Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YEDB5J55C1Q76QSC03XPY3

Rory opened the door as far as the chain allowed and found Lucien Moreau on the landing, rain shining on the shoulders of his charcoal coat. For a moment, she thought she had imagined him. She had done it before, on crowded pavements and in the dark window of the Golden Empress: a glimpse of platinum hair, the clean line of a suit, and her heart making a fool of itself before her mind caught up. Then his gaze dropped to the chain. “Good,” he said. “You used it.” Rory put her hand against the door. “I’m about to use it to shut this.” “Someone followed me here.” “That sounds like your problem.” “It became yours when they saw which door I approached.” He stood very still, one hand wrapped around the ivory head of his cane. The other was pressed to his side. Blood had seeped between his fingers and darkened the cuff of his glove. Rory looked past him. The narrow stairs down to Brick Lane were empty. From the curry house below came the clatter of dishes and the warm smell of cumin and frying onions. Someone laughed in the street. Ordinary sounds, all of them, and none made her feel safer. “Where’s Eva?” Lucien asked. “Out.” “Rory.” “She’s out, and she doesn’t know you’re here. What happened to you?” “I was careless.” “That would make a lovely change.” His mouth tightened. He did not deny it. A scrape sounded from the stairs. Rory leaned closer to the gap. At the bottom, a man in a dark raincoat had stopped with one foot on the first step. His face was turned up toward them, but the light behind him left it in shadow. Lucien glanced back. “Please.” She had heard him say the word before. Not often, and never quite like that. Rory shut the door, slid the chain free, and opened it again. Lucien came inside without brushing against her, though the hall was barely wide enough for them both. She closed the door and shot home all three deadbolts. “Eva installed those after the thing with the postman,” she said. Lucien watched her. “The thing?” “He turned out to be a ghoul.” “I see.” “He was very polite about it.” A dull knock came at the door. Rory stepped back. Lucien drew his cane closer, his thumb resting along the join below the ivory handle. “Can he get through?” she asked. “Not quickly.” “That wasn’t the question.” “I don’t know.” Another knock, harder. Ptolemy appeared from the bedroom, tail puffed, and stared at the door as if deciding whether the visitor was worth his attention. Lucien’s gaze went to the cat. “You have a cat.” “Eva has a cat. I’m feeding him while she’s away.” “Where?” “Still not telling you.” A faint sound came from the other side of the door: metal rubbing metal. Rory pictured the man crouched on the landing, trying the lock. Lucien moved to the window in the sitting room. Papers covered the sill, the table beneath it, and most of the floor. Eva’s books had colonised the sofa too, leaving a single cushion clear. Lucien lifted the curtain with two fingers and looked down toward Brick Lane. “There’s another one across the street,” he said. “Friends of yours?” “No.” “Enemies, then. You’ll have to narrow it down.” He let the curtain fall. His face was pale beneath the immaculate sweep of his hair, and there was blood on the rug where he stood. Rory fetched a tea towel from the kitchen and held it out. “Press this against it.” “I’m fine.” “You’re dripping on Eva’s research.” He accepted the towel. His bare fingers touched hers, cool and damp, and she withdrew her hand before he could close it around them. He pressed the folded cloth to his side. “The men downstairs work for a collector. He’s looking for a ledger Eva borrowed.” “Borrowed from whom?” “The collector.” “Did she tell him she was borrowing it?” “No.” “That sounds more like Eva.” Lucien watched her closely. His eyes had always made that difficult to bear: one amber, one black, both intent on her face. She used to like the feeling that he saw more than other people did. Later she had discovered how much he could see and still choose not to say. “What’s in it?” she asked. “Names. Debts. Agreements made by people who would rather those agreements remained private.” “And how did you find out he was coming here?” “He asked me to find Eva.” Rory felt the familiar, unwelcome shift beneath her ribs. “Did you?” “No.” “You found me.” “I knew she’d asked you to look after the flat.” She had mentioned it weeks ago, before everything went wrong. A stray detail over a late dinner, when she had still believed his attention was a gift rather than a means of taking