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Shan looked up at him, carefully, trying to hide the panic in her heart. Just how much did he know? His expression seemed almost placid, but there was a hard line to his jaw. His eyes flickered down to her, and he quickly steered her through the crowd, pulling her into an alcove that offered them a modicum of privacy.

To anyone who would have seen it, it would have looked like a quick tryst between young lovers, sneaking off for a hidden kiss. It would send rumors spreading, that she—a LeClaire—had caught the interest of Sir de la Cruz. It would be a huge boost for her reputation, and she was almost thankful enough to let it become truth.

Even if they didn’t know—and would never know—that she had already been there.

He was pressed intimately close to her, and she could feel the warmth of his body against hers. Her hands had flown to his shoulders immediately, automatically, as if they belonged there, and she could feel the difference that a few years had made. He no longer had the skinny build of a boy but had grown into a man—his shoulders wider, his body stronger. He lowered his face to hers, and she could feel the brush of his beard against her skin, another new development from the softness of youth, and shivered at the way it felt against her.

She turned towards him, ready to take his mouth with hers, to see if he still tasted as she remembered, but he wasn’t looking at her with heat or hunger.

But regret.

“You’re just as talented as me,” he said, softly. “More talented. If it wasn’t for your father you could have easily had my place. You could have been Royal Blood Worker; you could have had whatever you wanted.”

Shan blinked at him, shoving aside the lust that clouded her mind as she frantically tried to decide which path to take. She settled on anger, just a careful drop of it, and struck. “What is all this, then? Your asinine way of making it up to me? Of doing me a favor?”

Let him think she was angry. It was better than the truth—that this hurt more than anything else she could have imagined.

“No,” he said, flustered and fumbling. “No, no, no. My reasons were true, Shan.” He took her hands in his, squeezing so tight it hurt. “I don’t want you to think that this is pity.”

She allowed herself to melt, just a little. “As you say.”

“Let me prove it to you,” Isaac begged. “Whatever it takes, however long it takes. I want you back, Shan.” He brushed his lips against her cheek—soft, gentle, and chaste.

It shouldn’t have moved her so.

“Why, Sir Isaac,” Shan said, forcing a bit of levity into her voice, “what kind of woman do you think I am?”

“The kind who should hate me,” he said. “The kind I pray will give me a second chance.”

“This is a start,” she whispered, and he looked so relieved she feared he might faint. “But I think it’s time you took me home.”

“Of course.” He stepped back, and she immediately missed the warmth of his body. Pulling the curtains back, he gestured for her to step out. “After you.”

She stepped into the brightness of the theatre, but no one was looking at them now. There was a new rush to the crowd, and it only took her a few seconds to pick up the words that were being thrown about.

Murder.

Blood Working.

A body.

That was the second in a month, and Shan felt weak at the knees. One death was an aberration—perhaps a draining at one of the clinics gone horribly wrong. But two deaths? That was an emerging pattern, and it seemed the rest of Dameral had picked up on that as well.

Isaac looked suddenly, grossly pale. “I think I have to—”

“Go,” she said, “I can get myself a hack.” He looked down at her with regret, and she pressed her fingers to his cheek. “It’s all right. Duty calls.”

He nodded at her, then cut quickly through the throng of bodies towards the door. The crowd turned and watched him go, the whispers getting louder with each passing moment.

This was going to be a disaster, and Shan already itched to get back home and reach out to her birds. To see if they had heard anything, seen anything. But she plastered a bored expression on her face and got in line, waiting for a hackney to come and pick her up, and ignored the looks that people kept throwing her way.

This wasn’t the attention she had hoped to get, but it was still attention. And she knew better than to squander it.

Chapter Thirteen

Samuel

Samuel did not recognize his life.