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“Lynch wants Agamemnon to be the hero,” Atta put in, all of their attention swivelling to her.

“As it’s safe to assume Rochford does as well,” Marguerite murmured.

Rochford?Why did that sound familiar?

“In short, yes,” Sonder answered.

Marguerite deflated onto the sofa. “Thank god you wore the masks. At least they can publicly attempt to take credit.”

“I’m not scared of the Society,” Sonder assured her.

“Well, I am.” Marguerite pointed at Atta. “And she sure as hell should be. And you!” She looked at Gibbs. “If Lynch finds out you’re two-timing him, you’re in for a world of hurt.”

Sonder rose and poured them all glasses of wine. “We will remain discreet. Lynch is no moron, he already likely knows it’s us, but he won’t storm the doors. If Lynch is anything, it’s a man of tradition.”

Marguerite sipped at her wine nervously. “Expect a tribunal then.”

Atta and Sonder met eyes, and he answered her silent question. “Agamemnon is still ruled by a council. It’s archaic but effective.”

“And what happens at one of these tribunals? You said you become their bones.”

Sonder took his seat again, setting the wine bottle on the table between them all. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Do they actually murder people?”

Marguerite drained her wine and poured another glass. “There are things far worse than death.”

Atta and Gibbs chugged their wine in unison. Then Atta stood, her head already spinning from the alcohol and lack of food and her spill earlier. “I have a few things I need to do if you’ll excuse me.”

Their conversation played on repeat in her head as she moved about the house, discreetly setting out wards. She sprinkled black salt on every windowsill she could find, laid out herbs in various places, and drew the chalk symbols she’d found in one of her textbooks on the doors to the rooms they went in most often. At the door to the cellar, she drew an ancient symbol meant to lock out evil spirits and prayed it would work.

Every time she passed the sitting room, Marguerite and Sonder were deep in hushed conversation, and every time it made her muscles more taut. Somewhere around the time she heard them laughing, she drank a second glass of wine on her empty stomach.

She did hear Gibbs interject here and there that there was no such thing as faeries, but the lad had panic drank—one of his signature moves—and was passed out on the loveseat, curled up like a babe when Marguerite left, and Sonder took Gibbs to one of the guest rooms.

When they were finally alone, he smiled at her, but she couldn’t return it. Sonder sighed and pulled her up from the sofa, leading her to his study, where it was warmer with the fire. She draped herself over one of his favourite chairs, and he went to the sideboard.

“You look like someone poisoned your puppy,” he said as he poured. “Please tell me what you’re thinking so this agony I’m in can end.”

Atta huffed a laugh. “You’re so dramatic.”

He handed her a glass of wine and sat on the arm of her chair. “Please.”

Closing her eyes so she wouldn’t have to look at him, she said, “You and Marguerite are close.” It was an easy thing to observe. They were close in age, highly intelligent doctors, the both of them, and they’d been in a secret society together for years. She rode with him to the pub the night that Sonder showed Atta beneath his mask, and he had planned to take her home.

Cautiously, Sonder said, “We are. We’ve been friends since grad school. She and Mariana O’Sullivan are all the good that’s left of those days for me.”

Atta hated what she was about to say, but she was exhausted. It had been a rollercoaster of a day, and he’d just handed her a third glass of wine for the night. “And you’ve always been just friends?”

One of Sonder’s brows rose, and then his face slowly broke into a grin. “Are youjealous,Ariatne Morrow?”

He looked so pleased she wanted to smack him. “Don’t be coy with me, Sonder,” she snipped. “You just saw menaked.”

“Ah. No, I saw youpartiallynaked, which I plan to rectify.”

His words and that smirk sent moths fluttering in her chest. “I’m serious. I need to know where you two stand after what happened between us tonight.”

Sonder nodded solemnly. “Of course. Marguerite and I have been friends since our first year of grad school. One drunken time about seven or eight years ago, we ended up in Marguerite’s room together—we were roommates, you see, in Briseis House. To be fair, I hardly remembered it then, and I recall almost nothing of it now. That is all. There is nothing there, I swear it.”