Seven

Seven Days Left

There were half a dozen doors into the Nightingale. They led into alleys, snaked through tunnels, opened up in trapdoors and closets and the storeroom where bathtub gin from Chicago kept company with cases of French champagne.

That was where the employees entered these days; they were expected to change it up every few weeks so no one could track their comings and goings too closely. But Vivian sent Leo around to the front before she ducked into the alley that wound its way to the basement door. He knew a lot of the Nightingale's secrets by now, but Vivian didn't want to get caught breaking the rules right before she started asking for favors.

After everything that had happened that day, she was running late, and she could already hear the band. The music, a joyful Charleston beat, unknotted something inside her chest, and Vivian took a deep breath as she headed up the stairs. The night was young, but the scent of wildness lingered in the air from the countless nights that had come before, smoke and Shalimar, promises and secrets. Already there was laughter echoing through the air.

The Nightingale was home. It wouldn't let her down.

But before she reached the top, she heard footsteps coming down. Vivian pulled against the wall, pushing down a burst of panic. Anyone coming down here worked at the Nightingale. There was no danger.

Vivian straightened her spine just as her boss came around the corner.

"Vivian." Honor Huxley paused, her surprise, for once, not hidden. "I was wondering where you were."

Vivian's eyes drank in the familiar sight: the curly blond hair pinned back around Honor's head, the bright slash of red lipstick visible even in the dim light. Her long legs in dark trousers, her white shirt open at the neck, the sharp lines of her suspenders. If she let herself, Vivian could remember the smell of Honor's skin, the vanilla and vetiver scent of her perfume.

But she wouldn't let herself. Not anymore. Vivian dragged her gaze up.

There was a frown between Honor's brown eyes. "Is everything all right?" she asked, and the real worry in her voice soothed some of the raw places in Vivian's heart.

Honor of the sometimes-criminal childhood, who had built a back-alley kingdom for herself at the Nightingale in defiance of the outside world, who ruled over it with fierce pride… Honor would know what to do. She collected information and favors like a child gathering candy. If she doled them out sparingly, she had also made it clear, to many curious players in her underground world, that her employees were under her protection.

Vivian had been hoping to see her. She took a step forward. "I need your help."

"Oh, pet." Honor's voice was soft as she replied. "It's bad this time, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Honor glanced upward, in the direction she had come, then nodded. "You know I'll do what I can," she said. Her words gave away none of her thoughts, but her voice was gentle. She put her hands on Vivian's shoulders, turning her back toward the basement. "Let's talk in private, and you can tell me what you need."

The music was a distant brass wail, and Vivian paced to its rhythm without realizing it as she told Honor what had happened that day. She didn't think about the slip of Buchanan's blood against her hands or the commissioner's cold gaze as she spoke. None of that mattered. Favors needed confidence, and she could put on plenty of confidence when she had to.

"He gave me one week," she said at last. Her voice shook a little, but she pushed that tremor down. "So I'm hoping—" Vivian turned back to her boss at last but fell silent instead of continuing.

Honor had been watching her without speaking, her body held perfectly still, but there was something painful in that stillness. Exposed by the glare of the electric lights, there was a glittering in her eyes that Vivian thought might have even been tears.

Was Honor, who usually showed as much emotion as a statue, crying for her?

But a moment later that was blinked away, and Honor's mouth pulled to one side thoughtfully. "You're hoping," she prompted, her voice soft and impossible to read once more.

"A week isn't much time, but there's plenty of secrets to be unearthed in this city, right? It just depends on who you talk to and who owes…" She trailed off. Honor was still watching her, saying nothing. Vivian lifted her chin. "I don't even know where to start. But sometimes it feels like you know everyone. You've got ways to find things out. And I could sure as hell use that right now. So can you help me find out what happened to this Buchanan fella?"

In the silence, Vivian could hear the song changing upstairs, the rush of feet as dancers scattered to find new partners, the shouts from the bar. She could tell just by the noise that it was a crowded night. Someone would be coming down to restock the bar soon; they wouldn't have privacy for much longer.

Then Honor stepped forward, and for a moment everything else fell away. She laid her hands against either side of Vivian's face, thumbs brushing lightly, soothingly, over her cheekbones.

"I'm sorry, Vivian," she murmured. "I'm so sorry for what you've gone through, and for what you'll have to face next."

The warmth of the touch melted some of the bravado that was keeping Vivian going. She didn't want to let it go—she needed it—but she also wanted to lean into Honor's hands, to believe that someone else could solve the mess she was in. Her eyes fluttered closed when Honor leaned forward. She felt the brush of lips against her forehead, a kiss like a sister, like a mother.

A kiss like an apology.

Vivian's eyes snapped open, meeting Honor's, her breath coming faster when she saw the regret there.

"I wish I could help you. But I can't. Not this time."

Honor let her hands fall, her smile like heartbreak. Vivian watched, too stunned to speak, as her boss stepped away. At the foot of the stairs Honor paused, her hand on the railing, and half turned back. But it wasn't far enough to meet Vivian's eyes.

"I'm sorry."