Maybe the gods had put it here to remind him.

He took a deep breath and met FitzRoy’s gaze, veins cooling, calming. Whatever the twisting in his stomach said, he was right in this. He tore the pin from FitzRoy’s shirt and held it up, the ruby eyes glinting. “She killed Avice Ferrers. I will not feel guilty about her facing the justice she deserves.”

FitzRoy blinked once, twice, then he burst into laughter, taking a step back and doubling over.

Slipping the pin in his breast pocket, Knigh frowned, backing away. The man was addled—he’d be no help. Knigh threw open the door.

Still laughing, FitzRoy shook his head and wiped the corner of his eye. “If only you knew the truth about Avice Ferrers.”

And now he was trying to twist her memory, too.

Teeth clenched, Knigh slammed the door and stormed away.

Iron & Irony

The drink did no good.

He’d tried whisky. He’d tried rum. He’d tried stout. He’d even tried gin—good old mother’s ruin.

And none of it made a damn bit of difference.

You’ve just come here to make yourself feel better, to soothe the guilt keeping you awake at night.

FitzRoy’s words kept coming to him again and again.

She had killed—murdered an innocent girl. For all she played the roguish hero, Vice was a murderer.

But … You’ve just come here to make yourself feel better, to soothe the guilt keeping you awake at night.

Growling, Knigh shoved his hands in his pockets. The sharp edge of the shell bit into his fingertips.

Wild Hunt take the damn thing. He snatched his hands out and fisted them at his sides. He’d been walking through the streets so long, the fuzziness of the alcohol had started to wear off. Even the sparse lamplight was too bright, lining the city streets with far too much clarity.

The drink was supposed to help him forget. That’s what Vice had recommended before, and it had helped back in Arawaké.

But here, now, it just left him hollow. Aching. Tired.

So damn tired.

Along the street, a lady sat in a window lit by a lamp, her gown cut scandalously low, a little too much rouge on her mouth. The sign above the door confirmed it: Mrs Pettigrew’s Parlour for Entertainments. A brothel.

Being in Vice’s arms had helped him forget before, had soothed his churning emotions, had even helped quieten the anger he carried for Father. Perhaps …

But looking at the lady as she caught his eye, cocked her head, smiled, beckoned, he couldn’t summon the slightest wish to join her inside, even though it would have been warmer than out here in the cold night air.

He clenched his jaw and strode past. His damn body still only wanted her.

And maybe in a way it was right.