"Why are you standing out in this downpour, Julian?"The voice was warm, and it took him a second to place it through the rain. Beyond the orphanage's iron gate, framed by a dim East End streetlight, stood an elderly woman with a large black umbrella."Grandma Margaret." His own voice came back hoarse, half drowned."Good heavens, child, you're soaked through." She was at the gate in a hurry, pulling it open and taking his arm without ceremony. "Inside. Why on earth is your suit wet like this?"Julian wiped the rain from his face. In Mayfair, no one had asked him that in ten years, not once, unless it was an accusation. Here it was only a worry.The living room received him with the smell of warm wheat soup and cinnamon, and it chased the London chill out of his bones faster than any heater in the Vance estate ever had. Margaret took his wet jacket, or tried to; his hands met hers on it, folding it before she could, because ten years of serving had taught his body to refuse being serv

Six knives came at him at once, and to Julian they arrived slowly.He stepped to the right, caught the first wrist, and twisted until it snapped; his elbow found the man's jaw on the way down. A leg sweep dropped the second. An open-palm strike to the third man's chest landed on a nerve point, and the thug folded to his knees, sucking air that wouldn't come.Ten seconds, maybe fewer. All six of Garrick's men were on the floor, groaning.Garrick had dragged himself upright on his good arm. His face had gone the color of wet ash."What kind of devil are you?" he stammered. "My men are East End killers. They don't go down like this."Julian stopped in front of him. His eyes were flat, administrative, worse than anger."Go home and ask your boss one question," he said quietly. "Does he still remember a rainy night a year ago at the London Docks? Does he remember the man who held the keys to his entire portfolio, and made him kneel in the rain to beg for them?"Garrick's mouth worked witho

Under the rain at the orphanage gate, two gangs faced each other, and neither was happy about it.Garrick had just got off the phone with Arthur Pendleton, and his boss's rage was still ringing in his ears. Then three black SUVs rolled up—the Vance family's fleet—and Tristan stepped out between his bodyguards. Garrick's stomach dropped. Was this rich boy here to defend Julian? At the memory of Boss Arthur's voice ‘touch the man from the docks and I'll bury you myself’ Garrick forced a stiff, friendly smile and hurried over."Young master of Mayfair. Here for Julian? Come in, come in. I have business with him too."Tristan looked at him the way one looks at a puddle. Before Mayfair found him, Tristan had been afraid of East End gangs his whole life. Now the Vance name stood behind him, and fear felt like a coat he'd outgrown."Get that look off your face," Tristan said, and turned to his guards. "Break the door down."CRASH.Tristan strode in like a landlord and stopped before Julian,

In the grand living room of the Vance estate, that night had only two sounds: Tristan's stifled sobbing, and the soft clink of metal from the silver case Karen opened."Lie down," Karen said softly. "This will be a little uncomfortable."Tristan lay on the leather sofa, letting his dead right arm hang limp. In the corner of his eye, he counted how many sisters were watching him tonight. All of them. Good.Karen laid two fingers on Tristan's wrist, then moved to his neck, then his shoulder. She did it slowly, like someone reading a letter from a patient who had already died."The pain has spread through the whole body," she said at last. "But the source isn't the injury. Something is disturbing his pain receptors—like someone pressed certain points and locked them there. Whoever did this, he understands anatomy very well."Then she smiled, and it was the smile that made patients' families trust her. "But don't worry. This is easy to cure."Tristan's face lit up at once. "Sister Karen i

The next morning, at Saint Jude's Orphanage, the sun came out for the first time in days.Julian stood on a small ladder, fixing the tin roof dented by Garrick's men last week. Below, two tattooed men handed him tools awkwardly, like students afraid of their teacher. One of them, a giant with a scarred eyebrow, held a hammer the way someone holds a sleeping baby. Aira stood in the yard with two cups of tea, waiting."You've been up there two hours," she said when Julian came down. "Sit. Drink. And don't argue."Julian sat. He drank. The tea was too sweet, the way Margaret always made it, and he didn't complain. ‘Nine weeks,’ he thought, without being asked—the number came on its own now, like a second breath. He drank the too-sweet tea all the same. Some kindnesses you accept for the giver's sake.Aira studied his face for a long moment. "You look... lighter," she said at last."Not lighter," Julian said. "Just not carrying everything alone anymore."From her jacket pocket, Aira took