There was someone in the room with her.

Lark drew the knife from under her pillow and rolled. A woman knelt by the hearth, trying to coax the fire to life. When she saw Lark jerk upright, she held her hands up in a placating fashion,

"I’m sorry to wake you." The woman gestured with her hands in the sign language the Silent Brotherhood used. Then she grimaced, as if realizing Lark shouldn’t be able to understand her. She fumbled with the chalk she drew from her apron pocket, painstakingly writing upon the piece of slate that hung from a cord around her neck. Apologies, mistress. I am to see to fire and break fast.

Lark swallowed the lump in her throat. All the servants had been vetted and recommended by the mysterious Luther, who ran Malloryn’s spy network in Russia.

But she’d never expected to see one of the Silent Brotherhood.

Suddenly she missed Tin Man desperately.

"Please, continue," she told the woman in sign language. "I didn’t mean to startle you."

The woman’s eyes widened, and she answered hesitantly, "You learn sign language?"

"My uncle was bratstvo bezmolvnogo."

The Brotherhood of the Silent.

"What is your name?" she asked.

"Nadezhda."

"It's a lovely name. I am Lark. May the dawn rise on a new world," Lark signed, which had been a catchphrase of the revolutionaries who'd been thwarted twenty years ago.

The woman’s face blanched. "I do not know what you mean. I fetch you blood."

And then she stood and picked up the pair of buckets she’d been carrying and scurried from the room.

"You're avoiding me," Charlie said, the second Lark's door opened and she stepped out, dressed in her leather trousers, shirt, and over-corset.

She'd missed breakfast.

And the meeting where Gemma chastised him thoroughly for riding after Dido last night without giving a thought to being lured into a trap. Not even the letter and the seal had been enough to assuage Gemma's anger.

It wasn't his imagination. Lark hesitated the second she saw him. "Don't flatter yourself. I was tired and slept through breakfast."

"Long night?" He fell into step with her as they headed for the sitting room, where Gemma was waiting to brief them on some information that had come in. "Nothing on your mind? Keeping you tossing and turning all morning?"

Lark paused, and turned on him abruptly. "I think it best if we both forgot about last night."

"What are you scared of?" He examined her face. "I'd never hurt you."

"That's not the point."

"You're acting irrationally."

"It's a perfectly rational response. This is... confusing. It's so sudden. We're barely managing to negotiate friendship again, let alone something else."

The muscle in his jaw twitched. "Then let me know when you've had a chance to think it through, Lark. It's not going to go away."

He stomped down the stairs ahead of her, forcing himself to swallow his temper. A restless night spent tossing and turning hadn't helped his mood.

"So what does today hold?"

"Gemma wants to speak with us. She's got a lead." He walked backwards along the lower hallway. "That's if you can handle working with me anymore."

"As long as we keep it strictly business."

His brow twitched.

Be patient.

She'd let him kiss her last night. That had to mean something.

"Strictly business it is," he lied, and opened the door to the sitting room for her. "Found her."

Gemma, Obsidian, Byrnes, Ingrid, and a tall, dark stranger were all waiting inside.

"Charlie, Lark, this is Luther Haas, a Russian-based spy of Malloryn's." Gemma gestured to the man in the shadows.

"Ah." Charlie held out his hand. "You're the intel."

"Indeed." The man's voice sounded like rough gravel. His beard gleamed with silver strands, but from the breadth of his shoulders, he was still in the prime of his life. "And you're the thief."

"Sometimes," he replied. "Malloryn's been corrupting me. Thinks I'd make a better spy."

"We've got a possible location for Malloryn's whereabouts." Gemma stabbed her finger into the map on the table. "This is the former Saint Petersburg residence of the Grigoriev family. Grigoriev Dvorets. It's in ruins now. I believe there was some sort of fire the night the former prince was murdered, and nobody has taken up residence. It's allegedly haunted, so the locals stay well away.

"Apparently Sergey Grigoriev has been coming and going there at odd hours every couple of days. One of Luther's men has been keeping track of him from a distance."

"Sergey Grigoriev," Charlie mused. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"You might have seen it on the family tree in Obsidian's file. He was the cousin of the former prince and became heir when the entire family was killed." Gemma exchanged a look with Obsidian. "Five years ago, Balfour sent Obsidian to guard Sergey. And Malloryn sent me to obtain certain lucrative information from him. Obsidian wouldn't let me near him. It's how we met."

