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“The confectionery in Piccadilly?”

He nods.

I make a vague gesture with my hand. “I promise nothing.”

He responds by snapping his fingers, quick, and a fragment of scone flies from the table toward me.

“I have things to do.”

Another piece follows immediately after.

“Richard.”

I struggle to intercept the third.

I sigh. “Fine. Very well. I shall see you there.”

The thin pages rustle beneath my fingers, the rhythmic sound lost in the silence of the library. The volume is heavy, bound in dark leather, its spine worn more by time than by use.

Russian–French.

Д.

The letter stares back at me from the top of the column. I scan down slowly, my forefinger following the dense lines and the tight Cyrillic script. Every symbol is an obstacle: accents, abbreviations, cross-references.

I turn a page.

Then another.

I know it is here. Or at least, it ought to be.

I reread the first syllables. I compare them with my memory, which remains treacherous, slipping away.

I cannot recall the exact sound, only the impression it left upon me: dense, as if it did not truly belong to the language but to the man who spoke it. I linger with my thumb on the margin of the page, then resume my descent.

I need to know what he said that night.

The signs all look alike, curves and stems that begin to blur together. A light tap at the door interrupts the rustling.

“Come in, Étienne.”

The handle turns, but the footsteps that follow are too cautious, I lift my gaze from the volume.

Alice remains on the threshold.

“Viscount...” she says, her voice always a fraction thinner when she is nervous. “This arrived for you.”

Between her fingers, she holds a rectangular box, covered in dark green paper, its edges finished with care. A pink satin ribbon runs across it. I close the dictionary without marking the page. I rise slowly and take the box from her hands. I place it on the table beside the Russian volume, and for an instant, I stand staring at it without touching it.

“You may go, Alice.”

She offers a small curtsy and withdraws, closing the door.

Has that madman sent something else?

I shake the box cautiously, something rattles inside.

I swear to God, if he pulled some prank on me, I’ll go to him and beat him with his precious sculptor’s hammer.