slip of a girl like her. Her shawl was too ragged for the cool autumn, and there was a burn hole in her cambric skirt from where she’d stood close to the fire that morning. Still, the woman seemed to consider her—Leena’s face openly full of hungry hope—and, after a moment of deliberation, bade her to follow.

  Leena tried to quiet her rasping breaths as she trailed the woman down a long hallway, the wooden floors gleaming, all the sconces lit as if a party was expected. St. Silas must have money to burn.

  The woman stopped in front of a closed door. “Your name, madam?”

  “Leena Al-Sayer.”

  The woman slipped inside to announce her. Leena only heard muffled words, followed by a harsh reprimand. Without having to be told, Leena knew that she would be thrown back out onto the street.

  Desperation built in her throat. Without stopping to think, she burst through the door, pushed past the woman, and tumbled onto the floor. A hand jerked her backward and Leena twisted her torso to see the servant woman grasping her shoulders. They both struggled; Leena was not above throwing her entire weight to knock this foreboding lady down and free herself.

  Words streamed from her mouth. “You will regret not receiving me, sir. My secret is…is—unhand me!—one you will never hear again—”

  A curt word interrupted her ramblings and the woman’s hands released her.

  Leena darted toward the back of the room, behind an armchair, clinging to one of the many shelves that lined the walls, but there was no need. The woman had already left.

  She was alone with the Saint of Silence.

  Black waves receded from her vision, and it took her a moment to compose herself. Her teeth chattered. Why was it so cold in this room? The fireplace roared, but it did nothing to dispel the chill.

  Steeling herself, Leena finally turned to face him—Mr. St. Silas.

  She was surprised to see that he was young, perhaps only three or four years older than herself. From the gossip swirling about him for the last eight years, she had expected a sharp-toothed beast. A monster in an impeccable suit. Distantly, she was aware that he was handsome—another surprise. But it was not the sort of handsomeness that was comforting. Everything about him evoked a brutal sense of disquiet; he was intimidation at a single glance. Even his heavy-lidded eyes, at once both aloof and callous, concealed a sharp alertness.

  He sat idly behind an oak desk, an impressive figure with dark hair and a grim mouth, a ledger in his gloved hand. The only sign of disorder about him was the loosened cravat at his throat; otherwise he was immaculately dressed.

  “What matter disturbs me in the dead of the night?” His tone was light, almost conversational—and it had the desired effect of chilling Leena to her bones.

  He hadn’t stood when she’d entered the room, as per the custom among the Mors, nor did he offer her a seat. Instead, he stared at her in contemplation, his thumb tapping a beat on a timepiece attached to his chest. The silence stretched; he didn’t seem to mind.

  “I have a secret,” Leena repeated, unable to bear the silence any longer.

  “We all do.”

  Frustrated, she said, “I have a secret for purchase.”

  “Ah,” he said, raising his brows slightly.

  Horror dawned on her when he didn’t continue.

  “You are Mr. St. Silas who trades in secrets?” she asked.

  “I am that St. Silas, but I am at a loss as to why you would think your secret would hold any interest for me—especially at this hour,” he said, his voice smooth, his accent cultured. She wondered if he had hired elocution tutors, for how else could a mere merchant of secrets speak in such well-educated tones? All the tradesmen she’d come into contact with spoke in her accent, often growing up in similar streets to hers before they’d crawled their way into new wealth.

  “I could not wait until morning. My brother is unwell. He has Sweeper’s Cough, and I have heard of your ability to grant impossible wishes for the price of secrets. I cannot afford the medication—”

  “There are cheaper alternatives.”

  “I have tried those, but he is still dying,” Leena replied flatly, her gaze not wavering from his. “My father banned me from seeing you a few years ago—”

  “Good man.”

  “—but I would never have sold my secret for anything less,” she asserted with more firmness than she felt. “My secret holds power.”

  Once more, dots swirled in her vision and she shut her eyes to ward away the sudden lightheadedness. When she opened them again, she saw that St. Silas had paused his rhythmic tapping to watch her intently.

