Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YGRH3QQE5XJDN7N7X1PE7J

The door opened against a stack of books, and Rory found Lucien Moreau standing on the landing with a paper bag in one hand and his cane in the other. His charcoal suit held a dusting of rain. A wet strand of platinum hair had slipped loose above his mismatched eyes. “You’re not Eva.” “No.” He looked past her into the flat. “She asked me to bring these.” He lifted the bag. The smell of cardamom and hot pastry reached her. Rory kept her hand on the door. “She asked you?” “She paid for them yesterday. I passed the shop on my way here.” “That explained the pastries. Not why you came to the flat.” Lucien lowered the bag. “She called me about a document.” Behind Rory, Ptolemy knocked something off the kitchen counter. Glass struck the floor, followed by the cat’s indignant chirp. “Move,” she told Lucien. She shut the door, leaving him on the landing, and went to inspect the damage. A jar of dried leaves had rolled under the table without breaking. Ptolemy sat beside it, his tail wrapped around his paws. “You could have caught it.” The cat blinked. Rory retrieved the jar and put it out of reach. Eva’s notes covered the table in overlapping sheets, with a brittle strip of parchment pinned beneath a mug. Rory had spent an hour staring at the marks on it. They had looked like a language at first. Then they had begun to move. A knock sounded at the door. “I heard the jar,” Lucien called. “I assumed you’d survived.” Rory opened it again. He stood in the same spot, though he had shifted the cane to his left hand. “Eva’s at the library,” she told him. “She won’t be back until six.” “I know.” Rory looked at the bag, then at him. “Did she tell you I’d be here?” “She told me you had the document.” “And you didn’t think to warn me.” “I called. You didn’t answer.” “My phone died.” “I gathered that after the fourth attempt.” He held up his own phone. Her name filled the screen above four unanswered calls. Rory stepped aside, keeping her face turned toward the table. “Leave the pastries on the counter.” Lucien entered. The landing had room for his height and the length of his coat; the flat did not. He stopped beside the bookcase, and Ptolemy came out from under the table to inspect his shoes. “Good afternoon,” Lucien told the cat. Ptolemy sniffed the ivory handle of his cane. “He bites,” Rory warned. “I remember.” A thin white mark crossed the base of Lucien’s thumb. Rory remembered the afternoon it came from: Lucien on Eva’s floor, jacket off, coaxing a stolen ledger from beneath the sofa while Ptolemy defended it. She had laughed until her ribs hurt. Later, Lucien had kissed her in the narrow kitchen, with curry-house music humming through the floorboards. She went to the table and put her palm over the parchment. “What did Eva tell you about this?” “That a collector sold it to her with three other fragments. This one damaged her hand.” Rory lifted the mug. A brown ring marked the parchment, though the tea had never touched it. “She picked it up and couldn’t put it down. I had to cut her palm to get it loose.” Lucien’s mouth tightened. “How deep?” “Not deep. She wanted the collector’s address more than a plaster.” “That sounds like Eva.” He set the bag on the counter and approached the table. Rory shifted to block him. “You didn’t answer my question.” “About warning you?” “About coming here.” “I came because Eva asked for help.” “You could have sent someone.” “Someone who reads the old Avarosi script and knows how to handle a binding? There aren’t many.” “You know people.” “Yes.” His amber eye caught the light from the window. “That doesn’t mean I’d bring them into Eva’s home.” Rory drew her hand back from the parchment. Lucien laid his cane across two chairs, took a folded cloth from his pocket and spread it beside the fragment. “Don’t touch it,” she warned. “I heard you.” He used the corner of the cloth to turn the parchment. The ink shifted beneath the surface, black lines sliding past one another. Rory leaned closer. “It did that before. I thought my eyes were tired.” “Your eyes were fine.” “What does it say?” “Give me a moment.” He bent over the table. His shoulder brushed hers, and she moved away. Lucien noticed; the muscles in his jaw worked once before he returned to the text. Ptolemy jumped onto a chair and began licking the cane’s ivory handle. “Your bodyguard’s armed,” Rory told him. “He’s welcome to it.” “You’d give him the blade as well?” Lucien glanced at her. “You remembered.” “You showed it to me.” “You asked to see it.” “I asked whether you carried a knife. You made a production of it.” “You were impressed.” “I was concerned about your need for an audience.” He almost smiled. Rory looked back at the parchment before he could see the effect it had on her. Lucien tapped a mark through the cloth. “This named the person who made the binding. The name’s gone.” “Scraped off?” “Cut out. See the edge?” A narrow notch interrupted the line of script. Rory fetched a pencil and pointed to another. “There’s one here too.” “That held the name of the person bound.” “Both parties removed.” “Which leaves the terms.” He followed the text with the pencil. “A debt transferred through blood. The holder could claim it from whoever touched the page.” “Eva didn’t owe anyone anything.” “The page didn’t care. It took her blood as a signature.” Rory looked at the jar she had just put away. Eva’s