like she’d never been Hand. Like she’d never been anything at all. She’d counted too much on an old fondness. Looked like it’d been too many years since Lazarus had been fond of her.

So be it. She’d be a petitioner. She’d do whatever she had to. “I come ’ere . . .” Her voice shook.

“Yes?” Damn him for lazing back like none of this mattered.

“I come to buy a service, Lazarus. I need your records from the docks.” Lazarus collected his pence from the captains of every ship that put down anchor in the Pool of London. From every sailor who stepped ashore. And it was all writ down. “I brought payment.”

She dipped in her pocket and pulled out the bauble and tossed it to the Hand, sitting on the ground beside Lazarus. It was an unexpected throw, but the boy snagged it, sudden and swift. He was as good as she’d been, when she’d held that place. Soundless, he opened the pouch, checked what was inside, and passed it over to Lazarus.

Lazarus poured the necklace across his palm, a web of quivering, blood red drops. Even in the dimness, the Medici Necklace showed its quality. It looked like queens had worn it.

“The Medis is beautiful.” He turned it over reverently. “Completely, exquisitely beautiful.” Fire sparked and danced in his hand. “A rare payment for your father’s life. You brought it with your own hands. You understand the art of these things.”

“Artist. That’s me.” Her mouth was dry as hardtack.

“I accept the contract.”

Her eyes squeezed closed all by themselves. She had it. Whatever the cost, she had what she’d come for. A list of every ship—scows and coal barges, Baltic schooners, every East Indiaman and American sloop, all the coastal vessels. Ships that didn’t even have a nodding acquaintance with the Customs House. The lot.

Lazarus said, “Tell me where and when, Jess. I’ll send them.” In the same quiet, contemplative voice, he said, “We’re not finished. Face the Brothers, Jess Whitby. You’re on trial. It’s time we got on with it.”

She was so shocked she went dizzy. The strength that had brought her this far just drained away, like it was her blood running out. Right till this minute, she’d been expecting him to claim her and keep her safe. Lazarus was right. She’d got soft. She’d been telling herself stories. Believing them.

He stood. Gentle, he put his hand on her shoulder and turned her around. He pushed her forward, away from him, so she stood alone. That was all. Not a word to defend her.

She wasn’t the only one surprised. A murmur of speculation rumbled out of the men along the wall, growing louder, till it sounded like a dog growling, low in the throat. Some of them were arguing. Nobody was sure what to do next.

“Kill ’er,” a coarse voice said, loud and clear, from the back.

“KILL ’er.”

Sebastian heard that. He pushed his scrawny guide out of his path and walked through the open door.

He was in time. She was still alive. Jess stood alone in a cleared space at the center of the room. Unhurt. Her face glowed like a pale beacon in the smoky dimness. A pace behind her, a dark pillar of threat, Lazarus stood. Dozens of men crowded the walls, pressed elbow to elbow, buzzing like a hive of hornets. This was the inner circle of Lazarus’s vast gang, the deadly aristocracy of the underworld. Thieves, pimps, and murderers, men of unparalleled brutality. They’d kill her—and him—in the blink of an eye.

The Brotherhood was holding trial. Generally somebody wound up dead when they did that. He pushed his way through.

A squat, dark thug had separated from the pack. “She broke the oath. That’s death.”

“Shut yer gob, Badger.”

“Bloody loudmouth.”

Another man called out, “Let ’im say ’is piece.”

“I ain’t ’ere ter listen to the Badger yap.”

“Say what you have to say, Badger.” Lazarus hooked his thumbs in his waistband.

“She’s a traitor.” Badger had the slanted forehead and sloping, heavy arms of his namesake. He sneered once at Jess, rounded, and faced the men. “She come prancing in wif ’er flash clothes and ’er fancy talk, thinkin’ she’s better ’n us. She come ’ere with no respect. No proper deference. Tryin’ to buy ’er way in.”

Somebody growled, “Jess ain’t no traitor.”

“She were Hand, fer Gawd’s sake.”

“She ain’t Hand now,” Badger shouted. “She ain’t shite to us.”

“Sod you, Badger.” A gangling, redheaded boy, widestanced, fists ready, was hauled back by his friends.

“She turned her back on us.” The sly whisper came from a bent, frail man in shabby black. “It’s our law. Nobody’s above the law.”

“And I says we leave ’er be.”

Sebastian looked the mob over, taking in the brutally intelligent faces. Two or three echoed Badger’s resentment. One man had mad eyes, avid for pain and death. Anyone’s death. But Jess had a dozen supporters. The older men, the canny ones, watched Lazarus.

“We cut traitors.” Badger drew a blade and held it up, flat side out, to the men. “That’s the law.”

Jess dropped back a step. Not toward Lazarus. She must know she wasn’t going to get any help there.

“She said, ‘If I break this oath, ye may carve it out o’ my belly.’ ” Badger gloated. “That’s what she said. That’s what we all say.”

How the hell was he going to stop this? Jess could be dead in two minutes.

He didn’t pull his knife and hack a path to Jess, leaving bodies writhing on the floor. He didn’t howl and break necks. He stiff-armed one man, shoved another aside, and shouldered to the front, past men intent only on the drama playing out in the center.

Lazarus had spotted him. Eyes, brown as agate, cold as marbles, sardonically amused, met his. They’d dealt before, haggling over women Aunt Eunice wanted rescued. A hard and devious man at the bargaining table, the Dead Man.

Lazarus raised an eyebrow and glanced at Jess and waited. Oh yes. Lazarus knew what he’d come for.

He nodded back. Acknowledging. Yes. Jess.

Badger postured for the mob. “And I’m the man te gut the bitch.” He swung suddenly, backhanded, with his empty fist.

And stumbled stupidly into the empty space where she’d been. She glided past him, smooth as a fish. “Missed,” she said.

“Yer gonna die, rat.”

Her voice rang clear. “You speak for the Brothers, do you? That’ll come as a surprise to some of ’em.”

There was a rumble of laughter.

“Gonna cut you, bitch. Gonna carve you like a pie.”

“Never used to be a killing offense, working for the smugglers. ” Jess flitted just out of reach. “That’s a new rule you made, right? Speak up, Badger. Cat got yer tongue?”

There was a joke in that, one everyone knew. Laughter scattered the tension. Badger glared around, the back of his neck turning red. “I got me rights, I do. I got things ter say.”

“Spit it out, then. I ain’t here to dance wif yer.”

Catcalls and whistles broke out from every side. She was turning the crowd in her favor. It might be enough to save her life. If Badger didn’t cut her. If Lazarus didn’t want her dead. There were a hundred possibilities, most of them bad.

He stood at the front of the crowd, one leap from Jess. Picking his time.

She was all Cockney now—a tough, vulgar, vibrant street urchin. Back in the offices of Whitby Trading, they wouldn’t have recognized her. She skipped over the welter of scattered rugs. “Nice knife, Badger. Use that for picking yer nose wif, do yer?” This was the fierce little animal she’d been as a child in the rookery. “Or maybe yer scratch yer arse.”

On every side, cutthroats grinned appreciatively.

“Never could catch me, could yer, Bugger?” She dodged again, lightning and laughter. “Oh, sorry. That’s Badger, ain’t it?”

Rough jeers rang out. Rattled, Badger swung in a furious half circle. “We make an example of ’er. She dies.”

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