Page 38 of Heart of Thieves

“Same age as my parents, I think. Blond hair. Told a lot of jokes during her sermons. I remember because Nic and I actually paid attention when she spoke.”

He tsks. “I shall choose not to take offense to that statement.”

“Very wise.”

His brows knit, thick white fuzz pulling together until they nearly obscure his eyes. “If it’s who I’m imagining, she hasn’t been here in years . . . Lolly? Lisette? Lavinia?”

“Hmmm, that doesn’t sound right.”

“Lenora?”

The name breaks something loose. Old memories of when Nic and I would try to call her ma’am and she would correct us. Just Lenora.

“That’s it.” A thrill rolls through me. I’ll discover who Nocturne is yet. “Do you know her surname?”

He ponders for several long moments before he finally sighs. “You know, Mr. Sinclair, this old brain has been crammed with far too many names over the years. When you get to be as old as I am, they all start running together.”

“What?” I joke. “You’re not old. A young spring chicken.”

The old priest’s leathery lips purse, and I let my chuckle fade awkwardly.

“Too soon?” I say. “Yeah, it is.” I nod to myself. “Too soon. Sorry.”

“You could check the Aetheran Temple. Lenora worked there for many years.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I extend a hand. He scrutinizes it, then carefully grasps it. Instead of shaking, he pulls me in close. “Even seaspawn have choices.”

The statement punches me in the gut, and the words I should say, the goodbye I should bid him, the thanks I should repeat are all caught like flies in my rib cage. “What?”

“We are not as trapped as we think we are.” He releases me and shuffles away.

I stare after him, mouth working.

I don’t think I’m trapped. I am trapped. This deluded priest doesn’t know the meaning of the word.

Except . . . perhaps out of everyone in the world, he knows exactly the sort of imprisonment I fear.

Shaken, I duck into the sunlight.

A pair of burly arms slam me against the wall next to the door. The cold barrel of a pistol juts into my throat, and a pair of blue eyes exactly like Lola’s glare down at me.

“Where is my daughter, you son of a bitch?” Magnus St. James growls, so close his spittle flecks my nose.

I sigh. “This is getting tiresome, St. Jimbo.” I glance past him down the road to where Mr. Gerard watches from his shop window, a steady satisfaction on his ruddy face.

“Tell me where she is!” St. James barks.

“We know how this goes. You demand things; I don’t give them. You ask me where she is; I refuse to tell you. We dance around until either I disappear and you throw a temper tantrum, or you shoot me and then I disappear, and you throw a temper tantrum. You need a new tactic.”

“Fine.” His nostrils flare. “Tell me where your brother is.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that, either.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t know where he is.”

St. James’s eyes bulge, a vein pulsing in his temple. “Damn you.”