He was the man from the library dedication, the one who’d asked about Sophie. What was his name? Taylor. Mr. Alexander Taylor. I buried my hands in my cloak, remembering the sensation of oily lotion moistening my palms.
“Ah, the Fashion House’s little country girl. You’ve been out and about lately—I was worried Madame Jolène would keep you locked up at the Fashion House, but she’s done just whatwe asked.” Gone was the look of boredom that he’d had the last time he saw me—though the arrogance remained. His gaze leisurely ran the length of my body. “So, tell me, have you spoken with Miss Sophie Sterling yet?”
A new sort of fear, this one somehow more insidious than the terror I’d felt outside the office, came swiftly over me. Mutely, I shook my head.
“Funny.” He moved toward me, his steps as slinking and agile as a wolf’s. The men in the office fell silent, watching us. “Considering she’s your roommate.”
The color left my face—I could feel it draining away. As he approached, his dark form seemed to block out everyone and everything else in the office with its expanse.
“You don’t know how things work in the city,” he said, “so it’s best you learn this quickly: I brought you here, and I can just as easily have you sent away.”
A hand closed around my upper arm, and I let out a yelp of terrified surprise, twisting around to see Tristan behind me.
“Emmy is none of your concern,” he said, his eyes fixed on Mr. Taylor’s face. Gently, he moved me aside so he could step in front of me. Tension radiated from him, creating taut lines down his neck, arms, and shoulders. Mr. Taylor was much taller than Tristan, and he smiled condescendingly down at him.
“Calm down, Grafton,” he said. “I was just welcoming the country girl to the city. After all, she has the Reformists Party and me to thank for even being here. Now, I have business with you. Come, let’s talk.”
He moved off to the side of the room, away from the otherreporters. He didn’t check to see if Tristan was following.
“This won’t take long,” Tristan said to me. “Do you mind waiting just a moment?”
I nodded, glad that Mr. Taylor’s attention was now on him instead of me. Tristan walked over to where Mr. Taylor waited near the printing press.
“There’s going to be a protest at the gala.” Mr. Taylor didn’t preface his news. He spoke quietly, but I could still hear him, just barely. “Nothing violent, of course. Just a few concerned Parliament members and some allies. But I thought you might want to come, considering you often cover such things.”
I listened, startled enough to forget my unease. A protest at the gala? Certainly, things were tense between Parliament, the Crown, and the Fashion House, but a protest?
“Was this something you orchestrated?” Tristan asked. He crossed his arms across his chest and stared up at Mr. Taylor, undaunted by the bigger man. “Hardly seems like something a government official should be involved in.”
“I care only about results, Grafton. How I get them is inconsequential.”
Despite his obvious dislike of Mr. Taylor, a thoughtful look entered Tristan’s eyes.
“You know the queen is close to Madame Jolène. In fact, she’ll be an honored guest at the gala.”
“This country has been ruled by the queen and her old ways long enough,” Mr. Taylor said. His low tone was tense, passionate. “The Reformists Party is ruled by the future. The protest must happen.”
Tristan nodded briskly, his hand diving into his pocket for a notepad. He quickly wrote something on it.
“All right.” He returned to his previous posture, staring up at Mr. Taylor, shoulders and chest squared. “You’ve delivered your message. I think it’s time to go.”
Mr. Taylor considered Tristan for a long moment, and then, with a smooth movement, replaced his top hat and brandished his walking stick.
“Whatever our differences, you’ll do well to align with me.” He walked past Tristan, brushing hard against his shoulder as he moved into the center of the room. “You’llalldo well to align with the Reformists Party,” he said, speaking louder to address everyone in the office.
The reporters glanced up at him, perplexed by the sudden, impromptu announcement. Unperturbed, Mr. Taylor made his way to the door, stepping outside with fluid grace.
“I hope he gets pickpocketed,” one of the reporters said as soon as the door closed behind him.
“It would serve him right, the way he walks around like he owns the place.” Another reporter joined in.
“How about we get some air?” Tristan made his way over to me. I nodded.
Tristan gestured toward the back door, and, relieved to be heading in the opposite direction from Mr. Taylor and the vagrants, I followed him out of the office.
We headed up the narrow alleyway behind theEagle. Tristan offered me the crook of his arm as we stepped around the broken cobblestones and puddles of sewage. His shirtsleeves werestill rolled up, and his bare skin was hot, his muscles flexing underneath my fingers.
“Who exactly is that man? I met him before, at a library dedication.”
