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Lower.
Everywhere.
My lips curve slightly as a shiver runs across my cheeks. My eyes slide to the windowsill, scattered papers, slightly yellowed. I take a steel nib, its point blunted by time, and trace the words slowly:
Brise-toi et supplie-moi encore.1
I hold my breath as I reread it, then fold the paper with care and place it beside the jar.
The thought of him remains imprinted on me.
On his knees.
Burning.
1. Break, and beg me again.
29
Lyosha
Dorian
The glass sears my palm even before I drink, the dark liquid vibrates as I tilt it.
I bring the rim to my lips, and the bitterness takes hold of me at once, keeping me tethered to the waking world. I lower my hand, the surface of the coffee closes over as if it had never been disturbed.
Behind me, the paper will not stop its noise, it rustles, slides, is dragged back and forth with too much haste. Lucien is hunched over the table, his fingers stained with ink, fingers that rummage without method. A page escapes him; he snatches it back, crumples it, then smoothes it flat with his palm.
I drink again, the aroma rising to my nose and pervading my senses. He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than before.
“It is impossible that we cannot find him.” He snaps to his feet so suddenly that a chair scrapes across the floor.
“We have written to every address you shoved under my nose,” I tap my nail against the silver. “Either he isn’t there... or he has no intention of being found.”
Lucien begins to pace, two steps forward and one back, like a caged animal. His hands open and close.
“There must be a way.”
My fingers remain on the desk, drumming with regularity.
“What are you thinking?”
“Perhaps there is a way.”
“And what would that be?”
“Oskar.”
“No.” Lucien shakes his head with determination. “No, not Zima. You cannot allow those people to involve themselves.”
“Lucien,” I say, without raising my voice, “if there is anyone capable of flushing out a rat when it decides to vanish, it is him.”
“Dorian...” He takes a step toward me, then halts. “You know how they are. What kind of people—”
“Like me.” I smile thinly.
“No.” His answer is blunt. “You are not like them. Stop saying it.”
