The knock came just after midnight.


    Measured. Deliberate.


    Rebecca stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. The house was dark, save for the dim glow of an oil lamp on the mantel. The fire had burned low, embers reduced to dull coals. Outside, the street lay silent beneath a shroud of cold mist.


    She had been expecting him. Dreading him.


    And now, he was here.


    She moved toward the door, willing her hands steady despite their trembling. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, so loud she feared he might hear it.


    She hesitated.


    For a fleeting moment, she considered leaving the door unanswered, pretending to be asleep. But no—Reginald Blackthorn was not a man who accepted avoidance as an answer.


    A second knock. Louder.


    Rebecca exhaled shakily and unlatched the door. The moment she cracked it open, a gloved hand pressed against the wood, forcing it wider.


    Reginald stepped inside, uninvited.


    The air in the room seemed to constrict, tightening like a rope drawn taut. His presence was an imposition, a heavy weight settling over the space. He was sharply dressed, as always—his dark coat tailored to perfection, his gloves pristine, and his expression carved from ice.


    Rebecca swallowed.


    Behind him, half-hidden in the gloom of the walkway, his familiar lurked—watching. Though she could not see its face, she felt its cold and patient gaze pressing against her spine.


    “You took longer to answer than I expected, sister.” Reginald’s voice was smooth, effortless. He removed his gloves one finger at a time. “Were you hoping I’d go away?”


    She said nothing.


    Rebecca shut the door, her throat tight. She refused to let her gaze linger on the creature following him inside. Instead, she turned toward Reginald, whose eyes were already sweeping the room with dispassionate coldness.


    “Beth is upstairs,” she said.


    He tilted his head as if considering this fact.


    “Then let us keep our voices low,” he murmured, voice smooth as silk.


    The familiar slithered into the shadows of the parlor, claws clicking against the wooden floor.


    Reginald moved toward the mantel, trailing his fingers over a porcelain ornament as though he found the modest home quaint.


    “You had one task, Rebecca,” he said lightly. “And you failed spectacularly.”


    “I followed the plan—”


    Reginald raised a hand.


    “I have no interest in excuses.” His voice remained calm, though beneath it lay something sharper. “Henry Wright still breathes. The boy is dead. That is the only fact that matters.”


    Rebecca’s fingers curled into fists. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. I was careful—”


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    He raised his hand again, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might strike her.


    “‘Careful’ would have meant the untimely death of a grief-stricken man, a quiet tragedy soon forgotten. Instead, we have a child murdered—allegedly by his father. A sensational story, making headlines from London to Liverpool.”


    His stare pinned her in place. Each word cut like a blade.


    “And now? A police investigation. A trial looming on the horizon. And who, dear sister, will be at the very center of it?” He tilted his head. “You. The indispensable witness. Tell me, does that sound like careful to you?”


    She clenched her jaw, hands twisting together.


    “And as if that weren’t enough, we now have interlopers poking around, asking questions.”


    Rebecca’s stomach twisted.


    Cordelia Greaves. The strange, inquisitive woman with the sharp eyes. And her companion—Elsbeth. Yes. That had been her name.


    Reginald studied her intently, lamplight flickering across the sharp angles of his face.


    “Who has come sniffing about?”


    She hesitated. Any sign of reluctance would only make him suspicious.


    “A woman,” she said. “Carrying a letter from Henry’s solicitor. I put it with the other papers.”


    Reginald tilted his head. “Her name?”


    “Cordelia Greaves.”


    He showed no noticeable reaction, but something shifted—a flicker of recognition.


    “Interesting.”


    Rebecca forced her breath to steady.


    “Only the one?”


    “No. Another young woman accompanied her. She gave her name, but I do not recall it.”


    Reginald’s gaze lingered on her long enough that her skin prickled. Then, slowly, he smiled.


    “Then let’s move on, shall we?”


    His tone lightened, but the cold edge remained.


    “Despite your failures, our arrangement still stands.” He turned, casting a glance toward the desk. “You have located Wright’s research?”


    Rebecca hesitated. She had some of Henry’s notes, but they were incomplete. Pieces were missing—important ones.


    Reginald’s smile thinned.


    “Well? Tell me you at least accomplished that.”


    “I retrieved what I could.”


    “Which means you failed.”


    Rebecca’s throat tightened. “I did what I—”


    “What you could, yes. How convenient.” His voice was like glass—thin, fragile, but with a blade’s edge.


    “You always did lack resolve.” He stepped closer. “Tell me, sister, did you retrieve these notes by charm? Or was it something else?”


    She stiffened.


    “We both know what you suggested, Reginald.”


    A low chuckle. “Indeed. And did he believe your whispers? Did he tell you what you needed to know in the throes of his drunken fornication?”


    She flinched at the mockery in his voice, his cruel accuracy.


    He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “Tell me, dear sister, were the documents hidden because your snooping made him wary?”


    Rebecca cast her gaze to the floor.


    Reginald clicked his tongue. “Tsk. Another failure.”


    Then his patience snapped.


    “I waste my breath. What do you have?”


    She swallowed, her voice unsteady.


    “I have fragments. The formula is incomplete. Henry hints at a solution but laments the lack of a suitable test subject. That was Dr. Hayworth’s concern.”


    Reginald considered this.


    “Yes. When last I spoke to Elias, he swore they were close. The serum worked, but the effects were temporary. The affliction always returned. Unfortunate.”


    He adjusted his gloves.


    “If Wright does not have the missing pieces, we will find another doctor who does.” He extended his hand. “Fetch the papers.”


    Rebecca obeyed. When she returned, he took them without inspection. His expression had grown cold, but a flicker of amusement danced behind his eyes.


    “There is something you should know,” she said. “He knows your connection to Hayworth. He—he knows your name.”


    Reginald stilled.


    Then, with a hiss of irritation, he struck his boot against the floor.


    “That is most inconvenient.” His voice turned to ice. “And an excellent reason why he should be dead.”


    Rebecca took an unconscious step backward.


    Reginald did not follow. He merely studied her as if calculating something.


    After a long silence, his voice sharpened.


    “I have yet to recover the artifact. If you are keeping something from me—”


    His lips curled.


    Rebecca’s stomach turned to stone. But she met his gaze, steady.


    “We have been over this, dear brother. I know nothing of an artifact.”


    Reginald took a slow step toward her.


    “Because it has everything to do with you, whether you realize it or not.” He exhaled. “Rumsfeld was clever. I’ll grant him that.”


    The name sent a chill through her.


    Reginald watched her reaction with amusement.


    His smile returned. He turned toward the door, setting a hand on the latch.


    “Do not disappoint me again, Rebecca.”


    A pause.


    “Next time, you might not be the one who pays for it.”


    The door clicked shut behind him.


    Rebecca barely registered the familiar slithering after him.


    She turned toward the room where her daughter slept.


    She had never been more afraid.


    And never more certain.


    She had to find a way out.