Rune glanced at Gideon in the dark, her face heating.
Were they…?
Was this…?
The gaslights flickered on.
Two young men entered the room—both in the midst of undressing, their hair messy, their lips swollen from kissing—and froze at the sight of intruders.
“Bart?” said Rune, staring at the redheaded boy whose unbuttoned shirt gave them a full view of his chest.
“Rune?” said Bart, his mouth falling open as he looked from her to Gideon.
Rune drew the gun at Gideon’s hip and raised it. “Call for help, and I’ll shoot you both.”
The young man beside Bart lifted his hands in surrender. He was shorter and stockier than the Wentholt heir, his complexion darker, and unlike Bart—who was wearing a three-piece suit in complete disarray—he wore plain clothes.
“I thought you were dead,” said Bart, raising his hands. “Both of you.”
Bartholomew Wentholt had always been the silliest boy at every party. His obsession with himself and his constant bragging about his newest purchases—be they shoes or carriages or tea sets—got him easily dismissed. Bart was the heir to amassive estate, and therefore an excellent catch for any girl looking to increase her station, but his annoying personality put off most families.
Rune studied Bart from across the room. Perhaps it was his disheveled state, but she found someone very different from that empty-headed aristo staring back at her.
“Who else is in the house?” asked Gideon, who hadn’t risen from his chair. Likely because the act of doing so would put him on the floor.
“My maid, Bess,” said Bart. “No one else.”
“And who knows you’re here?”
Bart shook his head. “No one.”
Rune glanced to the young man at his side. He’d been utterly silent since entering the room. “Who’s this?”
“This—”
“Antonio Bastille.” The boy interrupted Bart. “I’m a cook employed by the Wentholts. What’s wrong with him?” He nodded toward Gideon, who looked like he was trying very hard not to fall out of his chair.
“He’s been shot. We hoped to find supplies here.”
Antonio dropped his hands to his sides. “I’m trained in the healing arts. I can help him.”
His way of speaking was too formal for a cook, and a little strange. Rune couldn’t place it. She tightened her grip on the gun, unsure if she should trust him. But Gideon needed help—desperately—and thus far she hadn’t been able to provide it. Hesitantly, she lowered her pistol and stepped aside, nodding for Antonio to approach.
She kept her finger on the trigger.
“If you hurt him—”
“I took an oath before the Ancients,” said Antonio, rollingup his sleeves as he came forward. “I can’t hurt any living thing. Can you help me take off his coat?”
“Antonio was an acolyte,” said Bart as Antonio undid Gideon’s buttons. “From the Temple of the Ancients.”
It was where Rune had tried to summon the Roseblood heir. The same temple that had been destroyed during the revolution and its acolytes either killed or driven underground.
Had Antonio been there the day the Blood Guard stormed the temple? Had he seen the slaughter with his own eyes?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s horrible, what they did.”
Antonio only nodded, silent, as he finished unbuttoning Gideon’s coat. Rune helped lean Gideon forward, and together they carefully stripped off the blood-soaked coat. The white shirt underneath was stained red.
