Run: 2026-09-23-01M36NX9JCGBVQ52EJ24V4FA42

The door opened six inches, caught by the chain, and Aurora found Lucien Moreau on the landing. For a moment neither of them moved. He stood beneath the stairwell bulb in a charcoal suit that looked untouched by the drizzle outside. His platinum hair had been combed back from his forehead. Water beaded on the shoulders of his coat. One gloved hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane; the other held a paper bag with the Golden Empress logo printed across it. Aurora’s fingers tightened around the door. “No.” “Good evening to you as well.” “What are you doing here?” “Standing in a draught, it seems.” “You know where the stairs are.” “I also know you have three deadbolts.” His gaze moved to the chain. “You’ve only used one.” “Give me a reason to use the other two.” His amber eye caught the light. The black one seemed to swallow it. “I brought food.” “I can see that.” “You haven’t eaten.” “I don’t remember asking you to keep track.” “You didn’t.” That answer sat between them, harder to dismiss than an excuse. Aurora studied the narrow slice of his face visible through the gap. She’d spent months practising the sight of him in her mind until it no longer unsettled her. The real thing had ruined the work in seconds. Behind her, Ptolemy jumped from the arm of the sofa and padded into the hall. The tabby pressed his head against Aurora’s ankle, then peered through the gap. “Even the cat is pleased to see me,” Lucien said. “Ptolemy likes paper bags.” “He has excellent taste.” “He has a weakness for fish.” “Then we have something in common.” Aurora let the door swing shut. Lucien didn’t move. His shoes remained on the landing, his shoulders square beneath the coat. She heard no protest, no knock. That was worse. She set her forehead against the wood and counted to four, the way she did when a customer shouted at her over a late delivery. Then she slid the chain free and opened the door again. “You have five minutes.” “I’ll try to be concise.” “Don’t.” He stepped inside. She shut the door and turned all three deadbolts. The metal clicks filled the cramped hall. Lucien watched her hands. His gaze paused at the small crescent scar on her left wrist, then lifted before she could cover it. The flat looked as if a bookshop had collided with a paper mill. Scrolls crowded the windowsill. Research notes covered the kitchen table beneath a chipped mug and a stack of unopened post. Ptolemy threaded between Lucien’s legs, inspected his trousers, then sat beside the food bag. “You’ve moved the table,” Lucien said. “I’ve moved a lot of things.” “Have you?” “Not enough.” He offered her the bag. She didn’t take it. “Set it down.” He obeyed, placing it on the table with care. The smell of ginger and fried garlic escaped through the folded top. Her stomach tightened, betraying her at once. Lucien heard it. His mouth shifted, not quite a smile. “Don’t.” “I said nothing.” “You made a face.” “My face has been accused of worse.” “Your face has earned worse.” He lowered his eyes to the bag. “I brought the dumplings you used to steal from the kitchen.” “I never stole them.” “You took six from a tray marked for the staff.” “I was staff.” “You were delivering orders.” “I was delivering hunger.” A brief warmth crossed his features. It vanished as soon as it arrived. Aurora remained by the door. “Why are you here?” Lucien unbuttoned his coat. “I need your help.” “No.” “I haven’t told you what with.” “You could be asking me to hide a body. The answer would still be no.” “I’d choose someone with a larger freezer.” “Then we’ve both saved time.” He rested one hand on the cane. The ivory handle bore a faint scratch near the curve. Aurora remembered where it came from: the edge of a table, the night he’d laughed so hard he’d leaned back too far. She remembered his laugh more clearly than she wanted to. “What happened?” she asked. He looked up. “A ledger disappeared.” “Call the police.” “It contains names that would make the police less useful than usual.” “Supernatural names?” “And a few human ones.” “Why bring it to me?” “Because you can read the code.” “I can read a code. That doesn’t mean I’ll help you.” “I know.” The quiet certainty in his voice snagged at her. Lucien didn’t plead. He made offers, set terms, and let other people mistake the silence for kindness. She’d once admired that discipline. Then she’d learned what it concealed. “Who took it?” “I don’t know.” “Then you don’t have a lead.” “I have a time and a place.” “Which is?” “Tonight. A warehouse near the canal.” Aurora gave a short laugh. “And you came all the way here because you thought I’d drop everything and go with you?” “I came because the code was yours.” “It was my code because I wrote it.” “Yes.” “You didn’t have permission to keep it.” “No.” “You copied my notes.” “I did.” “You told me you’d destroyed them.” “I lied.” She stared at him. The damp had darkened the cuff of his coat. He looked tired beneath the polish, a fine tension drawn from his jaw to the hinge of his neck. “You always did know how to make an apology sound like a confession.” “I’m not apologising for the ledger.” “Of course not.” “I’m apologising for the notes.” The words landed without ornament. No explanation followed. Aurora hated how much of her wanted one. She crossed to the table and opened the