bandage lay beside it, stained red where the cut had reopened. “How do we get her name off it?” “Her name isn’t there. Her blood is.” Lucien examined the brown ring. “The tea helped. It blurred the mark before it settled.” “I dropped the mug when she grabbed my arm.” “Then dropping the mug was useful.” “I’ll add it to my list of qualifications.” “I’d hire you.” “You already did. You just didn’t tell me.” The pencil stopped against the parchment. Lucien set it down. “Rory.” “Don’t do that.” “Do what?” “Say my name as though we were in the middle of a different conversation.” He pulled out a chair. It scraped against the floor, catching on a loose page of notes. He freed the paper and placed it on the table before he sat. “I didn’t hire you.” “You used my name to get access to the records.” “I gave them the name of a witness.” “A witness who had no idea what she’d witnessed. They came to the Golden Empress, Lucien. Yu-Fei had to tell them I’d gone home.” “I know.” “No, you knew they were looking for me. You didn’t know they stood at the counter while I hid in the kitchen.” Lucien’s gaze dropped to her left wrist. The crescent scar showed where her sleeve had ridden up. Rory tugged the cuff down. “I should have told you what I’d done,” he admitted. “You should have asked before you did it.” “They had your name already. If I hadn’t put you on the witness list, they could have named you as a party to the contract.” “And you decided I couldn’t understand that?” “I decided there wasn’t time.” “There was time to find me after. There was time to call.” “I called.” “Three weeks later.” “I was angry.” Rory stared at him. “You were angry?” “You found out from someone else and wouldn’t let me explain.” “I found out from a man who came to my door with a contract and a pair of horns. You sent me a message saying not to sign anything, then disappeared.” “I went to get the contract destroyed.” “You could have told me that.” “I know.” The words landed between them. Ptolemy jumped onto the table and pushed his head against Lucien’s hand. Lucien scratched behind the cat’s ear, though his eyes stayed on Rory. “You could have told me,” she repeated. “Yes.” She had prepared herself for his polished excuses. She had practised answers on delivery rides, at traffic lights, while waiting for customers to open their doors. His agreement left those answers with nowhere to go. Ptolemy placed one paw on the parchment. Both of them moved. Rory caught the cat around his middle while Lucien swept the cloth over the page. Ptolemy twisted, claws snagging her sleeve. “Traitor,” she muttered, depositing him on the floor. Lucien kept the cloth pressed down. “I can remove Eva’s blood from this. I need salt and a bowl.” “There’s salt beside the kettle.” He rose to fetch it, but Rory reached the counter first. She took down a bowl and found the salt behind a tower of unpaid bills. “You knew where the kettle was,” she said. “I’ve been here before.” “You haven’t been here for two months.” “Seven weeks.” Rory turned with the bowl in her hands. “You counted?” Lucien took the salt from her. “I had a calendar.” “Did it come with little crosses on the days?” “Only the days you ignored my calls.” She put the bowl on the table harder than she meant to. Salt spilled over Lucien’s fingers as he poured. “You made a joke.” “It was a poor one.” “Yes.” He brushed the grains into the bowl. His hand shook once, enough to send a few more onto the table. Rory watched him gather them. “You were angry,” she said. “Was that all?” He looked up. “No.” The cat rubbed against Rory’s ankle. She bent to stroke him, giving herself a moment before she straightened. “What else?” Lucien rested his hands on the table. “I missed you.” The curry house downstairs dragged a chair across its floor. Someone called an order through the kitchen hatch. Rory could hear the traffic on Brick Lane through the open corner of the window. “You had my number,” she told him. “I had no right to expect an answer.” “That didn’t stop you today.” “Today I had a reason to call.” “And seven weeks ago?” “I had the same one.” He looked at her mouth, then met her eyes. “I wanted to see you.” Rory gripped the back of a chair. The wood pressed into her palm. “You could have led with that.” “Would you have opened the door?” “I did open the door.” “You thought I was Eva.” “She usually brought pastries.” Lucien’s smile returned, smaller this time. Rory stepped around the table and stopped close enough to see rain caught along the seam of his collar. He smelled of wet wool and the sharp soap he used. His hand remained beside the bowl, open against the paper-covered table. “I missed you too,” she said. “That didn’t make what you did any less infuriating.” “I didn’t expect it to.” She touched the white mark on his thumb. He turned his hand beneath hers, and her fingers settled into his palm. “The salt,” she said. “It needs water.” “There’s a tap behind you.” “I know where it is.” “Then get the water, Lucien.” He closed his fingers around hers for a moment before letting go. At the sink, he filled the bowl while Rory folded back the cloth and held it clear of the parchment. “How much?” he asked. “Enough to cover it?” He glanced over his shoulder. “I thought you were the expert,” she added. “Half a bowl.” Rory moved Eva’s notes away from the edge of the table. Lucien brought the water across, and she held the cloth while he slid the parchment into the salt.