It was twilight, and snow had begun to fall in earnest.

  Rami exercised in the courtyard, far away from the flutter of departing guests and carriages rolling through the broad iron gates. Most of the hunting party had bid their farewells and the gentlemen’s chambers were empty.

  St. Silas had been absent for nearly the entire day. They still hadn’t found the damned red diary, and he understood that they could not afford to remain much longer than tomorrow morning. Already, they were overstaying their welcome.

  He sheathed his sword and stood motionless in the remnants of twilight. Although there were no city noises to distract him here, an uneasy silence made his ears ring.

  He hated Weavingshaw.

  It never failed to elicit a phantom ache in his shoulder, forcing him to recall the sawing of the surgeon’s blade. As if Weavingshaw itself was a knife, hacking at its occupants slowly. He felt its presence even now, breathing down his neck.

  A sudden noise disturbed the hush.

  Running footsteps, then Rami was wrenched back to see Martin hovering over him, his face quivering with rage.

  Rami swallowed, and he knew with utter clarity that the ruined Tar had been discovered. His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.

  He’d really thought that they would be out of Weavingshaw by the time the Tar was found. There was no reason Martin should return to the crypts to check on the drug so soon after his previous visit. Still, he cursed his own rash actions.

  Martin was standing so close that Rami could see the bone protruding from his nasal bridge, healed improperly from a past break. His voice was grating, his pale lips barely moving. “You. Did. It.”

  Rami kept his face neutral. “Did what?”

  A sudden blow struck the side of Rami’s head, quick and thunderous, causing his vision to erupt in black dots. A boxer’s punch, full of weight. Rami swayed slightly before regaining his posture, unsheathing his sword in one fluid motion.

  Martin held a pistol.

  Rami froze. He wondered briefly if his sister would hear the shot.

  “I won’t even grant you a burial, boy.” The light caught the metal of Martin’s weapon, glinting in the thin mist that encircled them.

  Rami sneered. “What does it matter? I’ve already ruined you.”

  A smog of aimlessness had enveloped Rami ever since his father had been taken away. The only emotion that pierced through that smog was anger. He leaned into it now. “What will you do, Mister Martin? Will you crawl back to the Saint of Silence and reveal another secret in the hopes that he will save you? Just so you can continue play-acting nobility? You’re nothing but dirt to them.”

  The pistol unlocked.

  “I’ll take you back to Golborne in chains,” Martin vowed. “To decay in Newtorn Prison.”

  Newtorn Prison.

  That place followed Rami in his waking hours and in sleep.

  Every migrant boy knew the contours of that place, felt its dreaded presence looming over them, like a voyeur watching their every move. To grow up always being the object of observation, every word accounted for, every move condemned. A part of Rami always knew he was a criminal before he’d even committed the crime.

  Martin’s smile was slow and nasty. “You were always going to end up there, boy.”

  Rami tightened his grip on the sword.

  “Really, Martin, you cannot perform an execution in the middle of a courtyard. Very bad manners.” A smooth voice cut through the tension, and they both whipped around to see St. Silas leaning against one of the parlor doors. He still wore last night’s clothes, now uncharacteristically disordered—the cravat lost and the collar loosened. He held his own pistol in a relaxed grip. “Think of the mess.”

  “This is not your fight,” Rami snapped.

  “To my dismay, it is,” St. Silas replied easily.

  Rami nearly groaned in frustration.

  “My patience has frayed with this boy, Mr. St. Silas,” Martin growled. “You have all entered my estate uninvited, through sheer force and blackmail.”

  Martin pointed toward Rami with the pistol. “Your ward has cost me an immense fortune—again. You cannot deny me the right to punish him as I see fit. Damn Newtorn Prison; I will hang him myself, here on the steps of Weavingshaw.”

  “You forget yourself, Martin. The boy is under my protection and therefore cannot be touched.”

  There was a loaded silence. Martin’s shoulders visibly tensed, his jaw jutting. “If your entire party is so inseparable, then you will all have to partake in this punishment. No one is leaving before I am recompensed.”

