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Lore didn’t know what to expect. By the wall, Bastian looked ready for a fight—shoulders loose, fists curled.
But Val threw her arms around Lore and hugged her tight.
Of the hugs they’d shared, it was the longest. Though there’d only been three before this, all carefully cataloged in Lore’s mind, so maybe that wasn’t a fair metric—Mari was the softer one, the mother more likely to give comfort. Still, after the initial moment of being frozen in shock, Lore returned the embrace just as tightly, her anger forgotten in the familiar scent of Val’s hair, the familiar rasp of her shirt against her cheek.
“Oh, mouse.” Val’s voice was choked and hoarse. “I’m so glad you’re all right.”
Lore didn’t respond. She tucked her chin, burying her face in Val’s shoulder, and hoped the older woman didn’t feel the warm salt seeping through her work shirt.
Lore didn’t let herself really cry, though. That was a dam she couldn’t strike just yet; there wasn’t time.
She had a better hold on herself when they broke apart, tears drained away, chin steady. “I understand why you did it,” Lore said softly. “I know he’d been watching since… since Cedric. And Mari said he threatened to hang the whole crew.”
Val’s eyes were tired. She nodded and ran a hand over the scarf holding her pale hair in place. “He made it sound like it’d be good for you, too. Living in the Citadel, where your… your condition could be better understood. He made it sound like they’d teach you about it.”
Lore shifted uncomfortably. It pained her, to hear that Anton had used the promise of teaching her to make Val agree. It made her wonder how often Val had wanted to help and just not known how.
The old poison runner’s sinewy arms shook as she placed her hands on Lore’s shoulders. “If I’d known they were tracking you, I would’ve protected you,” she murmured. “I hope you can believe that.”
“I believe you,” Lore murmured. And it was true. “I’m sorry I brought this all down on you, Val.”
“Don’t.” Her mother gave her an impatient little shake. “This isn’t your fault. None of it. I’m just glad you’re here, and you’re fine.”
“Not that fine,” Mari said. “What with the man in the cart turned to stone, and all.”
Val’s eyes widened. “Pardon?”
“It’s a long story,” Lore sighed.
“Save it, if you want.” Val had finally noticed Gabe and Bastian. The grizzled poison runner eyed them both warily, one hand dropping from Lore’s shoulder to hover over the leather holster on her hip. Val always had a pistol. “I’m more interested in the not-stone men currently in my warehouse.”
Lore opened her mouth, trying to run together cover stories, but she needn’t have bothered. Of course Bastian beat her to the punch.
“Blaise,” Bastian lied, with a bow. “And my surly friend is Jean-Baptiste.”
Gabe’s jaw flexed at the flowery false name Bastian had given him. It was almost a relief to see annoyance spike across his face, something different from cold detachment and simmering anger.
“And the two of you know Lore how?”
Bastian didn’t falter at all beneath Val’s shrewd eye. “We’ve been helping her in the Citadel,” he said, skirting close to the truth without revealing it. Then, with a wry smile, “Us outsiders have to stick together, my lady.”
“Don’t my lady me.” Val’s eyes swung from Bastian to Lore, calculating. “If Lore trusts you, so will I. But something easily given is easily taken away, and if you put so much as a toe out of line, I will cut it off.”
“We wouldn’t dream of it,” Bastian replied. “All appendages will stay exactly where you want them.”
Val gave him a curt nod, apparently placated. “Now,” she said, crossing her arms. “What are you planning to do about the stone fellow?”
The complete lack of a plan shook out something like this: Bastian, ever the charmer, chattered mindlessly as he and Gabe lifted the strangely light stone man from the cart and propped him against the wall. Lore caught snatches of shipping talk, questions about whether Mari and Val ever frequented the boxing ring—the answer was a resounding no—and comments on the excellent camouflage they’d constructed for the warehouse, but she was only half listening. All her concentration was on Milo, the human being she’d knit death around, and how she could unravel it.
If she could unravel it.
“Will he remember?” she asked Gabe quietly. “When he’s… un-stoned?”
His answer came low, and chilly as the wind soughing off the sea. “In the few times this has happened before,” he said, with a deliberate tone that said he highly disapproved of every single time, “the victim hasn’t remembered much from the last few hours before they were attacked. He likely won’t recall seeing us at all.”
Victim. Attack. Deliberate choices of language. Lore’s shoulders hunched.
Gabe’s fingers flexed in and out of fists, an unreadable look in his one visible eye. “So how do you want to do this?”
