AI The door opened against the chain, and Lucien Moreau said, “Before you close it, I should warn you there’s a man on the stairs who wants to kill you.”
Rory kept her hand on the door.
Lucien stood beneath the weak landing light in a charcoal suit that had taken a soaking. Rain darkened his shoulders and ran from the ends of his slicked-back hair. His ivory-handled cane rested against his leg.
“You could have sent a message,” she said.
“I did. You blocked my number.”
“That sounds like something I’d do.”
A floorboard creaked below him.
Lucien looked over his shoulder. “Rory.”
There was blood on his cuff, seeping through the wet fabric from somewhere under his sleeve. She had known him long enough to recognize the strain beneath his composure. She had also known him long enough to distrust it.
Another step sounded on the stairs.
Rory shut the door, slipped the chain free and pulled him inside. He moved past her quickly , bringing rain and cold air into the flat. She pushed the door closed and shot all three deadbolts home.
Lucien tested the top one. “Good.”
“Don’t sound surprised. Eva lives in London.”
“I was praising Eva.”
“She’ll be thrilled.”
Ptolemy appeared from behind a tottering stack of books, took one look at Lucien and vanished beneath the sofa.
“Wise cat,” Rory said.
From the stairwell came a soft knock.
Lucien’s hand closed around the ivory handle of his cane. Rory had seen the thin blade hidden inside once before, though she had never seen him draw it on anyone.
The knock came again, patient and precise.
“Open the door,” a man called . “I only want the papers.”
Rory looked at the table. Books, scrolls and loose research notes covered every inch of it, with several additional piles spreading across the floor. Eva had left three days ago to consult a collection in Oxford, after asking Rory to feed Ptolemy and water the plants. She had said nothing about papers worth killing for.
“Which papers?” Rory called.
“The ones Eva Morgan took from the auction.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened.
“You know about an auction?” Rory asked him.
“Yes.”
“And the man outside?”
“Yes.”
The urge to open the door and hand Lucien over was brief but vivid. “You’re doing very well at being informative.”
“I’m trying not to shout details through the door.”
“Then whisper them.”
He glanced toward the kitchen, little more than a narrow recess at the back of the room. Rory followed him, stepping over a bundle of rolled parchment. The smell of cumin and fried onions drifted up from the curry house downstairs. Ordinarily it made the flat feel warm, lived in. Tonight it only reminded her how many people were close enough to be hurt if this turned ugly.
Lucien lowered his voice. “There was an auction last week. Eva acquired a ledger that belonged to a collector named Bellamy. The man outside works for him.”
“Why does he think I have it?”
“He followed you here.”
“He followed me?”
“From the Golden Empress. I saw him as you left.”
Rory stared at him. “You watched me leave work?”
“I was trying to catch you alone. Bellamy learned Eva had the ledger this afternoon, and I knew she was out of London.”
“You could have called the restaurant.”
“And told your employer what? That a man connected to a supernatural auction was watching you?”
“You could have asked for me.”
“I thought I had time to reach you before he did.” He glanced at the door . “I was wrong.”
A thin strip of paper slid beneath it, followed by the smell of something sharp and metallic. Rory took a step back.
Lucien went still. “Don’t touch that.”
The paper lay white against the dark floorboards. Ink had been worked across it in tight, intricate lines. At its center was a black mark that seemed, when Rory looked directly at it, to sink deeper into the page.
“What is it?”
“A key of sorts. It won’t open the locks, but it can tell him whether the ledger’s here.”
“Can you stop it?”
“I can break it. It will tell him where I am, though.”
“I think he’s worked that out.”
One corner of Lucien’s mouth lifted, then flattened again. He crouched, drawing the blade from his cane. The steel was narrow and bright. He slid its point under the paper and lifted it carefully , as if carrying something that might spill .
The mark at the center shivered.
Lucien folded the paper around the blade and held it over the kitchen sink. He turned on the cold tap. Water struck the page, and the ink ran black, then red. A smell like scorched pennies filled the recess.
On the landing, someone swore.
Lucien let the sodden paper fall into the sink. “He knows I’m here.”
“You said you knew him. Can we negotiate?”
“I have. He offered to let you live if I brought him the ledger.”
Rory felt a cold prickle along her arms. “When?”
“An hour ago.”
“And you refused.”
“I said I’d find it.”
She looked at him. “That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
For a moment, he seemed about to say more. Instead, he checked the blade and slid it back into his cane.
A year ago, Rory would have filled the silence for him. She would have found the generous explanation and laid it between them, neat as a folded napkin. She had been very good at that.
“Tell me the rest,” she said.
