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“Is that why you became a Harbinger?” I say.

He glances at me, as if checking whether my question is an accusation or an insult, but I simply stare back at him.

At last, he says, “I wasn’t a bartender. But I did work at a bar.”

I blink. “As a teenager?”

“They needed a pianist for their happy hour, and I wrote my own music.”

“You must’ve been good,” I say.

He smiles a little. “I drew a decent crowd.”

His study at Thorn’s estate, the framed sheet music, the grand piano. It all makes so much sense now, the way he has surrounded himself with memories of his past life.

“Why did Thorn choose you?” I ask him. “If you were a pianist? You sound better suited for the goddess of Love, or the god of Music.”

For a moment, he looks as if he’s about to give me an answer—but then hesitates and turns quieter. “Because people liked me,” he replies, “and I was very good at using that to my advantage.”

I frown a little. “What do you mean?”

“People would stop me before and after my performances, tell me how good I was for my age. And I’d just make up a story about how my family was suffering. I gave every person something different. My mother has cancer and we’re struggling to pay for her treatments. My aunt lost her job. My sister was in a car accident. My father died, and he was our family’s breadwinner. I was a good storyteller, so they always listened with fascination.”

A con artist, in a way. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I feel my heart sink in disappointment, all the same.

He looks out at the Thames at the bottom of the hill. “And people would murmur their sympathies. They’d give me so much more money than they would have for just my performances. One woman wrote me a check for a thousand euros, wishing my mother well.”

“None of those stories were ever true?” I ask.

He toys idly with his fork. “They weren’t entirely lies. My family needed the money, so I just kept doing it.” At last, he looks back at me, a mix of emotions in his gaze. Guilt. Resignation. A quiet shame. “But the sturdiest of lies are the ones scaffolded by truths.”

A storyteller. A musician. A liar, cheating people out of their money. I try to be angry with him, but I can’t. Instead, I feel the cool slide of his silk bracelet against my wrist, and think of how it was a gift from his mother. My heart twists, because I know that every Harbinger begins with a tragedy.

“What happened, then?” I ask. “How did Thorn come to you?”

Étienne stares out at the Thames, his eyes following the shimmering ribbon.

“There was a fire,” he answers. “I went back for someone. It was fast.”

A fire. Suddenly, I imagine myself in his place on a fateful evening, stepping into the cozy, dark space and seeing a cluster of patrons all turned in his direction, their attention riveted on a boy sitting at the piano. Look at him, I imagine them murmuring to one another. A wunderkind. And then I see the smoke curling thick and dark in the space, hear the panicked calls of people trying to get everyone out. The sound of sirens wailing outside. I imagine Étienne staggering through the dark interior, choking, eyes wide with feverish light. Thinking, even in that moment, about what his family would do without him. How they would survive.

“I’m sorry,” I say, because I mean it.

He shrugs. “My family couldn’t afford for me to die. They needed my income. So when Thorn came to me in that final moment with his offer, I agreed. Why not? I still send them money Thorn gives me. Under our enchantment, they don’t question where it comes from. But I guess they’ve never really known how dirty my income was.” He laughs a little at himself, a bitter and hollow sound. “Maybe it’s just how things have to be.”

For a while, we sit in silence, watching the light weaken and the shimmering ribbon of river turn darker.

“And you?” he asks.

I expected the question, but it’s still hard for me to answer, and for a while, I struggle to get the words out. Still, he had told me the truth. I owe him a truth in return.

“I became a Harbinger to save my best friend.”

He looks at me now. The colors of dusk shift the hue of his hair and the glint in his eyes, and for a moment, I’m distracted by the change. It’s strange to see his gaze so open, his expression so vulnerable. Gone is the sarcastic smile and lifted eyebrow, the teasing demeanor and smug arrogance. Now he looks mournful. He looks like he understands what it feels like.

“You gave your life for someone else,” he says.

“Well.” I swallow uncomfortably. “She was all I had.”