Page 54 of Razors & Ruin

“Here,” I say. “Go find the secretary to the officer for health, he’ll be at his offices on Harley Street. Put that in his hand, right?”

He takes the letter and pockets it. “What do I get?”

“A pie. But not until you come back. And if you con me, I’ll find out, and I’ll be back over here with my whip.”

I watch him go, a feeling of grim satisfaction warming me. About time someone reported Jill Bellefonte’s disgusting rat-pie-flogging establishment; I’m performing a valuable public health service.

The fact that her shop is the closest to mine doesn’t hurt, either. Getting her inspected and shut down will increase the foot traffic through my doors.

Back at the shop, I wipe my hands on my apron and head for the storeroom, glancing through the trap.

The view is atrocious; splatters of crimson and a crumpled heap of limbs flared at unnatural angles where the unfortunate victims landed on the unforgiving stone, smashing their bones to smithereens.

It’s like looking at a splattered fly, and I wonder how my spider is feeling now that he’s snuffed out a few punters.

“Mr. T,” I shout. “How many?”

The trap above clanks down slowly, and I see him appear in the space above, lit from behind by a rare midday sunbreak.

He looks utterly demonic, a corona of brightness framing his hair, but his eyes are more alive than I’ve ever seen them, shining as though they have the facets of diamonds.

“Three,” he says. “No wedding rings on any of them. I tried not to make too much of a mess, but you’ll have a job on bringing my shirts up white.”

I smile. “That’s my problem now. Thank you, love.”

“How did the lunch rush go?”

“Grand.” I puff out my chest. “Sold everything. Not a whiff of suspicion, no questions, nothing. Just full bellies and, more importantly, a full cash box.”

He sits on the edge of the trap and dangles his legs. “Busy afternoon for you then, treacle. What time’s the dinner sitting?”

“Six. So I’ve got me work cut out for me if I’m going to be ready.”

Sweeney cocks his head at me. “I’ve metrealcannibals, you know. Tribal people.”

“I thought those stories were exaggerated.”

He shakes his head. “Not much. Those cock-shaking heathens like their long pig, as they call it. Particularly if it’s Christian and patronizing. Turns out missionaries are often quite fat and can’t run well, which helps.”

I snigger. “Satisfying to know the God-fearing pie lovers of London will be indulging in the same practices as their overseas cousins.”

We stare at each other for a beat. He’s still brooding, striving, yet I can feel the heat coming from him, even at this distance. He’s burning like a crucible, drunk on the heady fumes of bloodlust, and all he needs is more of the same.

The more he kills, the further he gets from Johanna. He believes she is dead—hemustbelieve it—and this gives him the glorious freedom to be mine. Wholly, truly mine, in a way that cowardly human hearts can neither abide nor understand.

I am more than a woman to him; he is more than a man to me.

The Fates walk at my side, guiding me along the path. The right thing is not always easy; writing the letter was the only fair course of action.

If Sweeney finds out his child is still alive, no matter how improbable it is, he will reduce everything we have to dust to get his pound of flesh. And flesh ismybusiness, not his.

It’s okay.Really, it is. I am saving him with my deceit, and although I’m sure he wouldn’t see it that way—and may send me up my own chimney if he finds out—it doesn’t make me wrong.

If Johannaisalive, and the Fates want her found, nothing I do will prevent it. So, for now, I choose to believe Sweeney only fallsso I can pick him up. A leap of faith is always a risk, and for him, forus, I will hurl myself into oblivion every time.

Sweeney’s eyes are cooling now like dying stars. The inky darkness is back, but it feels like home.

“It’s your big night, treacle,” he says softly. “I’m right here with you. Don’t we make a great team?”

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