Chapter Twenty-Six: Terrance

"No." I said it strongly. I dug deep in my gut to find something I didn't know was there. "There's nothing to think through—it's done. You have no choice other than to kill the girl tonight."

Lyewkin looked down and to the side as my chest stung so hard I winced. I was almost more staggered to have raised my voice than as I was to have used the words "kill" and "Esselle" so naturally together.

What was this case doing to me?

It was a morning of sweeping nerves. Today was the last of the month, the final showing of our latest play, and the night in which the right wing was reserved for the king and queen of Diamond Theater. How could I be anything other than restless when I would be pinned for the evening's blunders?

I made for an easy punching bag. To stick up for myself would be to fan the flames. I'd take the embers any day.

Not to mention, up until moments ago, I had assumed Stoney's very son would be missing in action for the umpteenth time.

He may as well have been if his best bet was to come up dry.

"I don't think you understand the way your father works," I uttered, "He will never take no for an answer, and whether you like it or not, someone's head will end up on a pike. No way you spin it makes it fair."

"Unless it's Stoney's head."

I gulped. "You wouldn't kill your own father." It was almost a question. For a moment, Lyewkin didn't say a thing, and I thought that perhaps—perhaps he would.

"No," he said at last, "I wouldn't." For whatever reason his words did not relieve me.

"Then it seems the choice has been made," I acknowledged, peering out the window in search of the redhead I'd considered myself lucky to know. My gaze met a crowd, larger than usual, tucking her away from view.

After the longest pause of them all, Lyewkin softly quaked, "But I cannot kill her." He slumped into a chair and leaned over his legs, resting the tips of his elbows onto the flesh above his knees, and fiddling with the chain of his pendant that still snaked his fingertips. "It's the only thing I know for certain."

The look on his face said it all.

"You feel something for the girl." This was not a question. It was a statement. One in which Lyewkin refused to approve or deny as he kept deathly still.

He shook his head and veered the conversation back to its intended purpose.

"I'm going to tell Stoney that Esselle is the thief. Antolie will back the sentiment, as will you," he professed, "And I will be thwarted from claiming that I killed her."

"He'll demand you do so as quickly as possible," I cut in.

"And I will." His words were deliberate. "Or I'll say so. In truth, it'll buy Esselle a night to pack her bags, and the two of us will catch the first ferry out in the morning."

"You'll spend the lot of your life on the run," I warned, "Stoney doesn't like people knowing his secrets, and he likes losing much less. And he has about half of Pale willing to bend over backwards to lick his boots."

Lyewkin nodded his knowing. "I've always yearned to city-hop anyway."

"And Esselle?" That silenced him.

"I don't know." His eyes were downcast as the three words escaped his tongue—almost somber. "She'll have to leave her grandfather."

"The shopkeeper?" I queried. Lyewkin gave another nod.

That man was a fossil to be sure, but he was a treasure—that much I could tell in one visit. He made for the most helpful of vendors. I swear the geezer could have sold me just about anything.

"I liked him," I admitted, which made Lyewkin's desolation all the more tangible, "But I'm sure she will adore your company just as well. Give it time. Surely getting on with you beats death."

"Let's hope so…" Lyewkin shot me a ghost of a smile before looking back down at his hands. After a moment or two, he shrugged, "I've always been rather foul. Not in a lustful way or anything like that—I just made a habit of snubbing women. Not that it's any excuse, but the men I was raised with weren't exactly lady-libbers." He looked up at me. "It's the Gods getting back at me isn't it? They made sure a woman was the blight of my life." He chortled and stared off into space. "No one ever warned me the Gods were witty."

"The Gods certainly have a sense of humor," I agreed. And the two of us sat in what peace we could find before the real hellfire sparked at our feet.

I enjoyed Lyewkin's company. If he wasn't resolved on setting sail, I think the two of us would have made for good friends.

➸

The night was an utter disaster—one Stoney would have my head plattered for—lest a heart-attack distinguish my misery first. Esselle was dressed in the same rags she wore yesterevening. And to make matters worse, they were doused, top to bottom, in red wine.

Seeing as Willow was incompetent at mixing spirits—and her only strong-suit, charm, was miles away given the stress—the bar was a mishmash. There was no better way of putting it—dog's dinner if detailed lightly.

Then one of the ushers—Djinn spite him—vanished to the washroom in time to miss seating, making which a creeping debacle. Stoney flashed me a sidelong glare, and I could practically read his mind. If the last of our patrons is still up and searching for their seat when curtains open, you know where the door is. I nearly swooned before taking the absent usher's place and running rampant about the rows, urging patrons this way and that.

And then there was the issue of a baby, a crying baby. Because, for reasons unbeknownst to me, someone couldn't leave their blubbering bundle with the nanny. I swore under my breath before running it out to the foyer by its armpits—where it refused to pipe down for a good half hour.

But nothing—nothing—in all my years of babies, ushers, and unruly patrons compared to this.

The dreadful meeting of the Diamonds and the Diamond in the rough to parley sin.

The tension in the chamber could be cut with a knife. And to think Lyewkin eyed me when Stoney ordered three beakers. Surely he wasn't naive enough to think I was in any position to solicit my own glass. Who was I to assert my opinion? I was shocked that Stoney requested my presence in the first place. That in itself was more than enough heed for me.

"Tobin. Leave us," Stoney demanded. His voice was smooth as butter, but no mistakes could be made, every syllable was condescending.

His courtier nodded and offered Lyewkin the final glass of red wine on his way out.

Lyewkin swirled the wine around in his glass before lifting it to Stoney's salut.

"To good health," Stoney bellowed, "And a lofty fortune." I watched awkwardly as the three men lifted their glasses, but before they could draw their first sips—and before the courtier could see his way out—Esselle burst through the double doors, wide-eyed and short of breath.

I gulped and shrunk further into my seat.

This wasn't good.

No. Esselle, without realizing it, just crashed the gate of her tomb. My eyes instantaneously found Lyewkin's, and for the briefest moment, he wasn't the cool, calm, and collected rogue I knew him to be. For the briefest moment, he was a bundle of nerves. I could tell by the way his smirk was swept into a void.

He was running out of moves.

And I was on the verge of that heart-attack again. I found myself secretly wishing for it.