Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NKE19B1V6JQSSSXEY74TB

The door opened the width of a chain. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, his platinum hair damp from the rain and his charcoal coat darkened at the shoulders. One hand rested on the ivory knob of his cane. The other held a brown paper parcel against his chest. Aurora kept the chain on. “No.” His amber eye flicked to the brass links, then to her face. The black one caught the landing light without reflecting it. “Good evening to you, too.” “It isn’t a good evening. You’re at Eva’s flat, and you weren’t invited.” “I noticed the three deadbolts.” “Then you’ve had time to consider your next move.” Behind her, Ptolemy wound round her ankles, tail raised. The flat smelled of curry from downstairs and old paper from every surface. A stack of books leaned against the hall wall at a precarious angle. Rory had spent the afternoon sorting Eva’s research notes; she had not expected to spend the evening stopping a man she’d once kissed from crossing the threshold. Lucien lifted the parcel. “I brought the ledger you asked for.” “I didn’t ask you for anything.” “Eva did.” “Eva’s out.” “Then I brought it for you.” Rory’s fingers tightened round the edge of the door. The small crescent scar on her wrist caught against the latch. “What’s in the parcel?” “The ledger.” “Try again.” His mouth tilted, but the smile failed before it reached either eye. “A ledger, a key, and a rather poor apology.” “Keep the apology. Put the parcel down.” “On the landing?” “On the stairs.” A beat passed. Rain tapped the narrow window at the end of the corridor. “You could let me in,” Lucien said. “I could also let Ptolemy bite you. Neither choice appeals to me.” The cat pressed against Rory’s shin as if he’d been mentioned by name. Lucien bent and set the parcel on the top stair. His cane clicked once against the floor when he straightened. “There.” “Now leave.” “I can’t.” “That sounds like a personal problem.” “It is. It has become yours as well.” Rory’s gaze dropped to his left hand. A dark line of blood had soaked through the cuff of his glove. “What happened?” “Nothing that concerns you.” “Then you won’t mind bleeding on the stairs.” She started to close the door. Lucien’s cane slid into the gap. He didn’t force it; he only rested the ivory handle against the frame, stopping the door with a quiet tap. “Don’t,” Rory said. He withdrew the cane at once. For a moment, neither moved. He had always known how to fill a silence without speaking, how to make it feel like a room he’d already entered. She hated that she remembered the trick. “Someone followed me,” he said. “They’re downstairs.” Rory glanced past him into the stairwell. The curry house’s kitchen door opened onto the street, but the shared stairs rose through the building’s narrow centre. She heard voices below: the clatter of a pan, a burst of laughter, then the front entrance shutting. “Who?” “I don’t know.” “You’re an information broker.” “I know plenty of people who would enjoy making me less informed.” “Why bring them here?” “I didn’t know they’d followed me until I reached the street.” “You could’ve gone anywhere.” “I came here.” “That isn’t an answer.” “No.” His jaw worked once. “It isn’t.” Rory looked at the blood again. The stain had spread to the heel of his hand. Whatever had cut him had gone deep enough to make his fingers stiff. “You’re not coming in,” she said. “I understand.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “Then take your parcel and go.” A shadow shifted on the stairs below them. Lucien’s expression changed. Not much: a small tightening around his mouth, his shoulders settling under the wet coat. Rory recognised it from the last time they’d stood together in a crowded room, when a man across the bar had reached inside his jacket and Lucien had decided, in half a second, where everyone would fall. He stepped away from the door. “Stay inside,” he said. Rory’s hand closed on the chain. “Don’t give me orders.” A man came into view at the bend of the stairs. He wore a flat cap and a grey scarf pulled up over his mouth. One hand rested on the rail. The other held a narrow blade, its edge stained with something dark. Lucien turned his cane in his grip. “Rory,” he said, without looking back, “close the door.” She shut it, slid the chain free, and opened it again. Lucien stared at her. “You’re remarkably bad at following instructions.” “I’m remarkably good at noticing when a man with a knife has walked into my building.” The stranger took another step. “Moreau,” he called. “The book.” Lucien lifted the cane. “You’ll need to be more specific.” The man’s eyes moved to Rory. “You brought company.” “She lives here,” Lucien said. “No, she doesn’t,” Rory said. Lucien’s gaze caught hers for an instant. Something in it softened, then vanished. The stranger lunged. Lucien met him on the stairs. His cane cracked against the man’s wrist. The knife clattered down two steps and struck the wall. The man swung with his free hand, caught Lucien across the cheek, and drove him against the rail. Rory grabbed the parcel and hurled it down the stairs. It struck the attacker in the temple. He stumbled, one hand flying to his head. Lucien used the opening, hooked the man’s ankle with the cane, and pulled. The stranger hit the steps hard enough to knock the air from him. “Go,” Lucien said. The man scrambled up, snatched at the knife, then retreated down the stairs. Rory heard the building’s front door slam. Lucien stood with one hand on the rail. Blood ran from the cut at his cheek and dripped onto his collar. “You said the parcel was on the stair,” Rory said. “It still is.” “It’s three flights down.” “I was being optimistic.” She caught his sleeve before he could take a step. His coat felt cold and wet beneath her fingers. He looked at her hand, then at the pale crescent scar at her wrist. “Come inside,” she said. “Before you fall down the stairs and make me feel responsible.” He crossed the threshold without answering. Rory shut the door and slid the first deadbolt into place. “Take off your