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The door opened against Lucien’s cane. Rory caught it before it struck the wall. He stood on the landing in a charcoal suit, one hand wrapped around the ivory handle, the other holding a brown paper parcel. Rain had darkened the shoulders of his jacket. “You had my number,” she said. “You blocked it.” “That was a clue.” She pushed the door towards him. He caught the edge with his palm, and her gaze dropped to his hand. “Take it off.” He did. “There’s a man downstairs who followed me from Soho,” he said. “He came into the bar behind me. I don’t want him to see this parcel in your hands.” Rory looked past him. Music climbed through the floorboards, followed by a burst of laughter from Silas’ bar. The landing itself was empty. “What’s in it?” “Eva’s notebook.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the door. “The one you copied?” “The same.” “And you brought it here instead of taking it to her?” “I rang her. She told me she’d break my fingers if I came near her flat.” He lifted the parcel an inch. “I believed her.” Rory held out her hand. “I need you to look at something inside with me.” “I can look at it without you.” “You can. You won’t be able to read all of it.” She reached for the parcel. Lucien moved it against his chest. “Don’t do that,” she said. His jaw shifted. For a moment she thought he might refuse. Then he gave her the parcel. The paper had gone soft with rain. She peeled back a corner and saw the cracked green cover, the strip of tape Eva had stuck across the spine, and a black cat hair caught beneath it. Rory opened the door wider. “Five minutes.” Lucien stepped inside. She shut the door and slid the bolt across, leaving him in the narrow hallway while she took the parcel into the kitchen. He followed, his cane tapping once against the bare floor before he lifted it. Her delivery bag sat on the table, its zip open, a pair of chopsticks poking from the side pocket. She pushed it onto a chair and unwrapped the notebook. A folded sheet of cream paper lay on top. “Where did you get this?” she asked. “From a broker named Vale. He bought the copy I gave him.” Rory unfolded the sheet. Columns of numbers covered it, each headed by a small drawing: a key, a fish, a crown, a closed eye. “You sold it to him.” “Yes.” “You told me you’d lent it to him. You made it sound as though he’d kept it without asking.” “I lied.” The words came without a pause. Rory placed the sheet on the table. “You had a fortnight to tell me that.” “I know.” “Eva spent half a day sweeping glass off her kitchen floor. Ptolemy hid under the bath until morning. You knew who’d paid for the break-in, and you watched us wonder.” “I knew Vale had bought the notes. I didn’t know he’d send someone to Eva’s flat.” “You knew he might.” Lucien rested both hands on the handle of his cane. “Yes.” Rory looked at the notebook instead of him. Eva’s handwriting filled the first page, packed into every margin. She had drawn a tiny crown over one line and a fish beside another. “The drawings match,” Rory said. “Eva marked the passages Vale wanted. The numbers are his prices. I can read the names in the last column, but I can’t connect them to the passages without knowing her symbols.” “Why do we need the names?” “Because Vale made more copies. He gave me the original, and he gave me this when I asked who else had seen it.” “Asked?” Lucien’s mismatched eyes met hers. “I persuaded him.” Rory glanced at the cane. A dark mark stained the edge of one cuff. “Did you kill him?” “No.” “Did you enjoy yourself?” “No.” She pulled out a chair. “Sit down, then. Your five minutes started on the landing.” He took the chair opposite her. The kitchen felt smaller with him in it. His coat carried rain and the clean, sharp scent of soap she remembered from mornings when his clothes had ended up across the back of her bedroom chair. Rory turned the notebook towards herself. “The crown means a name. Eva used it for people who thought they were important.” “That narrows it down.” “The fish means a location. She was hungry when she made the key.” His mouth moved at one corner. She kept her eyes on the page. “And the closed eye?” “Something she didn’t want anyone to find.” Lucien drew the sheet closer. His sleeve brushed her wrist, and she moved her hand before he could notice the crescent scar. “The names are disguised,” he said. “Vale used letters from the French alphabet in reverse. A becomes Z, B becomes Y.” “That’s not French. That’s a child passing notes in class.” “It worked on the man who stole the sheet for me.” Rory found a pen in her delivery bag and wrote the alphabet across the back of an envelope. Lucien watched her. “You still press too hard,” he said. “And you still comment when nobody asks.” The nib had torn the paper. She turned the envelope over and began again. They worked through the first name together. Lucien read out the letters; Rory replaced each one. The music below changed, the bass sending a faint shiver through the table. “Doyle,” she said. “Eva knows him.” “Does she trust him?” “Enough to lend him books. Not enough to lend him money.” “Call her.” Rory took out her phone. Eva answered on the second ring. “If this is about Lucien, I haven’t moved the rolling pin,” she said. “He’s here.” A pause. “Have you used it?” “He brought your notebook back.” Eva drew a breath. Rory pictured her in the Brick Lane flat, surrounded by notes, with