I watched the drip of water into the basin where the shape of me was rippling. The deep blue of the frock set the red in my hair aflame, my cheeks glowing with rouge.

My skin was too warm beneath the dress. The room Zola had put me in at the tavern had a hearth stacked with a blazing fire and a bed stuffed with soft down on which I hadn’t been able to bring myself to sleep.

I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress. There was no amount of luxury that could wash him clean of what he was. If I had to guess, I’d say the scar on Willa’s face and the Marigold’s slashed sails were probably the least of his sins.

The silk hugged my body tightly, the skirts swishing as I made my way down the steps into the tavern. Clove and Zola sat at a table in the farthest corner drinking rye. They were both dressed in fine tailored coats fit with shining brass buttons, unruly hair trimmed and combed back away from their windblown faces. A flicker of recognition flashed before my eyes. Clove had always been rough around his edges, but he looked younger in the expensive green wool, his blond hair shining.

He sat up straighter when he saw me, setting down the rye glass he was sipping from, and I was instantly embarrassed, catching my reflection in the window. My hair was pulled up in loose curls, pinned to make a halo around the crown of my head, and the light shimmered over the frock.

I looked utterly ridiculous.

“Well, well…” Zola’s eyes dragged over me from head to toe. “What do you think?” He stood from the chair, showing off his coat with a flourish of his hand.

I gave him a withering look. “I think I’m ready to get this over with so I can get the hell out of here.”

Clove drained his glass before he stood and opened the door of the tavern. The cold wind rushed in, making me shiver. I’d decided to leave the cloak Clove purchased for me in the room because when I’d set it on my shoulders, I felt like I was suffocating beneath its weight. Still, the cold was a welcome relief from the heat simmering under my skin.

Clove had given me his word that in a few hours, he would tell me the truth. Tomorrow, I’d be on my way back to the the Narrows. I’d be able to find the Marigold before West did even more damage than what was already done.

The heels of my shoes clicked as I walked in Zola’s wake. Despite his attempt at arrogance, I could see he was nervous. He was missing the usual rock to his gait, his mouth pressing into a hard line as he moved down the street. He watched the ground, thinking. Measuring. Calculating.