AI The knock came in three sharp raps, quick and certain—not Eva’s familiar double-tap, not the heavy-handed thudding from the postman or takeaway guy. Aurora set her chipped mug down on a mound of Eva’s cryptic notes and books, glancing at Ptolemy, the cat snoozing with all four paws in the air on the windowsill. Light afternoon drizzle tapped against the single-pane glass. The world outside carried the muted grey tension of Brick Lane on a Thursday: spice and rain, buses churning gutter-water, distant traffic humming in the steel bones of the city.
She walked to the door, barefoot and cautious. Three deadbolts slid free one by one. She braced with her left hand—the old scar on her wrist tingling for no reason at all—and pulled it open.
Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe as if he had all the time in the world for rain. The air behind him shimmered with city damp, setting his platinum blond hair almost silver. His charcoal suit sat perfectly on his frame, not a fleck of street grit on his shoes. Cane in one gloved hand, subtle perfume of vetiver and smoke trailing him.
“Bonsoir, Rory.” His mouth curled, just on the left. “I trust Eva isn’t burning sage for hexes again, or at least not within blast radius.”
She caught herself before she could smooth her hair or reach for the old welcome in her bones. Her reflection flickered in his gaze—a stranger for a heartbeat. She let the silence settle, not moving aside.
“Didn’t realise I was back on your delivery route,” she said.
His eyes travelled over her, amber and black weighing, observing. “That means you haven’t checked your phone.” He pulled a letter from his suit’s inside pocket, cream envelope, very old, her full name in ink. “Came by courier. Urgent. No coffee stops, no detours to Shepherd’s Bush.”
A beat. She pressed her hand flat against the door’s edge, barring his entrance by inches. “You, delivering other people’s letters? Could have had your people run it to Yu-Fei. Or left it with Eva. Or—“ her voice snagged on brittle memory—“sent an owl for all I care.”
His expression flickered , mouth tightening, but not giving. “Eva’s shields are up. Her place is locked down to everyone but you and, evidently, her cat. I tried.” He tapped the cane in a soft rhythm on the threshold. “Let me in, mon étoile.”
She folded her arms. “If that’s another one of your pet names–”
He lifted both hands. “Not tonight. You look tired.”
She swallowed it down. She knew the tiredness: deadlines, half-dreamed fears, arguments still replaying years after their sting faded, if they had at all. “It’s Thursday. Everyone in London looks tired.”
His lip twitched. “Some leave the front door unlocked for old friends. You, always with the deadbolts.”
“Some friends knock. Some disappear for a year without warning.”
Ptolemy, restless from the draught, padded over and wound himself around Lucien’s ankles, purring with the reckless sort of trust that cats dole out to the most aloof intruders. Lucien stooped, absently tracing a finger along the cat’s stripy back. “I could stand here all afternoon. I’m patient. But the letter’s not. Nor is the weather.”
Aurora drew a breath, slow and steady. “Fine. You get as far as Eva’s old armchair. Take your shoes off. That’s not a request.”
He grinned, slipping his shoes off neatly beside the umbrella stand without another word. When he stepped in, the room condensed around him, full of old shadows, mothball scents, and piled books. His presence always bent space, made it sharper, more aware, like hearing a violin string just before it snaps.
She closed the door. “You want tea?”
Lucien glanced at the rust-stained kettle, eyebrow arched. “You make it, I’ll drink it. On one condition.”
She rolled her eyes, already filling the kettle. “You always have conditions.”
He perched on the edge of the armchair, cane resting across his lap, gaze fixed on her as she moved around the cramped kitchen. “We talk. Not around things. Not in riddles, and not about work. Just—talk.”
Aurora measured out loose leaves, her hands steady despite the way her chest squeezed at his tone. “You came here with a letter, Lucien. Talk implies honesty. That’s not exactly your strong suit.”
He waited through the kettle hissing and whistling and the scrabble of teabags in a tin. He waited while she avoided his eyes, tracking the motions by instinct: mugs clinked, spoons clattered, Ptolemy leaped into his lap and kneeded jacket fabric that probably cost more than the month’s rent.
She handed him a mug. He let his gloved fingers brush hers, but didn’t push more than that spark. “Merci.”
She sat across, knees grazing his, mug cradled between her palms.
“I tried calling,” Lucien said, smile gone. “Eva answers with a code word and hangs up. You block my messages. I start thinking maybe you quit the whole world, not just me.”
She hunched her shoulders, mug raised to shadow her face. “I moved on. Didn’t think you’d come looking.”
Silence. London’s noises filtered in: curry house kitchen radio, clack of train over steel, someone’s argument filtering through piping. Lucien broke it first.
“That’s not why I’m here, Aurora. The letter—” He proffered it. A smudge on the wax seal, less official than ceremonial. “You’re being summoned.”
She hesitated only a heartbeat, then took it. The envelope had weight , not in paper but in something heavier: obligation, old debts, the press of his gaze as she cracked the seal and read.
She looked up. “Traditionalists again.”
He nodded, rolling the cane between his hands. His amber eye glinted. “Obsessed with making you answer for things your father did.”
“You don’t care about that. You never did.”
His jaw set, like it always did when she struck too close. “They’ll use someone you care for to get to you. I didn’t want to show up. But I had to.”
He looked at her like she might vanish if he turned away. “You know why I left last year?”
Aurora stared at the table. “No. But I know why you didn’t say goodbye.”
Lucien rested the cane across both knees, gaze steady. “If I’d tried, I wouldn’t have left. Not for anything.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture brief, revealing. “Half of me—hell, more than half—was convinced you were better off with this door locked.”
She shook her head, slow. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His eyes snapped to hers. “I do when you’d burn yourself out for someone else’s mistakes. When you won’t say no. Your father, Eva, even me—”
The rain hammered harder, eaves overflowing, the downstairs curry house rattling pans. Aurora’s hands tightened around her mug. “So you left. That’s supposed to protect me?”
Lucien smiled, bitter-sweet, eyes cold black now. “Call it a coward’s logic. Leaving looked easy until I tried living with it.”
She set the mug down. The space between them bristled, all the words they had never said, all the touches they’d withheld. “So why come back?”
He leaned forward, voice low, urgent. “Because your world isn’t safe for you right now. Because I have resources, and secrets, and debts, and none of them matter as much as you. Because I never stopped—” He stopped, breath catching . No tongues, no vows, just the unfinished shape of a discarded promise.
Aurora shook her head, a shaky, half-real laugh escaping. “You always did pick the worst times for dramatics, Lucien.”
Ptolemy, unnoticed, leapt from Lucien’s lap and curled against Aurora’s thigh, purring, as if to settle the matter himself. Lucien’s hand hovered at her knee, not quite daring .
Quiet gathered. Tea cooled. He watched her, uncertainty prickling beneath the usual unshakable veneer. Her fingers found his, tentative.
“How many more ways do you plan to leave me, Lucien?”
His voice came rough, all French roughness and regret, as soft as bruised knuckles. “None. If that’s what you want.”
He stroked her knuckles. She let her head drop, just enough. Brown-black hair fell into her eyes, and she didn’t brush it away.
Through the walls, London’s hum went on. The letter sat, forgotten, between them. The things left unsaid crowded the room, making silence a third presence, not enemy but messenger .
Aurora’s thumb traced the line of his glove, the scar beneath invisible but real. She looked at him until the city outside faded, book stacks forgotten, and spoke perfectly , clearly.
“Stay for tea.”
Lucien only nodded, his lips parting in something less certain than a promise—just consent. Just this.
Rain battered East London, muffling the rest of the world with soft, insistent certainty.