paper bag. A carton of dumplings sat on top of a tub of rice. Beneath them, a second bag held a slice of lemon cake from the bakery around the corner. “You remembered,” she said. “I remember most things about you.” “That was never the problem.” His hand tightened on the cane. “No.” Ptolemy reached up and hooked a claw into the bag. Aurora moved it out of his reach. “Sit down,” she said. Lucien glanced at her. “Is that part of the five minutes?” “It’s a practical instruction. You’re dripping on my floor.” He took the chair nearest the door. His cane rested against the table, within easy reach. Aurora found two plates in the sink and rinsed them, though one had only a tea ring. She needed the tap running. The water filled the narrow kitchen with a steady hiss, giving her something to listen to besides his breathing. When she turned, he had taken off his gloves. A thin red line crossed the base of his thumb. “What happened to your hand?” “Nothing.” “Lucien.” “A cut.” “From what?” “Something sharp.” “That’s a startlingly complete answer.” He slid his bare hand beneath the table. She placed the plates down. “I’m not asking because I care.” “I know.” “Stop agreeing with me.” “I’ll make a note of it.” “Don’t you dare.” He leaned back. “You have a small scar on your wrist. I have a cut on my hand. Neither deserves a hearing.” “That’s not the same.” “No. Yours came from a window when you were twelve.” The plate stopped in her hand. “You remember that?” “You broke into your parents’ conservatory to retrieve a book. The window did most of the work.” “I told you that once.” “You told me everything once.” The flat seemed to narrow around them. Aurora set the plate on the table and stood with both palms against its edge. “You don’t get to talk as if I handed you the whole of me and you simply misplaced it.” His face lost the last trace of warmth. “I know.” “Do you?” “I thought I could keep you out of it.” “You kept me out by making the choice for me.” “I thought it would keep you safe.” “You thought you knew better.” “Yes.” The answer had no defence in it. She would have preferred a defence. She could have knocked one down. Aurora pulled out the opposite chair and sat. “You could have told me.” “I should have.” “You could have trusted me.” “I should have.” “You could have come back.” His eyes held hers. “I wanted to.” “That isn’t what I asked.” “No.” He looked at the table, at the maps and scraps of handwriting crowding its surface. “I didn’t come back because I was ashamed.” She swallowed. “You were better at shame than I was.” “I had practice.” “You had practice at leaving.” The words cut deeper than she meant them to. Lucien didn’t flinch, but his fingers closed around the cane’s handle. “I deserved that.” “Don’t make it easy.” “I’m not.” “Then tell me what you want from me. The actual answer.” He drew a breath through his nose. “I want your help with the ledger. I want you to come because I don’t trust anyone else to read the code, and because there’s a chance the person who took it knows your name.” “And after that?” “After that, you decide whether you ever want to see me again.” “You came here expecting me to say yes.” “I came here expecting you to say no.” “Then why bring dinner?” “Because you would be angry, and you forget to eat when you’re angry.” “I don’t forget.” “You once spent twelve hours translating a receipt because you’d decided it was evidence of a demonic import route.” “It was.” “It was a receipt for a kettle.” “It was a very suspicious kettle.” A breath escaped her, almost a laugh. She caught it and set her jaw. Lucien’s gaze softened. “There you are.” “Don’t.” “I know.” The pause between them felt crowded with old rooms: his office, the dim booth at the bar, the doorstep outside her last flat when he’d stood close enough for her to feel his coat brush hers and said the one thing she hadn’t known how to forgive. Aurora reached for a dumpling. “What time?” “Now.” “Of course.” “The warehouse won’t stay empty.” “You could have led with that.” “I wanted to be invited in.” “You were not invited in.” “No,” he said. “But you let me stay.” “Only because it’s raining.” “I appreciate the distinction.” She pointed the dumpling at him. “We go in, we find the ledger, and you tell me everything you know. No omissions. No clever edits.” “Agreed.” “If you lie to me again, I leave.” “Agreed.” “If you get between me and a threat—” “I know.” “Finish that sentence and I leave now.” His mouth closed. Aurora set the dumpling down and reached for her coat, hanging over a stack of scrolls near the window. Lucien rose to help, then stopped when she turned. She shrugged into the coat herself and pulled the collar straight. “Five minutes are up,” she said. “I know.” She opened the door and lifted the chain. Lucien reached for his gloves, then paused with one half on. “Rory.” Her hand stayed on the lock. “Don’t call me that.” “Understood.” She turned the key. “Bring the cane.” “I wasn’t planning to leave it.” “Then we’re both prepared.” He took the food bag from the table and tucked it beneath his arm. Aurora pulled the door open. The damp air from the stairwell slipped into the flat, carrying the curry house’s spice and the rain’s cold metal smell. Lucien stepped past her without touching her shoulder. She followed him onto the landing and locked the three deadbolts behind them.