His mismatched eyes met hers. “The ledger names people who bought artifacts stolen from graves and shrines. Some of those buyers are powerful. Bellamy wants it back before Eva can make the names public.”
“And why did Eva buy it?”
“I don’t know. She outbid my representative.”
“You had a representative there?”
“I was interested in the ledger myself.”
“Of course you were.”
His expression cooled. “You’ve never objected to my work when you needed something from me.”
The words landed harder than she expected. Perhaps because they were close enough to true.
“I objected when you sold information about me.”
The flat seemed to shrink around them. Outside, a car horn sounded on Brick Lane, followed by laughter.
Lucien set his cane against the counter. “I gave a photograph of you to a man who was looking for you.”
“You sold it.”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t tell me until I found out myself.”
“No.”
Rory crossed her arms. She could still remember standing in his office, the photograph on his desk: herself leaving the Golden Empress with a delivery bag in one hand. She had thought he’d kept it because he liked looking at her. The man who bought it had turned out to be searching for a witness, not hunting her, but Lucien hadn’t known that when he made the sale.
“You said you checked him afterward,” she said.
“I did.”
“After you’d given him what he wanted.”
“I was angry with you.”
She let out a short breath. “I noticed.”
“I’m not offering it as an excuse.”
“You offered it as one then.”
His hand flattened against the counter. The blood on his cuff had spread, leaving a dark patch near his wrist. “Yes. I did.”
They had quarreled that morning because she refused to let him handle a problem for her. By evening he had accepted money for the photograph. Two nights later, he had kissed her outside the bar where she lived, one hand warm against the back of her neck, and she had kissed him back before he told her what he’d done.
She had hated how long she kept remembering the kiss.
The lock rattled. Both of them turned.
“He can’t get through yet,” Lucien said. “But he’ll call someone who can.”
Rory pulled her phone from her pocket and called Eva. It went straight to voicemail.
“Eva, it’s me. There’s a man outside your flat looking for Bellamy’s ledger. Call me as soon as you get this.”
She ended the call and looked around. “Help me find it.”
Lucien hesitated. “If we find it, Bellamy will expect me to hand it over.”
“And if we don’t, he’ll keep sending people here.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s see what Eva’s bought before we decide what to do with it.”
They searched without speaking. Rory checked beneath the sofa cushions, earning a furious hiss from Ptolemy, while Lucien examined the stacks by the table. He handled each book carefully , laying it down exactly where he’d found it. Even under threat, he couldn’t bear disorder that wasn’t his own.
Rory opened a cupboard and found tea, cat food and a saucepan full of pens. In the bedroom, she checked under the bed and inside the wardrobe. Eva had left a note on the pillow reminding Rory to turn the heating down at night. Nothing about a ledger.
Her phone buzzed as she returned to the sitting room.
Eva’s name lit the screen.
“Where is it?” Rory asked.
“Hello to you too. Are you all right?”
“For the moment. Lucien’s here.”
A pause. “Why?”
“He followed a man who followed me. Apparently you’ve been shopping.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“When I knew whether it was genuine.” Paper rustled at Eva’s end. “It’s in the green biscuit tin.”
Rory looked at the kitchen shelf. “The one with biscuits in it?”
“Yes. Under the biscuits.”
“Your security system needs work.”
“I thought it was rather good. Nobody’s found it yet.”
Rory took down the tin. A packet of shortbread sat on top of a slim, leather-bound book. She lifted it out and opened the cover. Names and dates filled the pages in a cramped brown hand.
Lucien came to stand beside her, close enough that she caught the clean, faint scent of his cologne beneath the rain. He did not touch the book.
“Eva,” Rory said, “what do you want me to do with it?”
“Keep it away from Bellamy. I’ve photographed every page, but the original matters. Can you get it out?”
Rory looked toward the window. The flat faced the street, two floors above the pavement. There was no fire escape, only a drainpipe and the illuminated sign of the curry house below.
“Maybe,” she said.
She explained her plan to Eva, then hung up and called the restaurant downstairs. A woman answered over the clatter of dishes.
“Hi. I’m in the flat upstairs. This is going to sound strange, but could I ask you to take something to the police station for me?”
Lucien’s brows rose. Rory held up a finger.
“Yes,” she told the woman. “I can lower it from the window. It’s a book. Please don’t open it.”
The woman agreed after a few more questions and a promise that Rory would come down and explain when it was safe.
Rory found string in Eva’s drawer, wrapped the ledger in a plastic shopping bag and tied it securely. Lucien held the window open while she lowered the bundle past the curry house sign. A woman in an apron came out, looked up and caught it.
