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Harte’s father paid little attention to the women as he walked, but eventually he stopped at a building with a large restaurant on the first floor. The doors were wide open to the night air, and Harte’s stomach rumbled at the heavy scent of food. Inside, the noise of the streets gave way to the chatter of diners and the clinking of glasses. Waiters stood at the ready along the walls as a mixture of men dined in the main room. There were no women, at least not any that Harte could see.

His father lifted two fingers to get the attention of the waiter standing closest to the door, who clearly recognized him. After a quick exchange of words, they were shown to a table at the back of the restaurant. It was quieter there, but it wasn’t exactly private. There were still other diners and waiters at tables nearby.

“Sit.” His father took one of the seats on the other side of the table, clearly placing himself out of Harte’s reach, as he had on their walk.

Harte could have argued, but creating a scene would not help him find the Dragon’s Eye, so he took the seat across from his father. At first neither of them spoke. Harte understood that it was a test—impatience would be seen as a sign of weakness, so he kept silent. He refused to appear weak. Not before this man. Not ever again.

Deep within his skin, Seshat only laughed. It was the same papery thin laugh that set Harte’s nerves on edge. But he shoved her down and focused on the man across from him… and on what would come next.

A little while into the uncomfortable silence, a waiter appeared with a tray of crabs and prawns along with an assortment of other side dishes. As the covers were removed from each plate, the fragrance of butter and garlic filled the air, reminding Harte that he hadn’t eaten since he’d been on the train, hours before. Even then, he hadn’t allowed himself to buy more than a stale sandwich and a mealy apple each day of his journey.

Samuel Lowe pointed at the tray of food. “It’s been a hell of a long day, and I’m not dealing with you or your idiotic demands on an empty stomach, boy. You might as well eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” Harte said, despite the answering growl of his own stomach. After all that had happened between them, after all this man had done to Harte’s mother, it seemed somehow wrong to break bread together like it was nothing.

On the other side of the broad table, Samuel Lowe ignored Harte’s refusal. Even before the waiters were done serving, he’d started wielding an assortment of silver instruments to crack claws and withdraw the glistening meat from the various sea creatures on the table in front of them. The way his father worked with fluid, almost elegant movements made the gold ring on his finger flash. It also made Harte’s stomach twist. The motion was familiar, but not because he remembered it from his childhood. It was familiar because it reminded Harte of himself. He used the same flick of his wrist as a distraction onstage during sleight-of-hand tricks.

Seeing this tiny echo of himself in his father’s movements made Harte wonder again if all the stories he’d told himself about being something more than his father’s son had ever been true. He’d betrayed so many people and hurt so many others. Not for the first time that night, Harte considered whether his intentions had ever mattered. Maybe the destruction he’d left in his wake—his mother, Julian, Esta, even Dolph—was evidence of the one thing he’d never wanted to accept: that his father’s careless violence flowed in his own veins. That there was no escape from what he was.

Be glad if it gives you strength, Seshat hissed. The world will drag you down and tear you apart for sport, but only if you allow it to. I do not understand your hesitation. Why do you fight what you are? Why not use it to your favor?

Harte went still. Never before had her voice seemed so clear, so utterly logical to him.

I feel your hatred for this man, she urged. Still you hold back. You could so easily make him pay for the pain he’s caused you. Show him what you are. Make him understand how powerless he truly is… I will help you destroy him. You have only to promise me the girl.

Never. Harte tried to shake Seshat’s temptation from his mind. It would be so easy to do what she said, to use his affinity to destroy the life his father had built for himself. He could pay Samuel Lowe back for every black eye and every bruise the man had ever given him and for every time he’d ever touched Harte’s mother.

Maybe once that decision would have been easier. After all, there was a time Harte had done exactly that, and his decision had left a trail of pain and tragedy in its wake. But Harte Darrigan wasn’t the boy that Benedict O’Doherty had been. He’d made himself into something new—and he’d done it in spite of everything he’d come from and despite everything Samuel Lowe might have bequeathed to him in blood. Harte had to believe that his reluctance to take his revenge wasn’t softness, as Seshat might think. He had to believe it was something else.

“I didn’t come here to eat,” Harte told his father, taking control of the situation. “And I don’t have time for a pleasant visit. I only want the crown. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

His father glanced up with a look of satisfaction as he dipped a prawn into a cup of melted butter and then, his fingertips slick and glistening, popped it whole into his mouth, but Harte didn’t care that he’d lost this particular pissing contest. He’d stopped caring about this man’s approval years before. All that mattered was retrieving the Dragon’s Eye. For Esta.

His father wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. “The fact of the matter is that I don’t have the item you’re looking for.”

Harte had been watching for the lie, but as his father spoke, he found only truth. “But you must know where it is?”

“It’s gone,” his father told him with a wave of his hands. “When my mother died, I found the headpiece among her things. I didn’t know why she had it, but I could tell immediately that it was valuable. About a year ago, I sold it to William Cooke and took the profit to buy my shop.”

“Did you buy that piece of gold as well?” Harte asked, gesturing to the ring that glinted on his father’s finger. He was close enough to see it more clearly now—its surface was etched with the image of an open eye that held a piece of onyx as a pupil.

His father’s hand fisted, and without so much as blinking, he covered the ring with his other hand.

“I’ll need an introduction to this William Cooke,” Harte said. “If he doesn’t still have the crown, he’ll know where it went next.”

His father shook his head. “You have no idea what you’re asking.”

“I’m a quick study,” Harte told him.

His father couldn’t hide his irritation, but then he relented and began to explain. “Cooke is a high-ranking official in the Vigilance Committee. He didn’t keep the piece for himself. He used it to gain the highest-ranking office in the organization. They have the crown now, so you can just forget about getting it back. I won’t allow you to go mucking around in things you can’t understand. You could destroy everything I’ve built here, and I’m not about to let that happen after all I’ve been through to get where I am.”

“I don’t particularly care what you went through,” Harte said. “As far as I’m concerned, you can keep your life and whatever it is you think you’ve built, as long as I get what I’ve come for.”

Samuel Lowe considered him, and the calm intensity of the older man’s stare made Harte suddenly uneasy. This man looked like his father, but the man Harte had known had been predictable in his violence—it had been a saving grace to be able to read Samuel Lowe’s moods by the look in his eyes. But Harte couldn’t tell what this man was thinking, and that felt more dangerous than his father’s fists had ever been.

“You’re very much your mother’s son,” Samuel Lowe said finally, but his tone made it clear that his words were not meant as a compliment.

“That’s true enough,” Harte agreed easily.