  Martin’s words sent Rami’s heart pounding wildly in his chest. Never once had he thought that the retribution would touch more than just him. Leena swam before his vision, face pinched with worry every time he left the house late at night and came back disordered and bruised. To think that she would be harmed because of his actions was a twisting knife.

  St. Silas pushed himself off the door and started to make his way down the stone steps. He casually stood beside Rami, pistol still very much in sight.

  “Do you know, Martin, a few days ago I had an inkling that it might come to this. Hence, I’ve taken the liberty of sending my man down to Golborne with a sealed envelope containing a detailed description of your very kind hospitality as well as certain other…facts about you.” St. Silas’s drawl never wavered, and Rami could not tell if he was lying or speaking the truth. “Should I not return as expected, these facts will be on the front page of every newspaper in Golborne.”

  Martin stood arrested, paleness marking his brow.

  The Saint continued, his smile deepening at the signs of the tradesman’s distress. “Well? What will it be, Martin?”

  “I will not let him go, Mr. St. Silas.” Martin’s voice swelled with the wealth of wrath he was trying to tamp down. “Of course, sir, you are free to go after the boy’s execution”—he hesitated at St. Silas’s raised brows—“to ensure that you will not rally any outside help for this criminal.”

  He was sealing them all in Weavingshaw. Suffocating them. Even though they were not all going to be put to death, they were all going to watch Rami die, and for Leena that would be another kind of death.

  Rami’s grip on his sword was so tight it was nearly bruising. He hated how right Leena had been down in the crypts, begging him to be cautious, to think.

  The smile on St. Silas’s lips was fixed, his eyes watchful.

  With desperation, Rami’s mind filtered through options for another escape. “A duel, then, Martin. At dawn, to allow you the chance to take revenge upon me.”

  Martin’s laughter echoed in the courtyard. “Do you take me for a fool? To accept a duel with Golborne’s finest swordsman?” His laughter dropped. “And deprive myself of the sheer pleasure of watching your neck snap in two? I think not, Mr. Al-Sayer.”

  Had Rami’s punishment lain in Newtorn Prison, there may have been a chance to escape, but to concede to Martin’s demand now would mean Rami would never step foot outside of Weavingshaw again. His sister’s face once more flashed through his mind, eyes alight with laughter. She might never smile again after this.

  More frantic than ever, his mind leaped to St. Silas, his eyes very briefly darting to the man standing in front of him. Was there anything the Saint of Silence could do to get them—him—out of this? Clearly the threat of revealing Martin’s secret guaranteed only St. Silas’s safety, but surely there must be something else?

  Arthur? No, damn it, he had gone ahead to Golborne. And St. Silas had brought no other staff with him save for Mrs. Van, trusting no one else in the search for the red diary.

  There really was no way, Rami thought, his chest airless. Bleakly, he replied, “I accept on one condition: that you let my sister leave with St. Silas unharmed.” When he saw Martin was going to interrupt, he raised a hand. “Yes. After my hanging.”

  “I have no ill will toward the rest of your party. Afterward, they may all leave. That includes you, sir.” He looked at St. Silas with a slight smile. “And as I will ensure this unfortunate business will be concluded quite quickly, you should reach Golborne in plenty of time to…er…reassure your man of your safety.”

  It played, Rami thought with disgust, perfectly into Martin’s hands. He would have executed Rami and safeguarded his secret in one fell swoop.

  “While I salute your…generosity in allowing the rest of us to leave unaccosted, there is”—St. Silas began indifferently, as if he were speaking about the weather, not the lives of the four of them—“another option. You may not accept a duel with Rami—sound reasoning—but perhaps dueling with me might be a better choice.”

  Martin’s entire body stilled, his gaze shifting from Rami’s flushed cheeks to St. Silas’s carefully neutral eyes. The astonishment that played across Martin’s face was slowly replaced by a speculative gleam.

  “To clarify, sir, it would be you who would fight, not the boy?”

