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Étienne dismisses them, then turns to me, his eyes wandering briefly across my face before holding my gaze. To my dismay, heat floods my cheeks.

“Yes?” he says in greeting.

Keep your enemies close, Rose, Raven had told me.

I’m not sure he intended it like this.

“What are you doing?” I blurt out.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Existing in my own home?”

“I meant—” I wheel one hand helplessly. My head hurts even more. “—this—”

“Maybe I should ask what you’re doing, interrupting me as I’m getting ready,” he says. He crosses his arms over his chest, making every muscle more pronounced, and if I’m not mistaken, the slightest hint of a smile curls at the edge of his lips.

I could slap him.

At our awkward silence, the messenger coughs politely and bows low to Étienne. I’d forgotten that he was there. “Regent,” he says. “Lord Raven has sent his Regent-Elect to see you.”

I open my mouth to clarify, while fighting to look anywhere else except Étienne’s bared chest. “I’m just here to ask a few questions,” I say, “so I won’t be bothering you for lon—”

“It’s no bother, Regent-Elect,” Étienne interrupts, nodding once at the messenger to dismiss him. “Please. Come in.”

The messenger bows and takes his leave. When we’re alone, Étienne runs his towel through his hair and slings it across one shoulder, then waves me inside, closing the door behind us.

The room is spacious, a foyer leading into a hall that curves sideways. The first chamber on the hall’s left is a piano room that holds a beautiful Steinway, while the chamber on the right is a library of sorts, with a desk and couches covered with papers, books, and letters. A clean collared shirt is draped over the desk’s chair. Other shelves hold odd little trinkets. A shell. A purple stone. A framed sheet of original music, the writing an elegant scrawl. A vintage vinyl album, which reminds me of Laine. A fountain pen trimmed with gold.

After all the grandiose places I’ve seen in London, this space is oddly cozy—the clutter and imperfection of a human being, all the interests and aspirations and flaws on display before me. I linger curiously on his collection of objects. The careful way he has arranged them tells me their worth.

“They’re gifts,” he says, noticing my interest.

I admire the intricate shell that is cut in half, displaying the dozens of empty, spiraling chambers within. “From who?” I ask idly.

“Ex-lovers,” he answers, tucking his hands into his pockets.

I swallow hard and nearly choke. In embarrassment, I look down, only to notice the lines of his hip bones disappearing inside the waistband of his pants. Frantically, I shut my eyes and rub my forehead, as if nursing my headache. My face is on fire now. At least I look genuine.

“That’s a lot—I mean, of very nice gifts—” I stammer back, “—and thoughtful. Of you. Them, I mean. What for?”

Étienne tilts his head at me. “What do you think?”

This is getting so much worse. Raven must be more detached from human emotions than I thought, if he really believed I was capable of seducing anyone to draw them closer. “I mean, obviously,” I say. “I mean, not that kind of obvious. Of course.” Gods, stop talking, Rose. Raven help me, I need to leave this place.

Étienne laughs a little. “You fall for everything, don’t you?” He shakes his head. “The stone was given to me while I was on a mission in Indonesia. The fountain pen was my father’s. The framed sheet music was from my mother, of my first composition when I was a kid. And the shell was a gift from my sister.”

Of course he was messing with me. I want to snap back at him, but his expression is genuine now, and I stop to take in his real explanation.

His sister. His father. His family. Vestiges of a human life, all severed when Étienne became a Harbinger.

His face reveals no hurt, but I don’t need to see it to know that he misses them.

I take a deep breath. “They’re very nice,” I say, smiling awkwardly, unsure how best to respond. The knot of my emotions turns even more jumbled, and I find myself wishing I could step back out and redo our entire greeting.

He finally spares me further embarrassment by turning away toward his library’s desk, his bare feet padding softly against the wood. “Ma fleur,” he says casually over his shoulder as he moves to grab his shirt, “you desperately need some lessons in how to lie properly. I don’t know how you’ve gotten this far in life.”

I don’t dignify him with an answer to that. But as he turns his back, my annoyance morphs into shock.

Crisscrossing the muscles of his back are a series of jagged scars. They are horrific—old wounds that have healed into ugly streaks, marring the lithe appearance of his body.