coat.” “Always straight to the point.” “Do you want me to sew your face shut?” “I’d rather you didn’t.” “Then take it off.” He hung the coat on a peg that already held Eva’s rain jacket and a tote bag stuffed with books. His charcoal suit beneath it was immaculate apart from the blood on his shirt collar and the tear at his cuff. Rory set the parcel on the hall table. Ptolemy sniffed it, sneezed, and sat on Lucien’s polished shoe. “You’ve made a friend,” she said. “I’ve been hoping for this.” “You’re lying.” “I’m bleeding on Eva’s floor. I have little left to lose.” She pointed to the kitchen chair. “Sit.” Lucien lowered himself, setting the cane against his knee. Rory took a first-aid tin from the narrow cupboard beside the cooker. A notebook slid off the pile as she reached for it. She caught it against her hip, then put it aside. “You kept all her papers,” he said. “She asked me to sort them.” “Eva has always trusted you with the work she wouldn’t let anyone else touch.” “Unlike you.” His gaze dropped to the chair’s chipped wooden edge. “Yes.” Rory opened the tin and took out gauze, antiseptic, and a roll of tape. “What cut you?” “Someone caught me with a ring.” “Someone hit you with a knife.” “The blade missed.” “You make a habit of being vague when you’re hurt.” “I make a habit of being vague.” She put antiseptic on the gauze. “Look at me.” Lucien obeyed. She pressed the gauze to his cheek. He flinched, almost too small to see. “Hold still.” “Your bedside manner hasn’t improved.” “I never had one.” “You used to have a gentler touch.” Her hand paused against his face. “That was before you disappeared.” “I didn’t disappear.” “You left a key on my table and went to Marseille without a word.” “I left you a letter.” “A note. Three sentences. One of them was ‘I’m sorry.’” “I wrote more.” “Not to me.” His amber eye held on hers. The black one seemed fixed on the gauze between them. “No,” he said. “Not to you.” She set the bloodied gauze aside and took a clean piece. “Why not?” “Because I thought explaining would make it worse.” “You decided that for both of us.” “Yes.” “And you came back thinking you could leave a parcel at my door and call it an apology.” “No.” His voice had lost its polished edge. “I came back because I’ve been looking for you for months.” “Funny. You found time to look for me after the people with knives did.” “I found time before that.” “But you didn’t use it.” “No.” Rory secured the gauze over the cut with a strip of tape. Her fingers lingered near his temple, where a fine rainwater curl had escaped the slick line of his hair. “Why did you go?” she asked. Lucien’s hand closed round the ivory cane. “My father sent word from Avaros. He’d found out about you.” Rory stepped back. “What does that mean?” “It meant he knew your name. Your work. Where you slept.” Lucien watched her face as each detail landed. “He’d been asking questions about the people close to me.” “And you decided leaving would protect me.” “I decided I didn’t know how to protect you without drawing him closer.” “So you chose the option that hurt me.” “I did.” “You could have told me.” “I should have.” “You could have asked what I wanted.” “I should have done that too.” The kitchen seemed smaller with him in it. Rory turned to the sink and washed the blood from her fingers. In the dark window, she caught his reflection: straight-backed despite the wound, one hand resting on the cane as though the furniture might shift under him. “You always had an answer for everything,” she said. “I had a good answer for most things.” “And none for that.” “No.” She dried her hands on a towel. “What changed?” “I found the men who followed you to Cardiff.” Her body went still. Lucien rose from the chair. “They weren’t working for my father. They were looking for something else.” “Something you have?” “The ledger.” He nodded toward the parcel. “It records payments made through a London broker. Your name appears in it.” “Why?” “I don’t know yet.” “You’ve had months.” “I’ve had fragments. This is the first time I’ve had the ledger itself.” Rory picked up the parcel and untied the string. Inside lay a thick book wrapped in oilcloth, a small brass key, and a folded note. She opened the ledger to the first marked page. Names and dates covered the paper in tight columns. Near the bottom, beside a figure written in red ink, stood A. Carter. Her throat tightened. Lucien came to stand beside her, leaving a careful space between them. “That’s why I brought it.” “Who wrote the name?” “I don’t know.” “You’re supposed to be good at knowing.” “I’m good at finding people who know.” “Then find one.” “I will.” Rory shut the book. “You don’t get to make promises on my behalf.” “I’m not asking you to trust me.” “Good.” “I’m asking you to let me stay until the man downstairs stops looking for the ledger.” She glanced at his bleeding cuff, the damp coat, the cane. “How long?” “An hour.” “You’ll leave in an hour.” “If that’s what you want.” “And if I don’t?” His gaze stayed on her face. “Then I’ll stay.” The answer landed without ornament. Rory hated the small pull it made under her ribs. She placed the ledger on the table. “There’s a sofa.” “I can take the chair.” “The sofa’s closer to the door.” “You’ve thought this through.” “I live above a curry house on Brick Lane. People come and go.” He touched the tape on his cheek. “And what do you want, Rory?” She folded the bloodied cloth into the first-aid tin. “I want you to stop acting as if wanting something gives you the right to take it.” “I know.” “Do you?” “Yes.” “Then start by telling me the whole truth about that ledger.” Lucien looked down at the book. “I’ll tell you what I know.” “No omissions.” “No omissions.” “And no leaving in the middle of the night with a note.” “I can’t promise I’ll never have to leave.” “That’s not what I asked.” He held her gaze. “I won’t leave without telling you.” Rory pulled out the chair across from him and sat. “Then sit down. We’re starting with the name in red.” Lucien set his cane within reach and took the opposite chair. Between them, the ledger lay open to the page where her name appeared.