Ah, of course. Charlie glanced at Obsidian. He'd been the one to find the file and had seen the names of the allegedly dead Grigoriev children inside it. Though Obsidian hadn't spoken of it, there had to be a reason it was in Obsidian's file.

And when he'd met Gemma he'd been using the alias Dmitri Zhukov. Nobody knew if Dmitri was his real name, or if it was merely a cover he'd been given by Balfour.

But the eldest Grigoriev had been named Dmitri.

Obsidian grunted under his breath. "We know Sergey and Balfour were working together then and we have to assume they're still allies. If Balfour expected us—as now seems likely—he may have seen Malloryn hidden elsewhere, where we wouldn't think to look."

Charlie circled the map, his brain starting to come alive with possibility. "An ally who would deny him nothing. Somewhere close where he could visit if he wished. Safe. Secure. I assume the palace is secure?"

"Some of it," Luther replied. "Half of it was gutted in the fires that started in the family's bedrooms. I told my man to refrain from getting too close. Sergey's no longer there, but we don't want to startle him if our theory is correct, and the palace must surely be watched."

"Show me which parts are ruins," Charlie said.

Luther bent over the map and gestured to the eastern end of the palace. "Here and here. The ballroom's intact, I believe. The library and study, and the eastern wing."

"If Malloryn is there then they'll have set guards. Lark, what do you think?" There was no answer. He looked up. "Lark?"

She stared at the map with a strange expression on her face, her cheeks pale. "It seems a reasonable connection. And yes, they should have someone on watch. You don't abandon your prize jewel where anyone can take it."

The scene in the hallway must have bothered her more than he'd expected.

Charlie hesitated. "We'll take a look at it tonight, Gem. Unless you have need of us?"

"No." Gemma waved him away. "This is more important. Take Herbert and Blade. I don't want the pair of you going alone. Not after last night."

"You're just trying to get out of the ballet," Byrnes muttered. "I hate you."

"Well, I'm looking forward to it," Ingrid said archly. "I've never seen the ballet."

"I hate you both."

"You're far more cultured and sophisticated than I am," Charlie replied. "Aren't you the son of a viscount? These sort of events ought to be in your blood."

"Who the hell told you that?" Byrnes growled.

"Your brother, Viscount Debney, must have mentioned it to Jack." Charlie winked. Jack was the only Rogue who'd stayed behind in London, his lungs too ravaged to make the trip. "Don't worry. We haven't decided whether or not we should bow whenever we see you."

"Yet," Gemma added.

"Remind me why I'm here?" Byrnes demanded. "Why on earth do I put up with you lot?"

"Because you adore us," Ingrid cooed, clucking him under the chin. "And because you'd have never met me if you hadn't joined the Company of Rogues."

"That does balance the scales a bit." Byrnes made a vast show of patting his pockets before turning on Lark. "What? You've left all my valuables with me?"

Lark's smile was swift and fleeting. "It was fun, Byrnes, but not much challenge. Besides, I'm starting to feel sorry for you. I wouldn't want you to cry aristocratic tears into your pillow at night."

"I am illegitimate. Not a fucking aristocrat." Byrnes shook his head. "You two are made for each other."

Charlie caught the brief flicker of her gaze toward him.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken about Charlie and me," she replied coolly.

"We're friends," he said with a sigh. "Just friends."

The past refused to stay dead.

Lark stayed mostly quiet as the trio of men discussed the night's plans. They crossed Nikolayevsky Bridge to Vasilyevsky Island, and swiftly made their way toward the palace ruins. Blade carried a shovel over his shoulder, while Herbert strained under the weight of the chest on his shoulder. All four of them were dressed as general laborers, just in case someone noticed anything amiss, and Blade and Herbert wore painstakingly glued beards on their faces.

Every step felt familiar.

If she blinked, she was certain she'd be able to see a gaggle of children running along at their mother's heels, begging for flavored ices.

The palace of her memories was drenched in sunlight. Its walls were painted a cheery yellow, and it looked out over the Neva river with stately grace.

Or it had.

Lark swallowed as she caught a glimpse of the shadowed ruins of what was left of the palace. The last time she'd seen it, she'd been trying to flee the Chernyye Volki who'd murdered her mother and siblings. The Black Wolves had been a form of militia controlled by Sergey. Only her innate knowledge of the surrounding streets had saved her life.

