“Jumping at nothing at all,” she chided herself. The knock came again, more urgent this time.

“Who’s there?” she called out.

“Open this door, Miss Semyaza. We need to talk.”

It was her landlady, Mrs. Ruth.

Celeste opened the door, and without preamble, Ruth extended a hand, the morning paper in it. She peered at the headline and flushed. Here was her opening bid, the cards she had dealt on her visit to Grace at the Howler.

“Well.” Ruth shook the paper at her. “Take it!”

Daily in hand, Celeste walked to the table, Ruth on her heels. Celeste took a deep breath and braced herself before flattening the paper across the table and reading.

Goetia’s Favorite Songbird Kept in Deplorable Conditions! Did the Virtues Arrest the Wrong Woman?

Celeste quickly skimmed the article, and there it was as she had relayed it to Grace, or at least the more sensational parts. The dark cell, the lack of food and water, the bruises on Mariel’s face.

She flashed Ruth a half smile, which she did not return. Celeste did not care. It was good. Anything to draw the Virtues out of the shadows where they operated with near impunity, and all the better if Grace’s headlines could turn public opinion in favor of Mariel.

“Miss Semyaza.” Ruth’s sharp tone drew her attention. Now she could see her landlady was furious. “One thing I ask of you, the only thing I ask of you and your sister”—and the way she said “sister” was a warning that Celeste was not going to like what came after—“is to keep this house out of the papers.”

Celeste perused the article again. She had asked Grace not to mention the boardinghouse, and the reporter had agreed. Had she decided to do it anyway? “I don’t see a mention of the Elysium House.”

“It says Mariel Semyaza’s name right there.” She stabbed a finger at the offending sentence.

“Come now, Mrs. Ruth, it is unlikely that people will see her name and think of the Elysium House.”

“Easy enough to look her up in the public records. Why, I’ve already had a reporter from the Herald and two curious citizens stop in this morning alone.”

The reporter she could understand, but the others? “Whatever for?”

“To gawk, mostly. One asked to see the murderess’s rooms. And offered me a fair sum of money for it, too.”

Celeste was horrified. “What did you do?”

“Sent him on his way, of course.”

How disconcerting, to know that strangers thought your pain a spectator sport. But perhaps she should have expected it.

“Mrs. Ruth,” Celeste said, herself shaken now, “surely you can’t blame Mariel for this.”

“It may not be her fault, but it is now a problem for all of us. I can’t have you bringing attention here. There are too many vulnerable souls under this roof. I don’t need the Virtues poking around.”