  St. Silas bowed his head.

  “What would be the terms, then, Mr. St. Silas?”

  “If I win, we dismiss the matter of the ruined merchandise entirely—and myself, my servant, and my wards are free to leave your pleasant company unimpeded.”

  “And if you lose?” Martin prompted.

  “I would imagine that is self-explanatory. If I lose, I will die—and all your secrets die with me,” St. Silas responded smoothly.

  Martin didn’t lower his gun from Rami, but his entire posture seemed to vibrate. He released a staggered, disbelieving exhalation. “What will happen to the envelope you’ve given to your man if you are slain in this duel of honor? Your absence would mean he would go on to publish my secrets to the world and ruin me.”

  “My man, Arthur, takes orders from only three people in the world. Myself and my wards.” St. Silas shrugged. “Should I…unfortunately perish in our duel, then upon the safe arrival of both my wards in Golborne, they will instruct Arthur to cease all publications about you.”

  Rami’s head whipped toward St. Silas. What in damnation was he playing at? Arthur would never listen to either him or Leena, unless—it had to be—it was St. Silas’s way of ensuring that if he died, the Al-Sayers would still reach Golborne unharmed.

  It was obvious St. Silas did not care a fig about whether Rami lived or died, but it was clear to Rami that even St. Silas, shrouded in reclusiveness and reticence, was softening toward his sister. No, more than softening—yielding.

  Martin seemed to be considering this new proposition carefully. “Swords, then, at dawn.”

  St. Silas pocketed his pistol. “I feel sure, Martin, that I do not need to question your integrity with regards to tomorrow’s affair.”

  Mr. Martin huffed. “Are you casting doubt on whether I will participate in an honorable duel, Mr. St. Silas?”

  “Your outrage does you credit. My doubts are now laid to rest.”

  Rami looked at St. Silas carefully, yet neither doubt nor reassurance was shown on his closed face. Rami was suddenly gripped with panic. In all the fear of being hanged and the subsequent life-and-death exchanges, he had not thought, for a minute, that Martin might play dirty.

  But of course he would, lest Rami forget the wood cabin and Mackenzie Crane.

  Damnation.

  But St. Silas already suspected this, and was likely making plans based on those suspicions.

  Mr. Martin jerked his head in assent, but he did not look any happier. He then turned to Rami. “Throw your sword to the ground, Mr. Al-Sayer. You will be kept locked in your room as leverage, to ensure the duel takes place.”

  Rami had no choice but to walk forward toward the entrance to the parlor. As he passed St. Silas, he was subsequently patted on the shoulder in what seemed uncharacteristically like comfort. Then, just before St. Silas turned to go, he murmured low enough for only Rami to hear, “If you see Leena, do not inform her of the treachery Martin will likely attempt tomorrow. Otherwise, she will try to follow us in a misguided attempt to help.”

  Rami nodded tightly. That was exactly what Leena would do, should she suspect Rami’s life was in danger.

  As Martin led Rami away, he felt abruptly like a sheep being led to slaughter.

  Leena was about to encircle her bed with salt when a knock came at her door at a quarter past one in the morning. She’d stayed awake later than usual in the despairing hope that Lord Avon would come forth, but he remained bitterly elusive.

  She looked inquiringly at Theodore Daye, who had taken his usual position beside her bed.

  She opened her door to find St. Silas darkening the threshold.

  She hadn’t seen him save for briefly this morning, and a part of her had wondered if he’d been avoiding her since the cave.

  She moved to let him in, grateful that she was still dressed in her yellow cotton skirt and that her hair was not a complete mess, still in the pins that Mrs. Van had painstakingly woven through her curls before dinner.

  St. Silas had never visited her in her chamber; for him to be here must mean that there was something urgent to be said. His gaze dropped to the salt pouch in her hands, but he did not comment.

  There was a grimness in his eyes tonight. Wordlessly, he stepped inside and withdrew a palm-sized book from inside his coat.

  “The red diary,” Leena gasped. “How did you—?”

