Run: 2026-10-27-01M5YJ6EWT0J8W3DDQ8E1MVKB3

Rory opened the door. Lucien Moreau stood on Eva’s landing with rain darkening his charcoal suit and one hand pressed beneath his ribs. His platinum hair had slipped from its usual sleek order. Blood shone on his fingers. For a moment, only the curry house downstairs made any noise: pans striking a hob, a man shouting for two portions of rice. “If you’ve come for Eva, she’s in Edinburgh.” “I know.” “Then you’ve wasted the climb.” Rory began to close the door. “There’s a barb in my side,” Lucien said. “I can’t remove it myself.” She stopped with the door half shut. His ivory-handled cane bore most of his weight now. The hand wrapped around it had gone white at the knuckles. “There are hospitals.” “Not for this.” “There are other humans in London.” His mismatched eyes held hers, one amber, one black. “Yes.” “That isn’t an answer.” “It’s the only honest one I have.” Ptolemy pushed between Rory’s ankles and sat in the doorway. The tabby surveyed Lucien, then gave an enthusiastic chirp. “Don’t encourage him,” Rory told the cat. Lucien’s mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She looked past him into the empty stairwell. “Who followed you?” “No one. I changed trains twice, crossed a roof and spent twenty minutes in the British Library reading about medieval beekeeping.” “You hate bees.” “I find their organisational success oppressive.” A drop of blood slid from his cuff onto the lino. Rory opened the door wider. “Boots off. If you ruin Eva’s rug, I’ll put the barb back.” He stepped inside without touching her. Ptolemy twined around his ankles until Lucien nearly stumbled, then led him into the flat as though conducting an inspection. Rory shut the door and turned all three deadbolts. Books covered the sitting room in uneven towers. Scrolls lay beneath mugs on Eva’s desk; research notes had swallowed the sofa and most of the floor. Rory cleared the kitchen table with one sweep of her arm, sending a stack of translations onto a chair, and spread a clean tea towel over the wood. “You weren’t above Silas’s,” Lucien said. “Eva asked me to stay with Ptolemy. You could have rung.” “You would have told me not to come.” “Yes. Then I’d have had a choice.” He lowered himself onto a kitchen chair. “You’re right.” “Don’t start agreeing with me just because you’re injured.” “I’ll save it for when I’m feeling stronger.” She fetched Eva’s first-aid tin and set it beside his cane. When she reached for his jacket, he caught her gaze. “No disappearing while my back’s turned,” she said. “No deciding what I can’t handle. And no calling this protection.” “Understood.” “Say it like you mean it.” His jaw tightened, but not at her. “No disappearing. No decisions on your behalf. No lies about why I’m here.” She helped him out of the wet jacket. His waistcoat followed. Blood had soaked his shirt along the left side, black in the flat’s weak light. He unbuttoned it far enough for her to reach the wound, then braced both hands against the chair. The barb sat below his ribs, no longer than her little fingernail. Dark metal. Fine grooves ran along the exposed tip. “My father’s work,” Lucien said. “If I touch it, the summons takes hold. At dawn, it pulls me back to Avaros.” “And if I touch it?” “Nothing, provided you don’t make a wish while doing so.” Rory picked up the tweezers. “You’ve waited three months to become funny again?” “Ninety-six days.” Her hands stopped. He looked at the table. “I wasn’t counting at first.” She took hold of the barb. “This will hurt.” “I had gathered that.” “Don’t be brave. It makes people do stupid things.” “I’ll endeavour to remain a coward.” She braced her free hand against his side. Heat came through his skin; his breath stirred the black hair at her temple. For one treacherous second, she noticed the familiar line of his throat, the place where his collar had opened, the restraint in the way he kept himself from leaning towards her. Then she pulled. Lucien’s whole body locked. The chair scraped against the floor. Rory turned the barb once, felt the hidden hook give, and drew it free. He folded forwards with a harsh breath. She caught his shoulder before his forehead met the table. “Got it,” she said. “So you have.” She dropped the metal into a saucer and pressed clean gauze over the wound. His hand covered hers—not holding it there, just resting over her fingers. “Look at the wall,” she said. “I beg your pardon?” “You’re watching my face.” “You have tweezers in your other hand. I’m assessing the risk.” “Assess the wall.” He obeyed. The wall offered Eva’s calendar, three takeaway menus and a sketch of something with too many teeth. Rory cleaned the blood from her fingers. “You kissed me beside that sink.” His gaze returned to hers. “Then you called it an error of judgement. You left while I was making tea, and by morning your number didn’t work.” “I remember.” “Do you? Because you’ve had ninety-six days to come up with something better than ‘I remember’.” Ptolemy jumped onto a book stack and began washing his paw. Lucien stared at the saucer. “My father summoned me. That explains the first night.” “It explains the train journey.” “Yes.” “What about the rest?” He drew a breath and winced. Rory’s hand tightened on the gauze before she could stop it. “At first, I told myself I was keeping you out of