Page 12 of The Toymaker's Son

“Why are you helping me?” he asked. No good morning. No pleasantries. Straight to the point. Many would consider him rude, but I rather liked the directness. He still didn’t meet my gaze, preferring to skip his attention around the room. The absence of his stare allowed me to study how he sat, angled away, and how he tapped his cup. Most everyone in town said he rarely, if ever, left the shop. He didn’t want to be here, but his better judgment had made him come.

“I’m not helping you. I’m ensuring the truth is revealed. Foul play saw a part in your father’s death. It’s only right that whoever is responsible is brought to justice.”

Devere’s arresting eyes fixed on mine, and it was as though I’d been caught in a spotlight, all of me at once under intense scrutiny.

“You should not trust Rochefort.”

It was becoming abundantly clear that the two men despised each other, and the hatred had been festering for some time. I’d need to investigate their history, but for the moment, I was content to let Devere steer the conversation. He’d come to me this time, suggesting he wanted my help or something else. Either way, I was intrigued.

“Thank you,” he said, then hastily clarified, “for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

A soft quiet fell between us, one that was in no hurry to be filled. His darting gaze had slowed, so he appeared less like a rabbit caught in a trap and more akin to a man who realized he was in safe company, which said a lot about how Devere lived, if he thought me safe.

“I’m not apologizing for my reaction to your arrival,” he said.

I smiled politely. “I haven’t asked you to.”

Annoyance creased his brow. “How was Massalia?”

“A wonder.” The city was my sanctuary and my salvation. It had freed me, whereas Minerva had always been a cage. I had no intention of telling Devere such personal things. Our relationship had to remain professional despite the death threats and the slap to my face.

“That’s good.”

“What did you come here to say?” I prompted. His effort at small talk was painful.

“Last night, I saw you,” he said, his tone critical once more.

“Yes?” My heart thumped harder, but I wore my smile like a mask. Nothing untoward had happened, as far as Devere knew. I had no reason to be concerned.

“You haven’t been here for many years. Minerva is not Massalia. You should be careful.”

“Is that a threat?”

He blinked. “A threat?”

“It sounded like one.”

His lips almost found a smile. “Have you been away so long you’ve forgotten the sound of a genuine threat, Valentine?”

“If I have, then having a pistol pulled on me was certainly a vivid reminder.”

“Like I said, I’m not apologizing.”

“And as I said, I have not asked you to.”

“People generally do not ask for apologies. That rather defeats the point.”

I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening. Were we arguing? It sounded as though we were, yet it did not feel confrontational. I almost enjoyed it.

“Aren’t you concerned, walking alone at night with a potential killer in Minerva?” I asked.

Devere’s brow creased some more, but added with the smallest tug of a smile, it gave his expression a curious lilt. “Very little scares me, Mr. Anzio.”

And we were back to formal names.

Devere rested his arm on the table and leaned in. The secretive manner had me leaning closer too. “Rochefort did not hire you by chance, neither was it by chance your family home was set ablaze. Each and every event plays into a larger game. Nothing in Minerva is driven by happenstance. Each turn of the gear impacts a dozen others in an intricate clockwork, unseen by those who do not live among its motions.”

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