“Thank you!” Rory called.
The woman gave her a baffled wave and carried the parcel inside.
Lucien closed the window. “The police?”
“There’s a station nearby. Eva can collect it from them, and Bellamy’s man won’t want to walk in and ask for stolen property.”
“If he knows where it’s gone, he may follow her.”
“I told her to wait inside until we call. And I gave her Eva’s number.”
Lucien studied her for a moment. “You’d make an alarming adversary.”
“You’ve had a small taste.”
He accepted that with a nod. Then he picked up his cane and went to the door.
“What are you doing?” Rory asked.
“Ending this. He’ll take my word that the ledger isn’t here if I let him look.”
Rory caught his sleeve before he could undo the bolts. The fabric was wet, and beneath it his arm was warm. “Will he?”
“He knows I won’t kill him over an empty room. He also knows I can make it unpleasant.”
“He might not be alone.”
“No.” Lucien looked down at her hand. “He might not.”
She released him and considered the door. “Tell him the ledger’s with the police. Let him decide whether he wants to spend the night explaining himself.”
Lucien gave her a surprised glance, then called through the door. “It’s gone to a police station. You’re welcome to ask for it there.”
Silence.
Rory waited. Her pulse thudded in her throat. At last footsteps descended the stairs, unhurried but unmistakable.
Lucien remained at the door for another minute, listening. Then he drew a breath and leaned his forehead briefly against the wood.
“You’re bleeding on Eva’s floor,” Rory said.
He looked down. A drop had fallen from his cuff.
“I’ll clean it.”
“You’ll let me look at it.”
“It’s a scratch.”
“Then it won’t take long.”
She fetched the first-aid box from the bathroom and made him sit at the kitchen table. Moving enough books to clear a space took longer than finding the box. Ptolemy emerged to inspect Lucien’s shoes, decided they were suspicious and retreated again.
The cut along Lucien’s forearm was shallow but long. Rory cleaned it while he sat still, his jacket draped over the back of the chair.
“How did this happen?”
“Bellamy’s man objected when I tried to pass him on the stairs.”
“You could have mentioned that.”
“You were angry enough.”
“I can be angry and concerned at the same time.”
His gaze lifted to her face. She concentrated on smoothing a dressing over the cut.
“I didn’t know how to apologize to you,” he said.
“You managed the words.”
“Yes. I thought they should be enough, because I’d never found them especially easy.”
Rory closed the first-aid box. “They weren’t enough.”
“I know that now.”
She sat opposite him. The chair wobbled on the uneven floor, and she hooked one foot around its leg to steady it.
“I wanted to trust you,” she said. “That was the worst part. Even after I knew, I kept wanting you to come up with some reason that made it all right.”
“There wasn’t one.”
“No.”
“I was used to keeping a piece of everyone’s business for myself. Something I could use if I needed to.” He looked at the bandage. “You deserved better than that. You still do.”
The room had grown quiet. Rory could hear voices downstairs and the faint scrape of a chair across the restaurant floor. Someone was laughing . Her hands, steady while she’d dressed his arm, had begun to tremble.
Lucien noticed. He turned one hand palm up on the table, leaving it there between them.
She looked at it for a long moment before placing hers in it. His fingers closed gently around hers, careful of the small crescent scar on her wrist.
“I’m still angry,” she said.
“I know.”
“And I don’t know what happens next.”
“We could start with me taking you home when Eva returns.”
“You could ask.”
His mouth softened. “May I take you home when Eva returns?”
“Possibly.”
“That’s more than I expected.”
He lifted her hand a little, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. His lips brushed her knuckles, warm and unhurried, and Rory felt the old attraction move through her, no less inconvenient for being familiar .
She stood and came around the table. Lucien rose too, watching her closely.
“This doesn’t settle anything,” she said.
“No.”
She kissed him anyway.
He touched her waist only when she moved closer, and the kiss deepened slowly , his mouth careful at first, then less so when she caught the front of his shirt. Rain had left his hair cool beneath her fingers. He made a quiet sound against her lips that brought back the night outside the bar with painful clarity; this time, when she drew away, he let her go.
Ptolemy jumped onto the table and pushed his head against Rory’s elbow.
Lucien looked at the cat. “Am I forgiven?”
“By Ptolemy? No. He wants feeding.”
“And by you?”
Rory picked up the cat food from the counter. “Ask me another day.”
She could feel Lucien’s eyes on her as she opened the tin. He didn’t press her. He moved the books farther from Ptolemy’s bowl, then stayed beside her while the cat ate and the flat slowly warmed around them.