WHEN GIDEON FINALLY ARRIVED back in Old Town, with his father’s wine-soaked jacket in hand, he’d gone over his evening at Wintersea House several times in his mind.
Had he made a mistake, moving so fast? He’d noticed the way Rune trembled beneath his touch and had a feeling she deliberately dumped that wine on him.
He’d come on too strong.
Gideon sighed, going over tonight’s events one more time. Rune had certainly been a little awkward, if not downright odd. First, there was the weirdness with the wine. Then, her dismay over the telegram invitation. And last, her questions about his work while she tried to seduce him.
It wasn’t enough to accuse her of anything. For that, he’d need some concrete evidence. Casting scars, for example. If she had them, he needed to find them.
And if she isn’t the Moth?
If she wasn’t, why invite him to her bedroom? Why flirt so shamelessly?
Unless she was actually interested in him.
Not possible, thought Gideon.
He trudged up the lamplit streets of Old Town, mulling everything over. It was foggy tonight, and as he approached the street leading to his tenement, the soft sound of footsteps echoed behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder, but the fog was thick as smoke.
As the sudden smell of roses bloomed in the damp air, a chill skated over his skin.
She’s dead, he told himself. You’re imagining it.
Still, thinking of the body they’d found beneath the bridge three nights ago, he increased his pace.
The footsteps quickened in response.
Gideon’s stomach knotted. He reached for the pistol holstered at his hip, only to remember he’d left it at home tonight. The opulent halls of Wintersea House were no place for a gun.
You’re a Blood Guard captain. Footsteps in the fog do not scare you.
But it wasn’t the footsteps so much as the smell.
Her smell.
He was coming upon a footpath that led into the back alley behind his tenement. It was difficult to find if you didn’t live in this neighborhood and already know it was there. As the footsteps started closing the gap between them, Gideon arrived at the opening to the path. He sidestepped onto it and pushed his back against the wood fence.
If the pursuer knew about the path and followed him down it, at least he’d have the element of surprise.
The footsteps grew louder. Closer.
Gideon tensed, ready to defend himself, when the footsteps passed him
by.
He remained where he was, holding his breath. The fence behind him
sagged as he leaned against it. As the footsteps receded into the distance, the pounding of his heart soon drowned out the sound.
The smell of her was gone.
Had it ever really been there, or was it all in his head?
You’re an idiot. It’s probably a lamplighter heading home for the night.
Pushing away from the wall, Gideon remained on the footpath, taking it to the back of his tenement. The door there didn’t lead to his apartment directly, but through the abandoned space below: the old tailor shop that once belonged to his parents.
Gideon boarded it up years ago and rarely had a reason to enter it. Earlier tonight, however, he’d gone inside looking for fabric and sewing
needles to stitch Rune’s flower.
The shop’s interior door opened onto the stairwell leading to the apartments above. Gideon entered the shop and was halfway to the door when something made him stop.
I don’t have a dress to wear, Rune had told him. My seamstress is booked until next month.
Gideon fumbled through the dark until he found the matches he’d left near the door earlier this evening. He lit a lamp and the flame’s orange glow illuminated the room: walls lined with bolts of fabric; a large worktable for measuring, cutting, and sewing; a back room for taking customer measurements; and a front counter with a dusty old register.
Gideon stalked toward the fabrics, where a dozen leather-bound notebooks lay stacked on a shelf.
He hadn’t touched these notebooks since his parents died. They were full of his father’s notes and his mother’s sketches, detailing her original designs.
Gideon lifted the only blank notebook from the shelf, grabbed a piece of charcoal from the jar next to it, and pulled a stool up to the worktable.
If his mother were designing a dress for Rune Winters, what kind of dress would it be?
He started sketching. The black charcoal burst across the white page as he thought of Rune on the love seat: her rose-gold hair flaming in the light of the lamps; her skin flushing as his fingers traced her; her pulse stumbling as he leaned in to kiss her.
Again, he scolded himself for intimidating her. But she was the one who’d invited him back to her room. She had summoned the wine.
She had made the first move.
Either way, he needed to keep up this charade. If she was the Moth and the one leaving corpses scattered across the city, the closer he got to her, the easier finding evidence of her crimes would be. And if she wasn’t, someone close to her likely was, and it would still be in his best interest to infiltrate her inner circles by courting her.
If she’d let him, that is.
Gideon’s plan was forming on the pages of his mother’s sketchbook.
He kept drawing until he’d ripped out more pages than what remained in the book. He kept drawing until the side of his hand and wrist were black with charcoal and his spine hurt from bending over so long.
It was dawn by the time he had a design he didn’t hate. One he could work with.
The question was: would she like it?