  “One life is a hefty price,” he said after a lengthy pause. Then he withdrew a blank parchment and began to write. He slid it toward her once he was done, and Leena, despite the awful dizziness, walked steadily to face it.

  Mr. Bram St. Silas will provide one course of medication to Miss Leena Al-Sayer upon acquisition of her secret, if Mr. St. Silas deems it worthy, pending investigation of the secret’s accuracy. Miss Al-Sayer confesses of her own volition, bearing in mind any emotional distress that may arise from making such a confession. Any falsehoods told in her confession shall result in punishment.

  Leena thought of tongues ripped out of mouths, of a permanent scar carved into her lips declaring to the world that she was a liar. Of the still-frosted ground as they’d lowered Mr. Jamil into it.

  No. She would not allow fear to distract her.

  “Kindly be more specific,” she said. “Mr. St. Silas will provide Miss Al-Sayer with one course of Trimexicillin.”

  He gave her a single measuring glance before moving to change it.

  “Trimexicillin is costly,” he said, then turned the page toward her. The woman—the very same who had tried to drag Leena from the room—was called in to witness the signing. She was introduced as the housekeeper, and once more Leena had the uncomfortable feeling that there was something very wrong about her.

  All three of them wrote their names on the dotted lines, and the housekeeper departed once that task was done, her steps drifting farther down the maze of halls.

  Leena stared down at her own name on the contract, an intense foreboding building in her bones. St. Silas waited, his silence like a heavy burden.

  The time had come—a revelation, a reckoning.

  The secret burned Leena’s throat. She’d held it so tightly within her chest for so long, every day the shame of it expanding and widening, until it felt like she was turning herself inside out to reveal it.

  What would the Saint of Silence do with her confession?

  Would he believe her? This secret was all Leena had in this world, her one currency. Once gone, her hands would be empty.

  If she kept her voice even, perhaps the Saint wouldn’t notice her distress. But he watched. He watched her so steadily.

  “Mr. St. Silas, I am…I can…” She registered once more the dots floating in and out of her vision. She cleared her throat, her mind racing frantically.

  Perhaps he would think that she was mad. Everyone else did. She looked at him in mute agony. His returning gaze was a cold indifference to her turmoil.

  There was nothing for it now but to open the chamber, to reveal the unthinkable. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze with defiance. “Some who die—usually the restless ones, or the angry ones—linger in our world as ghosts: unseen beings that walk the earth after death. I can see them.”

  Leena waited for a reaction, an exclamation, a shudder of revulsion, but was only met with stark silence. Her nerves on fire, she rushed to fill the vacancy.

  “I wasn’t born like this. I began seeing the dead three years ago, days after I turned seventeen. I wish I knew why they suddenly became visible to me, but they did, and I cannot stop them, nor can I control them.”

  He continued to watch her from behind his heavy-lidded eyes. “Ah.”

  It was the lack of response that fanned her already strained temper. “Bless you, sir. Was that not a sneeze?”

  “Hardly a sneeze, madam, but a proclamation of doubt.”

  “Doubt…” she responded slowly. She had expected this, but she could not stop the sudden fear that roared through her chest.

  “The dead do not go on living after death.”

  “Then you have a very limited viewpoint, indeed.”

  His eyes widened and he let out a surprised half-laugh.

  She had meant it not as a jest but as an entreaty for him to broaden his mind, but her tongue had slipped before she could curtail it.

  He continued after a moment, the laughter dropping from his mouth. “You must understand, Miss Al-Sayer, that in my line of work I am often met with lies. A lie for a noble reason is still a lie—and it is not in my nature to look kindly upon liars.”

  Her heart sank. “I can assure you that I am not lying.”

  “But how can this be proved?” he asked, with a flash of teeth. “I am all eagerness to help your situation—and I wish a rapid recovery to your loved one—” He said this as an afterthought, before his voice dropped dangerously. “But I will not be made a fool.”

