Run: 2026-09-23-01M37HX4T2E9J02DG0JRGMFH0Q

The third deadbolt slid back, and Eva’s door opened just far enough for Aurora to see Lucien Moreau standing in the hall. For one stupid second, she noticed his tie. Dark green silk, neatly knotted against a charcoal suit. Then she noticed the blood on his cuff. “No,” she said. His amber eye narrowed. The black one gave nothing away. “Good evening to you, too.” “You don’t get to come here.” “I know.” He shifted his weight onto the ivory handle of his cane. It was such a small movement she might have missed it if she hadn’t once made a habit of watching him. “May I come in anyway?” From the kitchen, Eva called, “Rory? Who is it?” Lucien looked past her, not quite into the flat. He could have answered for himself. Instead he waited. Rory hated that she still knew the difference between his manners and his restraint. “Someone you don’t want bleeding on your stairs,” she called back, and opened the door. Lucien stepped inside. Ptolemy, who had been winding around Rory’s ankles, took one look at him and vanished beneath the sofa. The flat smelled of curry rising through the floorboards and the cold tea Eva had forgotten on the table. Books and scrolls crowded every surface. Rory had cleared a space among them that afternoon for a plate of toast; Eva had since covered it with notes. Eva emerged from the kitchen holding a dish towel. Her eyes went to Lucien’s cuff. “What happened?” “An unfortunate disagreement.” “With what?” “A knife.” “Sit down,” Eva said. “I don’t intend to impose.” “You already have,” Rory said. “Sit.” He took the chair nearest the door. Of course he did. Even hurt, Lucien placed himself where he could leave quickly or stop someone else coming in. Rory shut the door and set all three deadbolts. The top one stuck; she had to shove it home with the heel of her hand. When she turned, Lucien was watching her. “You’re at Eva’s,” he said. “I am.” “I went to your flat first.” The words landed before she could stop them. She had spent the last week wondering whether he knew where she was, whether he cared to find out. Now he had been to the flat above Silas’ bar, had climbed those stairs and found her gone. Eva returned with a metal first-aid box and set it on the table. “I’ll get clean towels.” Rory looked at her. Eva looked back, taking in more than Rory wanted her to. Then she went into the bedroom and pulled the door nearly closed behind her. Lucien laid his cane across his knees. Blood had seeped through the cuff of his right sleeve and dried along the edge of his palm. Rory took the chair opposite him, close enough to work. She opened the box and found gauze, tape, a small pair of scissors. “Show me.” “It’s shallow.” “Good. Then it won’t take long.” He unbuttoned his cuff with his left hand. His fingers fumbled on the second button, and Rory reached over. He went still. She freed the button, then rolled the sleeve above his elbow. A cut ran across the inside of his forearm, longer than she’d expected, its edges parted and still bleeding. “That’s not shallow.” “It missed the important things.” “Let me be the judge of that.” She fetched a bowl of water from the kitchen. By the time she came back, he had taken off his jacket and folded it over the back of the chair, careful to keep the bloody sleeve from touching the upholstery. His hair, usually so immaculate, had come loose at one temple. She remembered putting her hand there. She pushed the memory away and sat down. The water pinked as she cleaned the cut. Lucien held still, though his breath caught once when she worked near his wrist. “Who did this?” “Someone who mistook my patience for a bargaining position.” “Try again.” He looked at her over the small distance between their chairs. “A man I paid to retrieve something. He decided he could sell it twice.” “And you came here because?” “I needed to know Eva was safe.” Rory drew the wet cloth away. “Eva.” “And you,” he said. She pressed a clean pad of gauze to his arm. “You could have rung.” “I thought you might tell me not to come.” “I did tell you.” “And then you let me in.” The gauze needed changing. Rory reached for another piece rather than answer. He had always been good at leaving a silence where she could hear herself thinking. They had parted nine days ago outside Silas’ bar. She had asked him what, exactly, he wanted from her. Lucien had said they should both go home. For a moment she’d thought he meant together. Then he’d hailed a cab and held its door while she got in. It had been raining, and his hand had stayed on the roof until she finally gave the driver her address. “You didn’t answer me that night,” she said. “No.” “You kissed me, Lucien. Then you sent me home.” His jaw tightened. “I know what I did.” “You knew I wouldn’t come chasing after you.” “Yes.” That hurt more than she wanted it to. Rory wrapped a bandage around his arm, keeping her eyes on her hands. The crescent scar on her left wrist showed pale beside the gauze. Lucien had once asked about it over breakfast, tracing the shape in the air rather than touching her. She’d told him about falling through a greenhouse pane when she was ten. He had listened as though he had all morning. She tore a strip of tape and fixed the bandage in place. “Why?” A noise came from the bedroom: Eva moving something heavy across the floor, perhaps trying to reach the old tin of charms she kept behind her