AI The door opened on Lucien Moreau.
For one foolish second, Rory forgot how to breathe.
He stood beneath the flickering hall light in his charcoal suit, platinum hair slicked back as immaculate as ever, one hand curled around the ivory handle of his cane. His amber eye caught the light. The other, black as a pinhole in a dark room, stayed fixed on her face.
Ptolemy wound between Rory’s ankles and yowled.
“Not now,” Rory murmured, though she couldn’t have said whether she meant the cat or Lucien.
“Rory.”
She tightened her grip on the edge of the door. “You’ve got the wrong flat.”
“I don’t.”
“You’ve got the wrong night, then.”
“That may be true.”
It had been three months since she’d last seen him. Three months since he’d kissed her beneath the iron stairs behind the Golden Empress, one hand at her jaw, the other trembling against her waist. Three months since he’d told her to run, then vanished before she could demand an explanation.
The three deadbolts on Eva’s door stood between them, though she’d only thrown back two. She could still close it.
Lucien glanced at the narrow gap. “I need to speak with you.”
“Try writing a letter.”
“I did.”
“You didn’t send it.”
“No.” His expression barely shifted . “I didn’t.”
The apology might have worked better if he looked sorry. Rory had learned that his composure was not indifference, but it could imitate it perfectly .
She started to close the door.
He set the tip of his cane against the threshold. Not enough to stop her if she meant it. Just enough to make the choice plain.
“Move that.”
“Someone is watching the building.”
Her fingers went cold on the door. “That’s a very convenient reason to let yourself in.”
“I’m not asking you to trust me.” He lowered his voice . “I’m asking you to look out the window before you decide.”
Rory studied his face, searching for the familiar signs of a lie: the slight pause before a polished answer, the shift of his gaze, the almost imperceptible tilt of his head. She found only weariness, and something held tight beneath it.
Ptolemy yowled again, impatient with the blocked entrance.
“Fine,” she said. “But the cane stays by the door.”
Lucien stepped inside. “Of course.”
“And you don’t touch anything.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He had the nerve to sound sincere. Rory shut the door and slid the second deadbolt home. The first was already locked, the third still waiting. She could feel him behind her, a careful presence in the cramped hall.
Eva’s flat smelled of curry, old paper, and the damp wool of Rory’s coat. Books, scrolls, and research notes occupied every surface, including the narrow table where Ptolemy liked to sleep. The cat regarded Lucien with round, suspicious eyes, then rubbed his cheek against the man’s trouser leg.
“Traitor,” Rory said.
Lucien inclined his head to the cat. “He has excellent taste.”
“He has a weakness for expensive fabric.”
“Then we have something in common.”
She didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering. “The window.”
They crossed the cluttered living room. Rory pushed aside a stack of notes and lifted the curtain a fraction. Below, Brick Lane shone wet under the streetlamps. A man in a grey scarf stood beneath the awning of the curry house, looking at his phone.
Rory let the curtain fall. “Could be anyone.”
“He has been there for twenty minutes.”
“Did you time him?”
“I noticed him when I arrived.”
“And you thought the best way to handle it was to turn up at a woman’s flat unannounced?”
“I thought the best way to handle it was to warn you.”
“Now I’m warned.” She stepped away from the window. “You can go.”
“If I leave through the front, he’ll know I came here.”
“He might already know.”
“Yes.”
“Then why bring him to Eva’s door?”
“Because he was watching yours.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Rory had been avoiding her own flat above Silas’s bar for two nights, sleeping here while Eva was away and Ptolemy pretended not to miss her. She hadn’t told Lucien. She hadn’t told anyone except Eva.
“You’ve been watching my building?”
“No.” His eyes held hers . “I was watching the man watching it.”
“That’s not better.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t.”
His admission stole the sharpest part of her anger, and she hated him for that, too.
She folded her arms. Her left wrist slid into view, the small crescent scar pale against her skin. His gaze touched it for an instant, then returned to her face.
“Who is he?”
“An associate of Armand Vautrin’s.”
“I don’t know who that is.”
“You met him once.”
“I meet hundreds of people delivering food.”
“You delivered to a private room at the Savoy last month. Vautrin was there.”
Rory’s memory supplied a gold signet ring, a greasy paper bag, Lucien’s voice in the corridor telling her not to go upstairs. “You said it was a mistake.”
“It was.”
“You say that a lot.”
He accepted the blow without flinching. “Vautrin believes you have something that belongs to him.”
“I don’t.”
“He believes you helped me take it.”
“What did you take?”
Lucien looked toward the window, though the curtain remained shut. “A ledger.”
“You stole a book?”
“I did.”
“And somehow I’m involved.”
“You saw the names in it.”
“I saw a page. You asked me what it said, and I told you. That’s all.”
“That was enough.”
Rory stared at him. “You knew he might come after me.”
“I suspected.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I thought—”
“Don’t.” Her voice cut across his. “Don’t tell me what you thought. You told me to run. You kissed me, told me to run, and then disappeared.”
His face went still.
“You left me standing in an alley with no idea whether you were dead, whether I’d been used, or whether you’d ever meant a word you said.” The hurt was old enough to have hardened, but not old enough to stop hurting. “I had plenty of time to decide you meant none of them.”
“Rory, I meant every word.”
“That’s worse.”