  “The Hall of the Lake. Avons can cross. Call your ghost,” St. Silas responded succinctly.

  Leena stared at him. She imagined St. Silas rowing across those dark waters, entirely unaffected by the coiling energy—so potent, so corrosive, enough to drive a man to drown himself. Leena herself had felt the demon’s powers, felt its attempt to force her into submission, and she knew she would have succumbed to it had she been on the lake.

  That St. Silas had survived simply because he was an Avon was nearly unfathomable—especially when she’d felt the demon’s craving for Avon blood.

  Although Rami was her brother and there was very little she kept from him, she had not told him what she’d discovered about St. Silas in the cave. But after the Tar incident, her faith in Rami’s ability to keep a calm head was shaken. She could not trust he would not accidentally or purposely release such knowledge.

  Before Leena could question him further, Theodore Daye had already stepped forward and motioned for Leena to place the book on the floor. The ghost knelt beside it, one hand grazing the scarlet leather exterior. He stayed in that position for a long time; Leena had never seen him so still. His movements were often jerky, his skin itching, as if on fire.

  “He’s here,” she whispered, not taking her eyes off Theodore.

  The temperature in the room dropped. Goosebumps trailed her spine. Thin sheets of ice crept across the windowpane.

  Finally, Theodore Daye stood up. He turned to the clock that hung on the wall, pointing toward the twelve o’clock position.

  “Will Lord Avon’s ghost appear tomorrow at noon?” Leena asked.

  Theodore Daye nodded.

  Of course, it would be either noon or midnight—those witching hours when the separation between the dead and the living was thinner, and ghosts seemed able to take a step into their world more easily.

  Leena’s eyes swerved to the clock again; it was now half past one in the morning. It could’ve been tonight. They had been so close.

  “Where will Lord Avon appear?”

  Theo pointed to this room.

  “Here? In this chamber?” Leena clarified.

  Another shaky nod.

  She explained all this to St. Silas, who nodded briefly but did not say more for a few moments.

  Leena sensed that the stillness around St. Silas was merely a prelude, as if he was trying to speak in a foreign language but didn’t know how.

  She stayed quiet, folding her hands in front of her, patiently waiting.

  “Is Theo still here?” St. Silas finally murmured, staring hard at the nothingness she’d been speaking to.

  “Beside me,” Leena responded softly.

  He nodded, his jaw ticcing.

  Another silent moment. “Will you tell him something for me?”

  She noted the color on his cheeks even as he was trying to control the look in his eyes. “You can speak to him yourself. He can hear you.”

  St. Silas jerked at this. It was as if he had never contemplated the idea that he didn’t need Leena for his voice to breach the boundaries of death. He nodded imperceptibly. “Theo, I wish I could’ve done something different. I am sorry.”

  Leena looked between the two of them: Theodore Daye, still a boy of perhaps fourteen, stunted by death, stood in jarring contrast to St. Silas, who was so vitally alive. Never had she seen the disparity between the living and the dead so starkly.

  Theodore Daye’s eyes widened, as if this apology had been a strike and not a balm to him. He pulled at his hair, his entire body shaking, and the temperature of the room dropped even further. Then, as if he could bear it no longer, he disappeared.

  “Theo forgives you.” Leena had no regrets in uttering this falsehood, not allowing herself to assess why she needed St. Silas to believe this.

  “You have a terribly honest face, Miss Al-Sayer.” The words St. Silas had first used to describe her still echoed today.

  Leena desperately wanted to ask St. Silas who Theodore Daye was to him and why he was apologizing to the young ghost. But Leena knew that there were secrets better left untold, buried deep within the chest like a second heart.

  In the silence that ensued, St. Silas picked up the red diary, slipping it into his coat pocket again, before he turned toward the window, the snow obscuring the glass and the light of the moon.

  “You need to prepare your bags tonight. Immediately after Theo summons Percival, we will be leaving.” He continued to stare out of the window as he said this. “However, should we meet any…complications beforehand, do not wait for Percival. Leave as soon as you can.”