Again I’m hit with a wave of uncertainty. That came out of left field. Does he suspect?

“I don’t think I understand,” I say slowly. “How did we move from endings to justice?”

“You asked me what I believe in,” he says. “I believe that a lot of the things we strive for in this life are either unattainable, illusions, or a matter of luck. Like security, happiness, or even . . . well, love. But justice . . . I think we can actually have that. I think that if we work for that, if we make justice a primary ambition, then it’s attainable. It’s the philosophy I live by.”

“But . . . you’re a banker.”

Lander breaks out in a laugh so rich and warm I can’t help but join in. “I guess I wasn’t thinking in professional terms,” he admits. “I was thinking more along the lines of . . . of social justice, I suppose.”

“Ah.” I study my ring. “I think I get it. Justice is . . . well, it’s a good goal. Very noble. Maybe even attainable, for some—but I’m not sure it is for everybody. It’s . . . elusive sometimes, I think.”

“Even for the goddess of war?”

“Battles are never easy, not even for the Roman gods.” I button the shirt quickly, my eyes now on the floor. “But I’m not craving justice right now anyway,” I lie. “All I’m craving is a drink.”

He smiles. It’s a knowing smile. It’s disconcerting. “If it’s important to you, I’ll get us drinks.” He starts to get up, but I put out a hand to stop him. I lean in, touch my lips to his.

“Stay where you are,” I whisper as I pull away. “Tonight, at this moment, I want to serve you.”

He doesn’t respond; he isn’t meant to. I smile teasingly and leave the room.

My bare feet pad lightly against the cold hardwood floor, down the hall, to the living room, where the bar is. I reach for the cognac. A strong drink, both rich and flavorful. I select two brandy snifters, pour the liquor, and then, over one glass, gently tap the garnet on my ring. The stone moves aside, revealing a miniature pillbox that forms the base of the ring itself.

A pillbox filled with white powder.

I was surprised by how easy it was to find such a ring and by how affordable they are, as if poison rings are just novelty items, as if their name means nothing.

And no one expects sinister acts from a woman wearing pretty antique jewelry.

I smile as the crushed sedative slips into the drink.

When I reenter the bedroom he’s waiting for me, watching me . . . but he sees nothing. Not really.

I step over a discarded pair of jeans. “You shouldn’t be so careless about where you leave your clothes, Lander.”