Ptolemy sprawled across whichever page she needed. “Is the blue ribbon still in it?” Rory leafed through the notebook. A ribbon slipped from between two pages and hung over her hand. “Yes.” “Good. My grandmother gave me that. The notebook can go in the bin.” Lucien held out his hand for the phone. Rory ignored it. “There’s a list of people who bought copies,” she told Eva. “Doyle’s on it.” “He was at my door yesterday. I told him I’d lost the notes, and he offered to help me look.” “Does he know where the closed-eye passage points?” “He would if he had the copy.” Paper rustled at Eva’s end. “I’ll ring him.” “Don’t go to his place.” “I’ve still got the rolling pin, Rory.” Eva ended the call. Rory set down the phone. “You could have told her to be careful,” Lucien said. “She’d already decided what she was doing.” He looked at the sheet. “That must be a relief for you. Someone making her own decision.” Rory capped the pen. “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Make a joke out of it before I’ve finished being angry.” His hand left the sheet. He smoothed the crease in the tablecloth with one finger, although it sprang back as soon as he moved. “I didn’t mean to.” “No. You meant to make it easier to sit across from me.” “It would be easier if I could put my hand over yours.” The pen slipped from her fingers and rolled against the notebook. She caught it before it fell. “You don’t get to say that as if nothing happened.” “I know what happened.” “Then tell me why you did it.” Lucien took his time answering. Downstairs, someone dropped a glass. Silas’ voice rose above the music, demanding that nobody move until he found a broom. “Vale had information I wanted,” Lucien said. “He asked for Eva’s research in exchange. I thought I could give him a copy and keep the original out of his reach.” “What information?” “A name. Someone had been moving people across the city against their will.” “And you got it?” “Yes.” Rory searched his face. “So you decided the trade was worth it.” “I did.” “You decided for Eva. For me, too. I was the one who brought you the notebook.” He nodded. “I wanted to help you,” she said. “I thought you trusted me.” “I did trust you.” “No. You trusted me to fetch it and keep my mouth shut.” He opened his mouth, then closed it. She wanted him to argue. She wanted him to give her something she could take apart, piece by piece. Instead he reached into his jacket and put a small brass key on the table. “What’s that?” she asked. “The key you gave me.” She had forgotten he still had it. The tag was red, with her flat number written on it in black marker. The ink had worn away at one corner. “You could have posted it.” “I could have.” “Why didn’t you?” “I kept thinking I’d have a reason to use it.” Rory stared at him. “You never turned up.” “No.” “You let me sit here and wonder whether any of it mattered to you.” His fingers tightened around the cane handle. “It mattered. I didn’t know how to come back after you told me to leave.” “You could have started by telling the truth.” “I was ashamed of it.” “That didn’t make it mine to carry.” “No.” He pushed the key across the table. “It didn’t.” She picked it up. The brass had warmed against his hand. She slid it into her pocket, then dragged the envelope back between them. “Next name.” They decoded two more. Rory sent both to Eva, who replied with a photograph of Ptolemy sitting on the rolling pin. Underneath it she had typed, He has taken control of the weapon. Rory showed Lucien despite herself. His smile came before he could hide it. “He looks capable,” Lucien said. “He bites people who reach across him.” “An excellent judge of character.” The last name took longer. Lucien misread a letter, and Rory caught the mistake when the result produced a word neither of them recognised. “That’s a K,” she said. “It’s an R.” “Give me the sheet.” He leaned closer rather than handing it over. Their shoulders touched. Rory saw the small nick near his jaw, the one he had given himself shaving at her sink months ago. He had complained about her razor while she stood behind him and laughed. She pulled the paper towards the light. “K,” she repeated. “You’re right.” “I’d like that in writing.” “You have it. On the envelope.” She filled in the last name and sent it to Eva. Her phone buzzed almost at once. No idea who that is. I’ll ask Doyle. Rory typed, Ask him before you hit him. She put the phone down. Lucien sat beside her now rather than opposite, close enough that she could see the rainwater drying along the seam of his jacket. “You should go,” she said. His gaze dropped to her mouth. “Yes.” Neither of them moved. Rory reached for the notebook, but his hand came down on the cover first. He lifted it at once. “Sorry.” “You used to reach for me like that.” “I remember.” “You used to stop when I asked.” “I can still do that.” Rory looked at the key tag in her palm. She had taken it from her pocket without noticing. She set it beside the notebook. “Then come here.” Lucien turned towards her. She caught the front of his jacket and kissed him before he could speak. His hand settled at her waist, careful at first, then firmer when she drew him closer. The edge of the table pressed into her hip. She pulled back far enough to look at him. “You don’t have the key any more.” “I noticed.” “And we haven’t finished this conversation.” “I noticed that too.” She kissed him again, and his fingers tightened against her waist.