“Alistair Lowry was never a good man, but I never thought…” Tangled up in her voice was grief and rage. “Some of them raised him. Some of them loved him.”

“You will have justice,” Hal said, “if it’s the last thing I do.”

“Good.” Hannah rose from her seat, dusting off her apron. She wore her prim expression, brows arched and lips pursed, like armor. “Then I suppose I should let you both get back to work.”

With that, the three of them slipped back into the grand hall. A new wave of servants seemed to have arrived in the few minutes they’d been gone, transforming the house yet again. They’d hoisted chandeliers, twinkling with red gemstones and red lights, above banquet tables draped in dark fabrics. Wren breathed in the delicate smell of flowers; bouquets of deep purple calla lilies and black roses spilled from a nearly waist-high vase. She paused to admire the scene, but before she could say a word, a voice cut through the buzz of the room. Wren’s heart plummeted like a stone to the bottom of a lake.

“Out of my way! Begone, all of you.”

A group of servants clustered on the second-story landing scattered like billiards to the edges of the staircase. Lowry emerged from the middle of them, descending the stairs so quickly he seemed to glide. The sight of him snatched her breath away.

He stood at the landing above them, clutching an overfull glass of dark wine, which lapped hungrily at the rim. He had forgone his usual jaunty red in favor of solid black, from his polished boots to his billowing tailcoat to his ribbon-wrapped top hat. The only bright contrast was his ever-present key, winking gold at his throat.

A bolt of realization struck her. Of course. How could she have overlooked something so obvious? The bloody fingerprints coating it on the night she’d caught him in the east wing.

“Hal,” Wren whispered. “Look.”

His eyes flashed with recognition, just as Lowry noticed her. She caught Hal’s wrist. His forearm tightened; then, his fingers went slack. With the pads of her fingers, she painted the grooves between his knuckles. He took her hand in his. They needed each other to survive this, as they always had.

Lowry’s even stride faltered as he drank them in, hand in hand. Something strange flickered across his face: fear. Then, in an instant, it vanished, as if she’d imagined it altogether.

Today, all his warmth was gone. In its place was cold fury. Wren nearly staggered back at the force of it. He alighted on the ground floor and stalked toward them with such purpose and malice radiating from him, she feared he would lunge. Hal placed himself between her and Lowry.