"Well, 'ere we are," Blade said, giving her hand a quick squeeze as he edged past. He surveyed the enormous stone walls in front of them. "An abandoned palace, talk of ghosts and all that rot, and a possible sightin' of our precious duke. Anyone else wonderin' if this is another trap?"

"Let's just say I'm not inclined to wager good coin against you," Charlie replied. "Look sharp and expect anything. A single hint of rot, and everyone needs to get the hell out of there. If anything goes wrong we meet at the Bronze Horseman statue. Are we all prepared?"

Herbert primed his pistol. "Quite prepared, Master Charlie."

The Company of Rogues' butler was a man of many talents, according to Charlie. With his neatly pomaded hair, shoes that gleamed like a military man's, and exquisite manners, he looked more likely to swoon at the sight of blood than deal it. But Charlie assured her Herbert was an asset.

She and Blade exchanged a long, slow look. The palace was enormous, which required they break into pairs to explore it. Blade had insisted upon accompanying Herbert to "watch his fool back."

"Don't shoot anything unless absolutely necessary," Charlie told them. "This is a surveillance mission only. We don't want to alert anyone that we're here."

"Aye, commander." Blade winked at him.

Then he and Herbert vanished to the west of the building, leaving her and Charlie in the shadows as they watched the streets.

Nothing moved.

And she couldn't hold her tongue any longer.

"You think Lord Balfour is still working with Sergey Grigoriev?" she murmured, cupping her hands and blowing into them to warm her fingers.

"Gemma's rarely wrong."

Sergey.

He hadn't been at the ball, thank goodness. As prepared for him as she could be, she knew the first glimpse of her family's murderer would be a shock.

"Did you hear what Balfour said in his study about Obsidian being his trump card against Sergey? What did that mean?" She'd almost forgotten in all the mayhem last night, but the second they mentioned Sergey, it all came rushing back.

"Obsidian's memories were conditioned out of him by a doctor working for Balfour. But when we raided the dhampir headquarters a couple of weeks ago, I found a file with Obsidian's name on it. The Grigoriev family tree is inside it, and he's been using the name Dmitri, though he can't remember if it belongs to him or if it was an alias he was last using. He thinks he might be the eldest Grigoriev."

She almost strained her neck, her head whipped toward him so swiftly. "What? H-he can't be. The whole family was murdered. Weren't they?"

But the others hadn't been home when the house was attacked.

No. Dmitri and Nikolai had been attending the opera with her father. Assassins swarmed their carriage, and they'd died.

Or had they?

What if one of them escaped?

Shock rampaged through her, and her vision swam as she heard Balfour's words again, "...not the only Grigoriev out there...."

"Are you all right?" Charlie's brow crinkled.

No. No, I'm not.

Did Obsidian look like Dima? Had there been even a hint of familiarity when she looked at him? She didn't know.

Lark drove her head between her knees, trying to still her racing heart. "Just need a moment. I'm... a little nervous. About the job."

A hand stroked up her spine, and she sensed Charlie kneeling beside her. "Any hint of vampire and we're out of there. I promise. I'm not going to risk you. I'll never risk your life again. You're safe, Lark."

Not safe. Never safe.

Especially not here.

But his hand was stroking her neck now, thumb digging into the tense muscle that aligned her spine. Lark rested against his knee, turning her face into his thigh. God, she felt sick.

"Do you want to stay behind?"

Yes. But the "behind" caught her attention.

She looked up through several loose strands of hair. "You think you're going in there without me?"

Hell, no.

His mouth twisted ruefully. "Blade and Herbert will be almost in place. If we abort now, we might be leaving them in there alone."

She didn't have time to think about this sudden revelation.

Lark pushed to her feet, forcing her shaking limbs to obey her. "You're not going anywhere without me. Someone needs to watch your fool back."

"Point of entry," Charlie said, gesturing to one of the servants’ entrances. "Ready?"

"When you are," she replied, dragging the mask up over her mouth and pulling her hood over her face.

She couldn't afford to be a Grigoriev right now.

She needed to be Lark.

"If you—"

"I'm fine," she said. "Let's go."

Nothing could have prepared her for the palace.

Lark tried to focus on the task ahead of them instead of the flashes of memory that overtook her with every damned step.

There was no sign of habitation in the servants’ quarters. No hint of rot. To all visible appearance, the place was abandoned, and yet all the hairs down her spine lifted. It felt like eyes were watching her wherever she went, but she couldn't hear anything.

