Page 46 of Twisting Beauty

Folded handkerchiefs, corners aligned flush with the drawer edge. A plush tray filled with expensive watches. A Mont Blanc pen still in its holder. I pressed my fingers to the base of the drawer, ran them along the sides, found nothing taped underneath.

Nothing labeled: Evil Plan and How to Thwart It.

A girl could dream.

I pushed it shut and opened the last drawer.

There was only one item inside. A rosary, delicate chain, small wooden beads in pine green, a tiny silver cross at the end.

Of course it was his. Alistair with his chapel voice and his godly veneer. The twisted irony of a man like him fingering beads in prayer almost made me laugh. Almost.

Then I frowned. The chain was broken. So why had he kept it?

I placed it back exactly where I’d found it and closed the drawer.

I crossed to the dresser and opened it one drawer at a time, careful not to disturb the brutal neatness of it. His shirts were folded into exact squares, collars stacked, cuffs aligned, each one smelling faintly of starch and that same wormwood-and-medicine scent that had soaked into the room.

I slid my hand between the layers, checking for anything hidden beneath them, then lifted each pile carefully and set it back exactly as I’d found it. Socks rolled in matching pairs. Undershirts folded flat. Even his nightclothes looked disciplined. Nothing stuffed into corners. Nothing forgotten. Nothing careless enough to help me.

I moved to the bookshelves next and started pulling books out at random, one by one, keeping track of where each belonged before easing it back into place. Theology. War strategy. Irish history. Latin texts. Leather spines and gilt titles and the occasional margin note in a hard, controlled hand. I rifled through pages, looking for anything tucked inside. A letter. A receipt. A pressed note between chapters. Paper dust clung to my fingertips as paper whispered under my thumb.

I checked behind the rows too, running my hand along the back panel in case something had been taped there. Then I crouched to search the lower shelves, paging through more books, faster now, pulse climbing with every second I wasted.

Shit. So far I’d found nothing that could save anyone.

Nothing about Magdalene. Nothing about the girls. No files. No ledger hidden between book pages or taped behind the dresser. No evil manifesto.

Either he kept the dangerous things elsewhere, or he hid them well enough that I’d never find them. Christ, why did I think this would be simple?

“What are you doing?”

I spun toward the gravelly voice, heart crashing against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Lorcan was in the room, standing between me and the closed door, my only exit, arms crossed over his chest, his expression freezing into a cold, assessing mask.

I hadn’t heard the door, not a creak, not a step, nothing.

The room seemed to shrink around us. Alistair terrified me. Lorcan came close enough that the distinction barely mattered.

I locked my knees and kept my chin up, because showing fear was practically a confession.

He started toward me, every step deliberate, the slow approach of someone who knew I had nowhere to run.

“Go on…” His voice dropped, almost coaxing. “You can tell me.”

God, he was worse when he was pretending to be friendly.

“Just looking for a book,” I said.

He had me cornered before I’d registered his movements, arms braced to either side of me, the bookshelves cold and hard against my back.

His voice dropped lower. “You’re very bad at snooping. Even worse at lying.”

“I’m not⁠—”

“This is new.” His fingers brushed the lace at my hip.

My thoughts skidded sideways. It was the skirt I’d spotted in a vintage shop window when Nuala dragged me into town. Still black, still Rua’s color, but at least it was mine. Lacy and flowy and pretty, something I’d have chosen for myself.