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Lazarus lifts both hands. “They are normal.”

“No,” I say immediately.

Edward’s mouth twitches.

“They are ordinary biscuits,” Alcott says, innocently.

“No,” I reply.

“I baked nothing into them.”

“Absolutely no.”

Lazarus presses a hand to his chest. “Darling, you wound me.”

“The last time I trusted one of your mysterious little biscuits, I could feel my teeth,” I say.

Edward coughs into his fist as Lazarus is trying very hard not to laugh and failing. “You ate two entire biscuits,” he says.

“You left them unattended.”

“I told you to take one quarter.”

“You said many things. I was busy deciding whether my eyelashes had become too loud.”

Alcott loses the battle first. He laughs so suddenly that his pencil drops from behind his ear. Edward follows, quieter, one hand over his mouth. Lazarus collapses backward into the pillows as though overcome by tragedy.

I point at all three of them, “I was Ludicrous. Capital L. I shall never be Ludicrous again.”

“Technically,” Alcott says, “you were under the influence.”

“I was spiritually outside of my bones,” I explained.

Edward’s shoulders shake. I glare at him. He attempts seriousness and fails beautifully.

“No biscuits, then,” he says.

“No suspicious biscuits.”

The laughter fades slowly, leaving warmth behind. Outside, rain taps against the windows. The party waits on the other side of dawn, along with Valehurst and all the men who think money has made them untouchable, but tonight, in Lazarus’s library, we are soft things pretending we are not afraid. Maybe pretending is too harsh, perhaps this is simply another kind of courage.

Alcott returns to the map. “The musicians enter through the south doors at half-past eight. Lazarus will be on the guest list as Lord Fallere.”

“Deceiver rides again,” I say.

Lazarus bows from the floor. “I missed him.”

Edward points to the narrow passage marked in pencil. “Olive and I enter through the rear receiving room with the second group of performers. No separation.”

“No separation,” I repeat.

The words settle somewhere deep. A vow disguised as strategy. Alcott circles a room on the map. “If anything goes wrong, you leave through the blue parlor. Door here. Window here. Carriage here.”

“And if the blue parlor is blocked?” I ask.

“Then I produce smoke.”

Edward looks up sharply.