inventory. “I followed one of the collector’s men here,” Lucien said. “The other saw me.” “And stabbed you?” “He tried to search my pockets first. I objected.” Something struck the front door. Ptolemy vanished beneath the sofa. Rory looked toward the hall. “Can we get out the back?” “The window opens onto a fire escape. The man across the street can see it.” “Then we need a reason for him to look somewhere else.” Lucien lowered the towel to inspect his wound. The cut through his shirt was narrow but ugly. “There may be another way.” “Go on.” “The collector will call his men off if he believes the ledger is no longer here.” “Is it?” “I don’t know.” Rory did, unfortunately. Eva had shown her the ledger before leaving, though she had neglected to mention that anyone might come looking for it. She had slid it into a flour tin in the kitchen and said, with the solemnity of a woman making a sacred bequest, “Don’t let Ptolemy eat it.” Rory went into the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and took down the tin. The ledger inside was small and plain, bound in cracked red leather. Lucien remained in the sitting room doorway. He did not reach for it. “You could have told me,” he said. “I could have. I was deciding whether you’d try to take it.” “Would you believe me if I said no?” “Not without some effort.” She found Eva’s phone number and called. It rang six times before going to voicemail. Rory left a message describing the men, the ledger, and Lucien’s unfortunate arrival, then put the phone down. “Can you call the collector?” she asked. “Yes.” “Will he believe you?” “He has before.” “Comforting.” Lucien took out his phone. “What do you want me to tell him?” She looked at the ledger. “That I’ve got it.” “Rory—” “You said he wants it moved. Fine. He can meet me somewhere public tomorrow, and I’ll tell him what I want in return.” “He’ll assume you’ve read it.” “Have you?” “No.” She weighed the book in her hand. “Then he can wonder.” Another heavy blow shook the door. Lucien made the call. When the collector answered, Lucien spoke in French, his voice low and even. Rory waited until he paused. “English, please.” His eyes flicked to hers. Then he changed languages. “Miss Carter has the ledger,” he said. “She’s willing to discuss its return tomorrow. Your men will leave this building now, or she’ll arrange for the contents to reach everyone named in it.” Rory raised her eyebrows. It was a better threat than the one she had supplied. Lucien listened. “No. She chooses the place.” He listened again, then covered the phone. “He wants proof.” Rory opened the ledger at random. Two columns of names and figures filled the page in a cramped hand. She chose the first name she saw and gave it to Lucien. He repeated it into the phone. After a moment, he ended the call. “He’ll have them withdraw,” he said. “You trust him?” “No. But he wants the ledger intact, and he knows I can identify his men. We’ll check before either of us goes outside.” “We?” “I would prefer not to leave you alone with it.” “Because you’re worried about me, or because you want the book?” His fingers tightened around the phone. “Both.” She appreciated the answer more than she wanted to. From the landing came a soft thud, followed by footsteps descending the stairs. Rory waited until the sound had faded before she moved. She put the ledger back in the flour tin, returned it to the cupboard, and came out to find Lucien leaning against the wall. The tea towel had soaked through. “You need stitches,” she said. “I’ve had worse.” “I’m sure you’ve kept a list. Sit down.” She cleared the books from the sofa and fetched Eva’s first-aid box. Lucien sat where she indicated, his cane resting against his knee. When she knelt beside him and began unbuttoning his waistcoat, his hand closed around her wrist. Not hard. Still, she froze. He released her immediately. “I’m sorry.” Rory sat back on her heels. The crescent scar on her wrist showed white against her skin. She rubbed it once with her thumb, then reached for the buttons again. “I need to see the cut,” she said. He let her work. Beneath the waistcoat and shirt, the wound ran along his ribs, shallow at one end and deeper at the other. She cleaned it while he gripped the edge of the sofa. “You should go to a hospital,” she said. “I know someone who can stitch it.” “Someone who won’t ask questions?” “Someone who has already asked all of them.” She taped a dressing in place. Lucien’s skin was warm now, and she could feel the careful restraint in him as she worked. She remembered his hands