Alex slugged him.
Pain exploded in Gideon’s jaw.
He staggered back, hitting the ropes as the taste of blood burst through his mouth. His ears rang as he gripped the ropes tighter to keep from falling on his ass.
I deserved that, he thought, spitting blood. Shaking off the buzzing pain, he pulled himself upright to find Alex already ducking out of the ring, grabbing his shirt, and walking away.
“Alex,” he called. “Alex, come on! I didn’t—”
But the door of the ring was already swinging shut, with Alex on the other side of it.
“Damn it.”
Gideon hadn’t meant a word of that.
Mostly.
Alex had struck right where Gideon was softest. Weakest. So Gideon had struck back. Which was not how it was supposed to be.
Gideon was the older one. He was supposed to protect his little brother. To take punches, even when those punches came from Alex himself.
Disgusted with himself, standing alone in the middle of the ring, Gideon let his head fall back. Closing his eyes, he let out a rough sigh.
Alex was right.
“I’m a piece of shit.”
EIGHTEEN
RUNE
THE FOLLOWING DAY, A luncheon was being held in honor of Charlotte Gong’s engagement. Rune had agreed to attend long before Gideon’s telegram arrived, and therefore needed to make an appearance. The luncheon wasn’t until noon, though, leaving her free to meet Gideon beforehand.
So, early that morning, Rune rode for the capital and told no one where she was going.
After stabling Lady in one of the Old Town stables—garnering several startled looks from the stable hands, who weren’t accustomed to fancy show horses in their stalls—she set out for Prudence Street.
It was shortly after ten o’clock when she found it, and the street was bustling. Smoke plumed from chimneys and the smell of the factory coal fires hung in the air, clashing with the sounds of haggling food sellers. Passing workmen threw curious glances at Rune as she tried her best to stay out of the way. She stared up at the tired-looking tenement buildings, noticing the cracks running through the brown bricks and the facades in need of fresh paint.
The Good Commander had given Thornwood Hall, Cressida’s summer home, to Alex as compensation for killing the youngest Roseblood sister. But Gideon had done far more than Alex in service of the New Republic—leading the revolutionaries into the palace, disposing of Cressida’s two older sisters, devoting his life to hunting down witches. Surely the Commander had offered his Blood Guard captain whatever he wanted, in gratitude. So why did Gideon still live here, of all places?
Rune spotted the number 113 on a street-level door next to a boarded-up shop window. As she approached, raising her fist to knock, the faded letters of the marquee overhead caught her eye.
THE SHARPE DUET: TAILORING AND DRESSMAKING.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Suddenly, the door swung in. Gideon stood in the frame, towering over her.
Were you born massive? she wondered, staring up at him. Or were you once as small and fragile as the rest of us?
He wore plain trousers and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Over his shoulders hung a long strip of measuring tape.
“You’re late.”
Fashionably late, she thought as he stepped aside, inviting her in.
Instead of leading her up the steps to the apartment above, Gideon led her through a door to the left and into the darkened tailor shop that once belonged to two of the most famous designers in fashion history. Her entire body hummed with anticipation.
Despite her friendship with Alex, she’d never been to the Sharpe’s home before. Nan forbade Rune from ever setting foot in the outer wards. They’re dangerous, dirty, and full of criminals, Nan would say whenever Rune protested. Not for the likes of us.
Inside the shop, boards covered every window, letting in thin cracks of sunlight. As her eyes adjusted to the diminished light, she tried not to gape at the fabrics, the sewing kits, the patterns … all of it lying about as if it were no big deal.
Gideon must have inherited it all from his parents.
But why did he keep it?
Clearly, no one had touched any of this in years.
Sun and Levi Sharpe once stood right where I’m standing, thought Rune, imagining the seamstress and the tailor hunched over the long worktable, sketching ideas late into the night, stitching fabrics until their tired eyes wouldn’t open anymore and they blew out their candles and went to bed.
“This,” said Gideon, standing at a worktable, “is my solution to your problem.”
She stepped up beside him, glancing down at the notebook lying open on the table. An oil lamp burned beside it, illuminating the pages. Her eyes widened, and she leaned in closer.