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The performance ends with Olive standing center stage, chin lifted, one hand resting upon the handle of her cane like a queen awaiting tribute, as the room erupts. Lazarus does not clap and neither do I. We simply stare as the curtains begin to close. Olive’s gaze remains on us until the very last inch of velvet steals her from view. Silence hangs between us. He grips my thigh tightly. Then Lazarus speaks at the same moment I do. “That’s our girl.”

We turn to one another. His eyes narrow and so do mine.

“Interesting,” I say.

“Very,” he replies.

And somewhere within the shape of that shared sentence, I realize the situation has become far more complicated than either of us is prepared to admit.

17. When the Animals Are Silent- Olive

FERAL

Morrigan is not waiting for me, that is the first thing I notice when I enter my chambers. The second is silence.

My dear ocelot is many things, but quiet has never been one of them. By now, she should have leaped upon the bed, knocked something expensive to the floor, or stared at me with the royal disappointment of a queen forced to tolerate common company.

“Morrigan?” I call.

Nothing. A prickle crawls along the back of my neck. I pause near the doorway, listening. The house answers with stillness. Perhaps she is sulking or perhaps she has decided the wardrobe is her palace again. Perhaps I am simply too tired, and my mind is making ghosts out of shadows. At least that is what I tell myself as I undress. The lie is useful for approximately three minutes.

Steam curls through the bathing room, softening the marble walls and blurring the gilded mirror above the washstand. The bathwater is hot enough to blush my skin, and lavender oil floats across the surface in glimmering little pools.

It should soothe me, but it does not. My body is exhausted, yet my mind refuses to quiet. Jack is dead. The women are not returned and never will be. The city has its monster. The papers will have their story, and still, beneath my ribs, something claws. Guilt. Rage. Pressure. All of it winding tighter and tighter until I fear something inside me will split. I sit upon the edge of the bath, my robe gathered around my waist, and stare down at my thighs. There are old shining scars there.

My old sins. Old survivors. Some pale, some raised, some nearly vanished unless the light catches them cruelly enough.

I tell myself I only need the pressure to lessen. Only a little, only enough to breathe a little bit. The blade is small in my hand. The familiarity of it flirting with my spirit. I hate it, I want it, then I press it against my skin. The first sting cuts through the noise in my head and my eyes flutter close. For one brief, shameful moment, the world narrows to something I can control. Then a voice rises from the corner of the dimly lit room.

“Oh, darling,” it purrs. “Are you trembling because you are thinking of us, or because pain remains your favorite little prayer?”

I freeze. The blade slips from my fingers and clatters against the marble. Slowly, I lift my gaze. A man stands where no man should be. Half-hidden in the shadows near the far wall, arms crossed, one boot braced lazily behind him. The candlelight catches white-blond hair, sharp cheekbones, and a smile that is nearly Alcott’s.

Nearly. My pulse turns cold.

“Alcott?” I whisper.

An intimidating chuckle answers me, then; “Not quite, love.”

The words slide over my skin like a blade drawn flat. I reach for my robe, dragging it down over my thighs as I order, “get out.”

He tilts his head. “There she is. Commanding even with blood on her skin.”

“Get. Out,” I order once more.

“Mm. No,” he states dryly.

My hand moves toward the pistol hidden beneath the towel rack.

His smile widens. “I moved it.”

My stomach drops. He steps forward, and the shadows seem reluctant to release him. He wears Alcott’s face, Alcott’s body, Alcott’s elegant hands, but the posture is wrong. The eyes are wrong and the air around him is wrong. Alcott feels like danger disguised as charm, and this man feels like a locked door opening in the dark.

“What are you?” I ask.

He presses a hand to his chest with mock offense. “Not who. What. How cutting.”

I stand too quickly. My knees nearly betray me, but I force them still.