A beat passed. Somewhere beneath them, a door banged; voices rose from the curry house and faded again. Ptolemy leapt onto the table, scattering a drift of notes across the floor.
Lucien bent automatically to gather them.
“I said don’t touch anything.”
He stopped, one paper held between two fingers. “Then tell me what you need.”
The question was so simple that she couldn’t answer at once.
Rory crossed to the table and took the paper from him. Their fingers brushed. A small, treacherous spark ran up her arm, and she snatched her hand back as if the paper had burned her.
“I need you to explain why I should believe you now.”
“I can’t make you believe me.”
“Good start.”
“I left because Vautrin had learned your name. He knew you were close to me. I thought that if I vanished, he’d lose interest.”
“You thought I’d be safer not knowing anything?”
“I thought you’d be safer away from me.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me.”
“No.” His voice roughened, just slightly . “I know that now.”
She laughed once, without humor. “Three months, and you’ve learned that?”
“Three months is a long time to be wrong.”
“Not long enough to send a letter.”
He looked down at his cane. “I wrote many.”
“But sent none.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because every version made me sound like a man who wanted forgiveness more than he wanted you safe.”
She had no answer prepared for that. She wished she did.
A shadow moved behind the curtain. Rory turned toward the window.
Lucien was beside her before she could reach it. “Don’t.”
“I’m not an idiot.”
“I know.”
“Then stop ordering me around.”
His jaw tightened. “I’m trying not to.”
“Try harder.”
He stepped back. The space between them was barely a foot, but she could feel the heat of him, the scent of clean wool and something faintly smoky. It called up too much: his hand at her waist, his mouth against hers, the way he’d looked at her as if she were the only thing in the room he couldn’t afford to lose.
She hated that she still wanted to reach for him.
Below, the man in the grey scarf had left the awning. Through the crack in the curtain, Rory caught a glimpse of him crossing the street toward the building entrance.
“Is there another way out?” Lucien asked.
“Back stairs. They come out in the alley.”
“Then we don’t use them.”
“We?”
“Unless you prefer I walk out the front and draw him away.”
“You’ve already done enough disappearing.”
His expression shifted, the mask thinning. “I’m not leaving you alone with him.”
“You don’t get to be noble now.”
“I’m not trying to be noble.” He lowered his voice . “I’m trying to stay.”
The words settled in the room between them. Rory looked at him, at the careful stillness of his mouth, the hand gripping his cane too tightly . He had always been good at making danger sound manageable. Want, apparently, was harder.
A knock sounded from the front door.
Ptolemy bolted beneath the table. Rory’s heart leapt once, hard and fast. She drew a breath and crossed to the hall. Lucien followed, stopping short of her shoulder.
She lifted a finger to her lips. He nodded.
Another knock. Three firm taps.
Rory slid the last deadbolt into place. “Who is it?”
“Building management,” called a man from the other side.
She looked at Lucien. His face had gone cold.
“Eva’s the only tenant in this flat,” Rory said loudly. “And she’s not here.”
“Then perhaps you can tell us where Mr. Moreau is.”
The voice was smooth, too smooth. Rory felt the pieces click together: the watcher outside, the man at the door, Lucien’s warning. She looked at the locks. Three deadbolts, solid wood, an old chain that Eva insisted was useless but had never taken off.
“Can you get us out the back?” she whispered.
“If he’s alone, yes.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then we make him think we are.”
Rory glanced toward the table piled with research notes, then at the kitchen. A pan sat soaking in the sink. The curry house below. The smell of oil, spices, and hot metal.
She pointed to the kitchen. “There’s a fire escape window.”
“Too narrow for me.”
“Then it’s lucky I’m the one who has to use it.”
“No.”
Her stare silenced him. “You said you weren’t ordering me around.”
He closed his mouth.
The man knocked again. “Open the door, Ms. Carter.”
Rory’s skin prickled. Lucien’s hand came up, not touching her, hovering near her elbow. She could have moved away. Instead she let the warmth of him stay there, one small point of contact against the fear.
“You knew my name,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry.”
“For which part?”
“All of it.”
She looked at him. There was no polished answer in his eyes now. Just a man who had finally understood that protecting her without trusting her was another way of leaving.
“I’m still angry,” she said.
“I know.”
“And I don’t forgive you.”
“I know that, too.”
“If we get out of this, you’re going to tell me everything.”
“Yes.”
“No vanishing.”
“No.”
“No deciding what I can handle.”
His mouth softened at one corner, not quite a smile . “You’ve always handled more than anyone should ask of you.”
“That isn’t a yes.”
“It is.”
The knock came again, harder this time.
Rory stepped close enough to reach for his lapel. She smoothed a wrinkle that wasn’t there, buying herself a second, perhaps two. Lucien went utterly still beneath her touch.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she said.
“I already regret what I made you endure.”
She should have stepped away. Instead, she leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t the kiss from the alley. That one had been frantic, cut short by fear and everything left unsaid. This one began with anger, with the ache of three months and the sharp edge of wanting to believe him. Lucien’s hand settled at her waist, careful, asking. She answered by gripping his lapel and pulling him closer.
Then the front door shuddered beneath a heavy blow.
They broke apart.
Lucien’s forehead rested against hers for one breath. “I’m here,” he said.
“Then keep up.”
She turned toward the kitchen, dragging him with her by the front of his immaculate suit. Behind them, the three deadbolts held. Outside, someone began to test the handle.