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Even if someone did sneak close, they’d only find disappointment. Max lived a very boring life, if you didn’t know where to look. A master architect had hidden secret rooms on each level, employing space and optical illusions to great advantage. He’d also dug below ground, cutting into the limestone at great expense. Lila knew it was there, but she had never asked to see any of it. Max valued his privacy.
Dixon tucked his notepad into his back pocket and marched up the drive. Lila hitched her satchel further on her shoulder, a satchel with all her work on the oracle’s case. She and Dixon had not thought it wise to leave it in the cabin, and leaving it in the truck would only invite one of Max’s spies to investigate.
She rapped on the knocker, a roaring lion crafted in silver, and cast a glance at Dixon. His curiosity had outrun his cautiousness, but he tucked his purple scarf more snugly around his neck, knotting it tightly so it would not reveal his scars.
Lila knew it wouldn’t help.
Max’s butler opened the front door, offering a bow. Not a speck of surprise infected his gaze. “Madam.”
“We’re here to see Max. He sent me a message.”
“And who might I say is accompanying you?” He cast a wary eye toward Dixon.
“A friend. A trusted friend.”
“My master’s friend or yours?”
“Mine.”
The butler’s eyes flicked toward his wristwatch and away again. It may as well have been an earpiece, with Max whispering his instructions while watching the entire interaction from his office. Lila wondered where he’d stashed the cameras. If she ever had to go head to head against Max Earlwell on security, she’d lose. Everyone would.
“Come in, madam.” The butler led them into the parlor, bowing himself out after they turned down tea and hot chocolate. “I’ll let my master know that you’re here.”
Lila gazed at the puffed blue furniture, the marble sculptures, and the paintings fixed to the steel beams that bordered each glass panel.
Dixon pointed to the water line outside, lapping fifteen meters beyond a wooden porch.
“Before the draught, it came even closer. I used to worry that it would swallow the whole house if it rained hard enough.”
Dixon whistled his awe.
“My sentiments exactly,” Max called out through the open parlor door, his voice muted by the glass panels. He descended from the glass staircase and entered the parlor. He wore a gray sweater and plain black trousers cut from expensive cloth. His boots had been cobbled to imitate the plain and generic fashion of the workborn. A hiding prince might have commissioned them, all to stride among his subjects in anonymity and comfort.
His face might have been sculpted by the gods to hide as well. His hazel eyes and brown hair, as well as his bland resting expression, ensured no one would remember him five seconds after ignoring him on the street. He dyed his hair for just such a purpose.
And the neutral expression? It was as false as his hair color.
Max covered the parlor in three long strides and snatched up
Lila, twirling her around before putting her back on her feet. “How have you been, you little minx?”
“Better.”
“Who have you brought into my home?”
“Dixon Leclair.”
Max peered at his visitor. He shook Dixon’s hand, their grips warring on the downswing. “He’s a highborn from his bearing, a slave in his past, and now he’s nothing at all. He employs himself dangerously and has been shot or stabbed recently in the leg. He spends time around cars, likely a garage, though he doesn’t work there. I’m guessing an apartment over one, though he doesn’t stay there lately because he’s been spending a lot of time with you. Dixon is not his real name. He’s mute.”
Dixon snatched his hand away abruptly.
“You bought him that scarf. He wears it often. He likes it almost as much as he likes you.”
“Stop playing.”
Max didn’t take his eyes from Dixon. “A friend of Lila’s is a friend of mine, until the friend is not a friend any longer.”
“You said—”
