When he was finished, he sat back on his heels, sweating. “We’ll take him back to the house,” he said, dragging a hand over his brow. “I’ll need to monitor his progress over the next few days, to make sure he stays stable.”

“Thank you,” Dorothy said, breathless. “Charles . . . I can’t . . . thank you.”

Dorothy wasn’t entirely sure how long she spent crouched over Ash’s bedside. Hours? Longer?

She hadn’t slept or eaten since they’d arrived at Avery’s house, and she took little notice of the people who flitted in and out of the room, usually Charles, come to check on Ash’s progress, or one of the housekeepers come to bring food that Dorothy didn’t touch or even look at. None of them interested Dorothy enough to convince her to pull her eyes away from Ash’s face.

Was there a little more color in his skin, perhaps? Had his breathing steadied? Was that a flicker of his eyelashes?

She held her breath, leaning closer.

She barely heard the creak behind her that signaled a door opening, or the light footsteps that trailed across the floor, but she couldn’t help but notice the sudden heaviness that filled the room, like a change in the temperature. Frowning, she looked up.

Her mother stood behind the chair just next to Dorothy’s, fingers wrapped firmly around the back of the seat, her eyes straight ahead. Dorothy felt every muscle in her body tighten.

“Mother,” she said, sitting up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” Loretta gave a stiff laugh. She sat, straightening her skirts with a flick of her hand. “You have the audacity to ask?”

“I can explain,” Dorothy rushed to say.

“Explain?” Loretta lifted a thin eyebrow, looking amused. “Go on then. Explain.”

She tilted her head, waiting. Dorothy felt her teeth clench together. She’d nearly forgotten how good her mother was at making her feel small, like she was still a naughty child begging forgiveness for clumsily knocking over a water glass or speaking out of turn. It was a talent, really.

You ran gangs and took over cities, Dorothy reminded herself silently. You stole jewels from kings.

You have no reason to fear your mother.

“Mother,” Dorothy said. “I—”

Loretta clucked her tongue, cutting her off. “Perhaps you’d like to start with how you managed to ruin our chances at gaining more wealth and power than you or I have ever seen in our short, difficult lives?” Loretta’s upper lip curled ever so slightly as she leaned forward, picking at one of Dorothy’s white curls.

“Or, maybe, you’d care to explain this. Or . . . this.” She gestured to the scar cutting across Dorothy’s once-beautiful face, her expression crumpling with disappointment, as though Dorothy had just destroyed a precious family heirloom. Which, Dorothy supposed, wasn’t too far from the truth.