  “What must I do?”

  He leaned forward. An odd hunger transformed his features, chasing away any vestiges of false sympathy. “Can you see any apparitions now?”

  Leena scanned every crevice of the small room, across the multiple ledgers stacked in high shelves, toward the hearth that housed a healthy fire—Why was it still so cold in this room?—even behind the armchair.

  Only the living remained. The ghost that had led her here—a boy dressed in white, his temple shattered by a rock—had been flickering in and out on the steps of St. Silas’s shop when she’d begged him to take her to the Saint. But he’d disappeared the moment she’d crossed the Saint’s threshold. She sensed that the dead were not pleased with the Saint of Silence. Could she lie? But Margery’s warning came back to her and she banished the temptation.

  Finally, she whispered, “No.”

  “How convenient. Your secret happens to be one that cannot be proven.” There was now a trace of anger hidden behind his easy tone.

  She brought a hand to her forehead, and St. Silas followed the motion. His eyebrows lifted as if he noticed something in that movement, and a strange chilling expression momentarily crossed his features.

  She should run now—before he held her down, before his knife slid through her skin, splitting the tissue and tearing the vessels, marking her forever.

  Still, Leena did not leave.

  “I don’t know why you collect secrets, Mr. St. Silas, or what you seek. But would you let this one go if it had only the smallest chance of proving true?”

  A pause. He met her eyes. She didn’t lower her own.

  “You are clever.” He weighed his next words carefully. “I’ll give you an opportunity to prove the validity of your statement. Do you agree with this?”

  “I’ll agree to anything.”

  “Follow me.” He stood up, leaving the room in long strides while commanding that his carriage be readied immediately.

  She was led from the study, down the same bright hall, and back to the stone courtyard outside. There, a well-sprung vehicle, expertly crafted but inconspicuous, was waiting for them, two large grays already in the harness. St. Silas issued an order to the driver, too low for her ears to pick up, before he climbed into the seat across from her. Leena tucked herself as far into the corner as possible to avoid accidentally brushing against him, but this was difficult. His lithe form spread across the aisle with ease, his long legs taking up half the room.

  Their moods were in direct contrast. If Leena’s muscles were tightly wound, St. Silas was at his leisure. She wondered if he enjoyed eliciting such strong reactions in others, if he enjoyed grasping such power.

  She heard the rattle of reins and the carriage picked up speed, navigating the bend toward the main thoroughfare.

  “Tell me about who you’re saving,” St. Silas murmured.

  The carriage lamp lit Leena’s face but kept St. Silas’s in shadow. Perhaps that was why he had chosen his seat, so that he might have a chance to study her while remaining in darkness. She could only hear his voice, so simultaneously smooth and sharp she wouldn’t have known she’d been cut until the blood stained her dress.

  “My brother, Rami. I’m older than him by two years,” Leena replied slowly. She didn’t want to continue. Having always been furtive with love, she feared revealing herself too much now.

  “Rami Al-Sayer?” St. Silas leaned forward. “The Black Coats’ sword fighter?”

  “Rami’s not a Black Coat,” Leena replied curtly. She didn’t like people thinking her brother was part of a gang. “He merely competes in their duels.”

  St. Silas raised his eyebrows. “I’ve seen him fight. He’s talented. How did he lose the arm?”

  Leena also hated that question, which reduced Rami to a single painful experience, a moment of tragedy that had birthed him. “A riding accident when he was fourteen. But he fights better now than he ever did back then.”

  Perhaps sensing her offense, he didn’t press further. Instead he settled back, head leaning on the rest. A passing streetlight reflected a sudden harsh glare on his face, and she saw that his eyes were coldly observant, almost catlike, before he was plunged once more into the shadows. In contrast, his words were honeyed. “You’re trying to save him—even going so far as to seek me. I am used to requests for cruelty, but your reason has honor.” She squinted at him in the darkness but still she could not see his face. “At the very least, I admire that. Very few come to me with kindness.”