“Don’t call me that.” Elle groaned as she shifted to sit. She’d fallen asleep in her dancer’s tights, and a long run traced up each calf. It’d piss her off once she noticed, but the patrons of the Foghorn and Fiddle down the street wouldn’t care. One squinting look into the wine bottle to make sure it was empty, and Elle shoved off the couch to stand. “Michal isn’t awake, we don’t have to pretend to like each other.”

It was extremely obvious to anyone with the misfortune of being in the same room as the two of them that Lore and Elle didn’t like each other, and Elle’s older brother knew it better than most. But Lore just shrugged.

Elle pushed past her into the kitchen, the spiderweb cracks on the windows refracting veined light on the tattered edges of her tulle skirt. She peered into the pot. “No coffee?”

Lore tightened her hand around the cloth knotted in her fist. “Afraid not.”

“Bleeding God.” Elle flopped onto one of the chairs by the pockmarked kitchen table. For a dancer, she was surprisingly ungraceful when sober. “I’ll take tea, then.”

“Surely you don’t expect me to get it for you.”

A grumble and a roll of bright blue eyes as Elle slunk her way toward the cupboard. While her back was turned, Lore tucked the straining cloth into the lip of her mug and poured hot water over it.

Still grumbling, Elle scooped tea that was little more than dust into another mug. “Well?” She took the kettle from Lore without looking at her. “How’d it go?”

Lore kept her back turned as she tugged the straining cloth and the tiny knot of coffee grounds from her cup and stuffed it in the pocket of her dressing gown. “We’re paid up for six months.”

“Is that why you look so disheveled?” Elle’s mouth pulled into a self-satisfied moue. “He could get it cheaper across the street.”

“The dishevelment is the fault of your brother, actually.” Lore turned and leaned against the counter with a cat’s smile. “And barbs about Madam’s girls don’t suit you, Elle-Flower. It’s work like any other. To think otherwise just proves you dull.”

Another eye roll. Elle made a face when she sipped her weak tea, and sharp satisfaction hitched Lore’s smile higher. She took a long, luxurious sip of coffee.

Another knock, shivering through the morning quiet and nearly shaking the thin boards of the row house.

Elle rose up on her tiptoes to look out the small window above the sink, head craned toward the door. She raised her eyebrows. “Your boss is here.”

Swearing under her breath, Lore plunked her mug on the counter with a dangerous clink of porcelain and strode toward the door.

“Hey,” Elle whined from the kitchen. “There was too coffee!”