at the small of her back in his kitchen, the way he had kissed her there while a pan boiled dry behind them. Remembered, too, standing in that same kitchen a week later with his phone in her hand. She capped the antiseptic. “How long were you going to wait before telling me about Evan?” Lucien’s breath left him slowly. Three months had passed since Rory found the message. Evan had come to London looking for her. Lucien had learned about it and sent him away, using means he had declined to explain. He had told her none of it. “I was going to tell you when I knew he wouldn’t come back,” he said. “You didn’t tell me when you knew that, either.” “No.” “He knew where I worked, Lucien.” “I know.” “Did you tell him where I lived?” His head came up sharply. “No.” She held his gaze. “I need you to say it plainly.” “I did not tell him where you lived. He never had that address from me.” The tightness in her chest eased a fraction. She had asked him the same question before, and he had answered it then, but some fears required repetition before they loosened their grip. “You decided I couldn’t handle knowing he was here,” she said. “I decided I could make him leave before he frightened you.” “He did frighten me. Finding out afterward was frightening too.” “I know that now.” “You knew it when I told you.” “Yes.” His voice roughened. “I knew it then.” Rory put the used gauze into the bin. She had rehearsed this conversation in her head often enough to expect satisfaction from it. Instead she felt tired, and conscious of how close he was, his shirt open beneath her hand. “I kept thinking about calling,” he said. “Why didn’t you?” “You asked me not to.” She glanced up. “You’ve always been good at following instructions after the damage is done.” A brief, rueful smile touched his mouth. “Not always.” “No. You’re here.” “I am.” Rain ticked against the window. Ptolemy emerged from under the sofa and approached Lucien’s cane, sniffing the ivory handle. Lucien held perfectly still until the cat rubbed his cheek against it. “Traitor,” Rory told him. Ptolemy ignored her. Lucien looked down at the cat, then back at her. “I missed you.” The simplicity of it hurt. She had missed him in inconvenient, persistent ways: reaching for her phone when she heard a song he might like, turning toward the door when she came home with something funny to tell him. Missing him had not made her any less angry. “I missed you too,” she said. He did not move. She could see him resisting the impulse, and was grateful for it. “But I’m still angry.” “I know.” “I don’t want you deciding what I can bear.” “I won’t.” “That’s easy to say tonight.” “Yes.” He glanced at the dressing. “I suspect you’ll have opportunities to test it.” Despite herself, Rory smiled. It faded when he lifted his hand, stopping halfway between them. “May I?” he asked. She looked at his hand. Long fingers, a small cut across one knuckle. She knew how they felt against her cheek. “Yes.” He touched her gently, his thumb resting just below her ear. Rory leaned into his palm before she could think better of it. His expression changed, the control in it giving way to something open and almost startled. She put her hand over his. “This doesn’t mean everything’s fixed.” “I wouldn’t expect it to.” “You might hope.” “I do.” She leaned forward and kissed him. His mouth was warm, familiar, and for a second he remained still, letting her set the pace. Then he kissed her back, his fingers sliding into her hair. Rory felt the pull of him all the way down to her stomach, the old desire made sharper by the months without it. She broke the kiss when he drew a sudden breath. “Your side?” “A little.” “That’s what you get for being stabbed on someone else’s landing.” “I’ll try to choose a more convenient location next time.” “There had better not be a next time.” He smiled, and she kissed him again, briefly, because she wanted to. Then she rose and offered him her hand. He took it, careful as he got to his feet. At the window, Rory shifted the curtain and checked the street. The man in the raincoat was gone. Across the road, a couple stood beneath a shop awning, sharing a cigarette; neither looked toward the flat. She would wait a little longer before trusting the view. Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter. Eva’s name lit the screen. “Good,” Rory said. “Now we can find out what she’s stolen.” Lucien leaned against the wall beside her, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers. Rory picked up the phone and, before answering, reached back to take his hand.