The ornate ballroom had the air of a mausoleum. Dust lay thick on the chequered floors, and several of the chandeliers had fallen, spraying glass everywhere. The remaining shards caught the rising moonlight through the windows, winking like tears of pure fire, but a dark curtain of gloom shrouded the ballroom.

She moved as if in a trance.

Up the enormous staircase into the hallway where most of the Grigoriev ancestors had once looked down upon her. Charlie slipped ahead like a wraith in the night, checking rooms, but Lark paused by the enormous family portrait on the wall.

The gilt frame was blackened with soot, and someone had slashed through the portrait, leaving a flap of canvas hanging down. She reached up, lifted it back into place, and found herself staring directly into her father's eyes.

Konstantin Grigoriev had been an imposing man with dark brown hair much the same color as hers, though there was more green to his eyes. His neatly trimmed beard and mustache flanked a stern, unforgiving mouth. He'd been serious and sober at the best of times, much like Dmitri, but when he smiled the entire room lit with its warmth.

And he always smiled for her.

At his side, Dima and Nikolai stood stiffly, though they couldn't have been more unalike if they'd tried. Kolya was the joker of the family, constantly tugging her plaits or playing tricks on her, and Dima had been quiet and studious, given to long brooding silences.

She looked for Obsidian in Dmitri's face.

Was that a hint of him about the mouth? Obsidian's hair and eyes were fairer than the boy in the painting’s, but was that merely the craving virus bleaching the color from his skin?

It was said that Dmitri resembled her father's first wife more than their father, so she couldn't find any traces of him in Konstantin either.

Lark pressed her fingers to Yekaterina's gown, wishing she'd told her sister how much she loved her when she'd had the chance. She could almost remember sitting for the portrait. Baby Evgeni fussed and cried the whole time, wanting to be free to roam, and all she could recall was feeling the same resentment.

"Lark." Charlie ghosted back down the hallway toward her.

She let the flap of canvas fall. She had a job to do. There was no point dwelling on the past, and yet her heart hurt in her chest as if the muscles were squeezing tight.

"Found anything?"

"Nothing," he signed. "Just dust, soot, and broken furniture."

They moved on, working methodically.

Ghosts haunted the palace, but they were her ghosts. There was no sign of anything else.

"I'll check down the hall," Charlie signed.

Nodding, Lark opened the door to her father's study, wincing at the creak. The carpets weren't as dusty here, but she couldn't be certain if someone had passed by, or whether the room had been sealed away from most of the damage.

Hidden passages riddled the palace. She could recall playing hide and seek with Nikolai and Yekaterina. Lark crossed to the fireplace and felt around for the small indentation beneath the decorative corner piece. If anyone were trying to hide a kidnapped duke, it would be in the passages.

A whisper of wind swept over the back of her neck.

She spun, but the room remained empty.

Cold. Still. Quiet.

There's no one here, she told herself, but suddenly she wasn't so certain if there weren't ghosts, after all.

Lark let the seconds tick out, her mouth going dry. Where the hell was Charlie?

Pressing the indentation made the fireplace click, and the entire brick wall swiveled open on silent hinges.

Slipping into the narrow staircase, she glanced up the moonlit stairs. There'd been dust in the ballroom and bedrooms. Leaning down, she brushed her fingers against the middle of the stairs. Exactly as she'd suspected: no dust. Someone used these passages regularly.

Sliding her knife into her hand, she ghosted up the stairs.

They led to one of the towers overlooking the river. The shutters were open, gaslights twinkling in the distance.

Lark crossed to the desk, a replica of the one in her father's study. There were several ledgers and books resting on its surface, and no sign of dust. Several unused candles sat in ornate holders, and there was fresh ink in the inkwell. Someone visited this place frequently. Someone who didn't want others to know he or she was here.

She needed to get out of here.

But as if some part of the predator within her sensed it was too late, the hairs on the back of her neck lifted.

"I thought I heard little mice scurrying around."

Lark spun around and jumped when she saw the figure standing in the doorway. Her heart thundered behind her sternum, every sense she owned suddenly on high alert. No way past him. No way out, unless she leapt through one of the windows, and she of all people knew how long the fall was from here.

For a second she wondered if all this talk of ghosts had gotten to her, and whether he was really there or not.

Until she saw the stretch of shadow beneath his cloak.

"Who are you?" she whispered, drawing the pistol strapped to her hip.