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“I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. That room…” she shudders again. “Be thankful you couldn’t see it. It was filled with the most grotesque images. Hugh had scribbled all kinds of things on the walls. The words, ‘my prince,’ and ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘I stole it,’ over and over and over.”
“Hugh did it.” The cold reality settles in my chest. “That’s the only explanation. Hugh is Edward’s murderer.”
“This is terrible.” Bree rests her head on my shoulder. I squeeze her, hating that she is sad but liking the way she fits against me and the swell in my chest that I can comfort and protect her. “I don’t want to tell Edward that his friend murdered him. I don’t want to think of it, that someone could have pushed him out that window simply for being who he is. All this because Hugh didn’t want him around anymore. Why can no one see what I see in him? Why must his life be so tragic? It’s notfair.”
“But it is also wonderful. Now that we have found Edward’s murderer, we can set him free.”
“But Edward is always rejected, always left behind.” Bree’s voice grows small. “Even the people Edward thought were friends would push him out a window and let him rot outside for three days—”
“I’m sure that’s not true—”
“Itis, Ambrose. I know you don’t like to think of it, but that’s what Edward will see as soon as we tell him. Edward cannot see Hugh’s secret room. It will break him. But you’re right, we need to show Edward that letter, explain that we know it’s Hugh who killed him. Edward deserves a second chance at life, to be the man he was never allowed to be in his first. But we’re never going to get him to set foot in the door of this museum. And I can’t say that I blame him.”
“Then we must bring the letter to him,” I declare.
“How will we do that? I don’t think the museum lends out artefacts to wayward Lazarii.”
“Then we must steal it.”
* * *
“I can’t believewe’re breaking into amuseum,”Bree says as Quoth unlatches the lock on an upper window with his beak. “Being alive has corrupted you, Ambrose Hulme.”
After I’d convinced Bree to return to the museum after dark, she fired off a quick text to Mina. Half an hour later, a very pooped raven dropped onto Bree’s shoulder and offered his services as an expert lock pick.
“It’s a pity I’m not a ghost anymore,” I muse as we wait for Quoth to poke around inside. “I could simply walk through the wall.”
“Yes, but then how would you pick up the map?” Bree asks. I hear the smile in her voice.
“Easy. You’d be outside with a moldavite in your pocket. You would be on guard for anyone who might try to thwart our illegal shenanigans.”
“And suppose someone did try and, how do you say, thwart our shenanigans?”
“Why, I would leap out of the wall and frighten them away,” I say proudly. “I can be quite terrifying, you know. Ask Kelly Kingston.”
“Oh, I know.” Bree is struggling to hold back her laughter.
“I would frighten them into a stupor, giving us ample time to escape, in the spirit of a fat cock.”
Bree’s laughing so hard that she struggles to speak. “Do you mean, with big dick energy?”
“Precisely.”
“It seems you thought of everything. Too bad you’re not a ghost anymore.”
“While I admit that I miss some aspects of the spirit life…” I lean forward and touch my lips to hers, “I much prefer being a man.”
“I much prefer you as a man, too,” Bree murmurs against my lips. Her fingers tangle in my hair, and she pulls me closer. “Ambrose, I can’t stand it anymore. I need you.Allof you.”
I swallow. I can’t deny that my mind has been much occupied with thoughts of our first night together as woman and ex-ghost. And my gentleman’s staff has been rather insistent about his desires. He’s so stiff around her that it’s becoming difficult to walk. Right now, he’s standing to attention, and I shift my weight so he doesn’t jab into Bree’s leg. A gentleman must retain some respectability.
Although, right now, I’m not thinking about respectability. I’m thinking about how amazing Bree’s tongue feels against mine, and how much I’d like to undress her and run my hands all over her beautiful curves, and kneel between her legs and taste her.
“The timing has not been right. I’m certain when we’re finally able to…” I search frantically for a descriptor that hasn’t come from Pax or Edward’s vocabulary, “…make love, it will be beautiful and special and—”
“Screw that. I just want you inside me. Ithasto be tonight. I think I’ll die of desperation if I have to wait another day—”
“Ow.” I rub my head. “What was that?”