Avaros. Then I went to Marseille, and that excuse wore through. I could have written. I could have answered your message.” “I left one.” “I know.” “Then I hated myself for leaving it.” He flinched more cleanly than he had when she pulled out the barb. Rory sat opposite him. The first-aid tin stood between them, crowded with scissors, antiseptic and Eva’s collection of inexplicable dried herbs. “You knew what Evan was like,” she said. “You knew what it cost me to ask anyone for anything. Then you made me ask where you’d gone.” “Yes.” “Stop saying yes.” “What would you prefer?” “A reason that doesn’t make you sound mysterious.” His mouth twisted. “I was afraid. Not of my father. Not of what wanting you might cost me professionally. You had just got free of a man who made every choice for you. I watched you build a life here with one suitcase, Eva’s spare key and more nerve than I possess. Then you looked at me as though I might be something you chose, rather than someone useful.” “You think rather a lot of yourself.” “Frequently. It has never helped.” She refused to smile. Lucien turned his cane so the ivory handle faced her. A press of the catch would release the thin blade concealed inside. He left it within her reach. “I was useful,” he continued. “I knew which doors opened and which people to avoid. That was safe. Wanting to stay in your kitchen while you burned the toast was not.” “I never burned the toast.” “You were making tea. The toast was an optimistic addition.” “Lucien.” He sobered. “I made my fear sound like principle. There was nothing noble in it. I hurt you, and I left you to invent the reason. I’m sorry.” The apology sat between them without asking her to pick it up. Rory folded the bloodied gauze into a neat square. Her left sleeve had slipped back, exposing the small crescent scar on her wrist. Lucien noticed it, then looked away before she could interpret whatever crossed his face. “You don’t get to arrive bleeding and make that enough,” she said. “It isn’t.” “I haven’t forgiven you.” “I know.” “I might not.” He nodded. “And if you disappear again, you don’t get another speech. You can leave. People leave. But you say goodbye first, even if you think I’ll hate the reason.” “Yes.” She pointed the tweezers at him. “That time, yes is allowed.” He held out his hand, palm up, and waited. Rory looked at it. Then she put the tweezers down and laid her fingers in his. His thumb settled beside the scar, not over it. “I missed you,” he said. “That isn’t an apology either.” “No. It’s inconvenient information.” His thumb moved once across her knuckles. “I missed being wrong and watching you enjoy it. I missed the messages you sent when you delivered to peculiar parts of London. I missed the way you go quiet before doing something reckless, which is apparently the only warning anyone gets.” “I don’t go quiet.” “You went quiet before you kissed me.” “You kissed me.” “Did I?” She pulled her hand back. “You can sleep on the sofa.” “Eva’s sofa has attacked me before.” “Ptolemy attacked you. The sofa failed to help.” Lucien tried to stand. His legs abandoned the attempt, and Rory caught him by the forearm before he could sit down hard. “The barb’s gone,” she said. “Why can’t you stand?” “My legs are objecting to the last hour. Give them time.” “How much?” “An hour. Possibly two.” She guided him towards the sofa, shifting a pile of notes with her foot. He lowered himself onto the edge. Ptolemy immediately claimed his lap. Rory took an empty tea tin from the counter, tipped the barb inside and snapped on the lid. “Eva can examine that when she’s back. Until then, nobody licks it.” Lucien glanced down at the cat. “She means you.” “She means both of you.” When she turned, he was watching her again. This time she didn’t tell him to stop. “If I kiss you,” she said, “it doesn’t settle anything.” “No.” “You’re still sleeping on the sofa.” “You’ve made that admirably clear.” “And you don’t get to call it a second chance.” “What may I call it?” “The next ten minutes.” He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Rory crossed the small space herself and put one hand against his jaw. His breath caught. Hers did too, which annoyed her enough that she kissed him before he could comment. He kept his hand on the sofa until she drew it to her waist. Even then, he let her set the distance. There was nothing polished in the way his fingers tightened against her jumper, nothing rehearsed in the quiet break of his breathing when she moved closer. Ptolemy leapt onto the table and put his head inside the first-aid tin. Rory broke away. “Not the herbs.” Lucien kept hold of her waist for half a second longer, then released her. “Your cat has no respect for Avaros.” “Eva’s cat.” “That explains it.” She rescued the tin and set it on a high shelf. When she looked back, Lucien had gone still, giving her no help with whatever came next. Rory picked up the blanket from Eva’s armchair and dropped it over his legs. “An hour,” she said. “Then you tell me what your father wants.” “That may take longer.” “Then don’t waste time being charming.” She sat beside him, close enough for their shoulders to touch. Ptolemy rearranged himself across both their laps. Lucien moved his hand to the cushion between them, palm up again. Rory took it. “Start with Marseille. Leave out nothing this time.”