books. Rory was grateful for the sound. It gave her somewhere else to look. Lucien spoke quietly. “The man with the knife has been asking questions about you.” Rory’s hands stopped. “What questions?” “Where you live. Who you work for. Whether you’re often alone.” “Because of you.” “Yes.” He did not try to soften it. She looked toward the door with its three bolts, then back at the blood on the cloth. “How long?” “Since the night at Silas’.” “The night you put me in that cab.” “I’d heard he was looking for a way to reach me. I thought if I stayed away—” “He’d lose interest in me?” “I hoped he would have no reason to learn your name.” “But he did.” Lucien’s gaze fell to his bandaged arm. “This afternoon.” Rory sat back. Nine days of anger had given her something solid to stand on. Now she could feel it shifting beneath her feet. He had known there might be danger, and he had chosen for her again. She could understand why. That didn’t make it easier to bear. “You should have told me.” “Yes.” “I could have been careful.” “I know that now.” She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’ve met me. I deliver food all over London on my own, and I was doing that long before you appeared. Did you think I’d fall apart if you told me some bastard was asking questions?” “No.” Lucien looked up. “I thought you might stay close to me. And I wanted that enough that I didn’t trust myself to ask.” Rory had an answer ready. It deserted her. From the bedroom, Eva called, “I’ve got the window covered. Has he told you about the men outside?” Rory turned. “The what?” Lucien closed his eyes briefly. “Eva.” The bedroom door opened. Eva stood there with a roll of brown packing tape in one hand. “Two men across the road. One’s been pretending to read the same takeaway menu for ten minutes.” Rory went to the front window. She kept to the side of the curtain and looked down. Brick Lane shone under a fine rain. People passed beneath the shop signs, collars up, heads bent. Across the road, a man stood under the awning of a closed shop, holding a menu too low to read in that light. Another waited by a parked car. “Are they yours?” she asked Lucien. “No. But they’ll have seen me come in. I can draw them away.” “You’re dripping blood.” “Less than I was.” “They might come up after you leave,” Eva said. Lucien rose, reaching for his jacket. Rory crossed back and put her hand on the cane before he could take it. He looked down at her fingers around the ivory handle. “What did you retrieve?” she asked. He hesitated, then took a narrow leather case from the inside pocket of his jacket. It was hardly longer than her palm. “Something he was meant to deliver to a client,” Lucien said. “He’ll think I brought it here.” “Did you?” “Yes.” “At least we’ve established that.” Rory held out her hand. He gave her the case. It was heavier than it looked. Inside, wrapped in black cloth, lay a little brass key with a loop of red thread tied through its bow. Eva came to look over Rory’s shoulder. “That’s what they want?” “I suspect they’d take me as well,” Lucien said. Rory closed the case. Across the road, the man lowered his menu and spoke to his companion. Both looked up at the windows above the curry house. “Eva, does your landlord still keep the back stair locked?” “He keeps it locked when he remembers. Why?” “Because I don’t want them trying it.” Rory handed the case back to Lucien. “Put that away. Eva, can you ring the curry house and tell them there are two men hanging about their back entrance? It isn’t true yet, but they’ll go and check.” Eva was already reaching for her phone. “And then?” “Then you call Silas. Tell him what’s happened. I’ll ring him too once I’ve got Lucien downstairs.” Lucien’s expression sharpened. “Rory, you are not coming with me.” “I know. You’re going to take the back stair. I’ll take the front and make sure they’re watching me instead of the door behind the kitchen.” “No.” “Those two have been watching this window. They’ll know I’m here.” She spoke steadily, though her pulse had begun to race. “I can go down to the shop and stay where there are people. You can get clear before they realize you’ve left.” Eva paused with the phone at her ear. “That might work.” Lucien looked from her to Rory. “It might also put you directly in their path.” “They’ve seen me, remember? Besides, Silas is five minutes away, and I’m not going past the shop counter.” Rory picked up her coat from the hook. “You said you came to check we were safe. Help us do this, then.” For a moment she thought he would argue again. Instead he reached for his cane and stood beside her while Eva spoke to the curry house owner. Through the floor came the faint ring of a telephone, then a man’s voice answering it. Rory went to the door. She lifted the top bolt, then the middle. At the third, Lucien caught her hand. “I should have told you that night,” he said. “All of it. Especially that I didn’t want you to go.” She looked at him. There was rain drying in his hair and blood under the edge of his cuff. He had come to find her, and she was still angry with him. Both things could be true. “I didn’t want to go either,” she said. “But I thought you did.” “I’m sorry.” “Tell me the rest when we’re safe.” His hand loosened around hers. Rory slid back the last bolt, opened the door, and listened to the voices rising from the curry house below. Then she stepped into the hall.