“They were good friends, I heard. That’s why gangsters don’t have friends. Because one day, you might have to put a bullet in their head.”
—A legend of the North Side
ENNE
Morning meals at Enne’s finishing school had always been extravagant affairs, with frittatas in scallion cream and teas mixed with flower petals. In the Spirits, each of the girls washed down stale bread with spiked coffee, their dark under-eye circles hidden beneath the day’s copies ofThe Crimes & The Times.
“Did any of you feed Roy yet?” Enne asked.
“Why can’t we just get rid of him? He barely eats his food, and he still refuses to talk,” Grace grumbled. Her eyes—like Enne’s—were only half-open, and she slid her plate away to lay her head against the table. The lockdown had cost the Spirits thousands of volts in a matter of weeks, and both Grace and Enne had stayed awake through the night discussing possible solutions. Without success.
“Because until the occupation of the North Side is lifted, Jonas suspended our meeting indefinitely.” Enne poured herself a mug of sugar with a side of coffee. She desperately needed caffeine, but she couldn’t tolerate the drink’s bitterness any other way. “Marcy, why don’t you take something up for him to eat?”
Marcy’s face had been permanently flushed since Roy arrived, and Enne’s suggestion made her choke on her toast. “Me?”
“He only eats if Grace brings him his meals,” Charlotte said.
Enne furrowed her eyebrows. “Why?”
Grace stabbed her butter knife into the table. “He has a death wish, probably.”
In the hall outside the dining room, there was a giggle. All of the girls looked up groggily, eyes squinting at who could possibly be in such a good mood at this hour. Enne counted heads and noticed one was missing.
A figure darted past the archway, but not fast enough for Enne to miss the bluntly cut black hair and a pair of leather combat boots...and someone who looked an awful lot like Tock. Lola turned the corner into the dining room wearing a lopsided grin. She stopped abruptly when she saw them all. “You’re all up early.”
“It’s not that early,” Enne pointed out.
“Oh, well...” She cleared her throat and sat down in the last empty seat at the table.
Grace shot Lola a coy glance. “Aren’t you always complaining about the Iron boys?”
Lola poured herself a cup of coffee, very carefully avoiding their stares. “Theboys, yes.” She smirked as she took a sip, and her comment was met by several snickers. Then she examined Enne and Grace with narrowed eyes. “You both look terrible.”
Enne downed her coffee and forced a half smile. “We’ve never been better—”
“You’re both going upstairs and taking the day off,” Lola declared. “Charlotte can handle the numbers today.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened. “So can Marcy.”
“Either way,” Lola grunted, “you’re both useless like this. Go sleep.”
Grace needed little encouragement. She staggered up and wordlessly left the room, her eyes fluttering closed as though she were already drifting off.
Enne, however, hesitated. If they were communicating with other lords or with investors, she needed to be available.
“Go,”Lola told her sharply, and Enne, both defeated and grateful, climbed up the stairs and collapsed into her bed.
* * *
Enne roamed the black-and-white hallway in her dreams, and the first door she opened led into a classroom. Unlike those at Madame Fausting’s, these girls carried schoolbooks rather than firearms.
The teacher at the front of the classroom read down the roster. “Erienne Salta?” she asked. Her neatly plucked eyebrows furrowed at the name, and she looked up, scanning the students with confusion. Her gaze fell on an empty desk in the back of the room.
“Who?” one of the girls asked. The others around her shrugged in equal bewilderment.
The teacher crossed off the name and moved on.
Enne closed the door with an acute feeling of distance. Only one summer had passed since she’d last seen those girls, but a scene that would’ve once brought her to tears now only left her empty. Erienne Salta no longer existed.
