Dolph Saunders looked up at Esta then, piercing her with that too-steady gaze of his. “You must not value your life to steal from Viola.”
“On the contrary—I value myself too much to do anything less.” She leaned forward, propping herself on the table so they were eye to eye. “I can steal you all the coins you want. Even if I’d taken every penny from every pocket here tonight, there would have still been room for you to doubt my value. But I can do more for you than steal a few dollars. Like I said . . .” She pulled out her final coup and held it up so the entire table could see. “I can steal anything. No one can catch me. Not your crew . . .” ?With that, she gently set the silver gorgon head in front of Dolph. “Not even you.”
Dolph Saunders picked up the piece that had, moments before, been securely attached to the top of his cane. His features were unreadable as he examined it and confirmed that, indeed, she’d managed to steal the carved silver face from right under his nose. Right out from his hands, to be exact. Then he looked up at her with that cold, single-eyed stare.
Esta shifted uneasily. For the first time all evening, she thought maybe she had gone too far. Maybe she should have stopped with the barmaid’s knife. A strange circle of silence surrounded Dolph Saunders’ table, as though everyone who’d remained could sense that something in the air had changed—and not for the better.
But then Dolph huffed out an almost amused breath, and his hard mouth turned up slightly into what might have been a smile. It changed something in his face—not that it made him look less intimidating. A smile on Dolph Saunders was like one on a tiger: surprising, unsettling, and most of all, a reminder that the cat had teeth.
He took his time refitting the knob onto his case, shaking his head again as he examined the completed piece. Then he glanced over at the boy next to him, who gave a barely perceptive nod. “Thank Bridget for me,” Dolph said finally. “I’ll take the girl on. For now, at least.”
Werner backed away from the table, but any relief she might have felt was quickly erased by the realization that she was now alone with Dolph Saunders and the rough-looking boys standing behind his table. They were all built like boxers, and their tailored vests were cut to emphasize their trim waists and wide shoulders. Each boy wore a common uniform of an outlandishly bright shirt and a derby hat cocked to the left over his slicked-back hair.
Not boys, Esta reminded herself. In this city, even boys no older than fifteen would have been men for years. Each would have earned their swagger by surviving childhood, and then by finding and keeping a place in an organization like the Devil’s Own. She’d be an idiot to mistake their youth for innocence. Or to forget how dangerous their world had made them.
“What’s your name, girl?” Dolph said, peering up at her.
“Esta. Esta Filosik.”
“Filosik? I don’t know that name. Where are your people?”
“I don’t know,” she said, giving him the truth. “I never knew them.”
Dolph clenched his jaw and studied her. “If you bring me any trouble—”
“I won’t,” she interrupted.
He waited a second longer, and the whole barroom seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for his final pronouncement.
Dolph motioned for one of the boys to come forward, a ginger-haired guy who was dressed in a red shirt that clashed with his pale, freckled skin. The boy’s tightly fitted vest emphasized his broad, stocky shoulders, and a ridiculous-looking cravat was tied in a complicated knot at his throat. His outfit made him look like he was playing at being a gentleman, but a winding tattoo barely visible at the top edge of his collar contradicted the look. The mark on his neck looked like the top of a circle—a wide, ornate arc that clearly had more to it—but Esta couldn’t make out any detail in the dimly lit barroom.
“Mooch here’ll show you to your room,” Dolph informed her when he was done speaking to the boy. “Tomorrow you start working the Dead Line. Don’t make me regret it.”
THE DEAD LINE
The next morning Esta was already awake and dressed in the same green velvet she’d worn the day before—the only clothing she had left—when the dull thump sounded at the door. She opened it to find a familiar silver knife sunk into the wood and the girl with dark hair—and an even darker expression—waiting in the hall.
The barmaid from the night before stepped forward and pried her knife from the door. She was about a head shorter than Esta and dressed in a simple skirt and plain-fronted blouse instead of the low-cut gown she’d been wearing when Esta had stolen her stiletto. Her eyes were the most startling shade of deep violet, and a mass of wavy hair was pinned into a loose knot at the nape of her neck. Her wide, soft mouth was pulled down into a disapproving frown.
“My name is Viola,” she said with a low, throaty voice that still carried the faintest hint of her native Italian. She made a show of cleaning the tip of her blade and didn’t bother to look at Esta when she spoke. “I don’t like you. Dolph, he tells me not to kill you for taking my knife, so I won’t. This time.” She finally lifted her violet gaze, pointing the razor-sharp tip of the blade at Esta as she spoke. “But don’t test me again. Capisce?”
Esta raised her hands to signal her understanding.
Viola slid the knife back into the slit in the side of her skirt before handing her a worn wool cloak and giving a jerk of her head. “Come. We’ll get you something to fill your belly. Today you work the Dead Line.”
Viola took her downstairs to the Strega’s kitchen and introduced her to Tilly Malkov, a girl with mouse-brown hair. Tilly offered Esta a hunk of hard, crusty bread, a cup of burnt coffee swimming with cream, and a welcoming smile that crinkled the corners of her soft green eyes.
Esta took the seat at the large kitchen table that Tilly offered her, but as she picked at her bread, she kept a watchful eye on Viola.
After a few minutes, Tilly surprised Esta by touching her hand. “Don’t worry so much,” she said. As she spoke, a tingling warmth spread like sunshine on a summer’s day over Esta’s skin. She gave an amused nod toward Viola. “That one isn’t so bad. She’s all honey and no sting,” she said with a wink.
Esta pulled her hand away, feeling unaccountably better, more relaxed, but also more on edge.
“Don’t listen to her. Libitina here stings just fine,” ?Viola told her, spinning the point of her stiletto knife on the tabletop with a menacing look in her eyes.
“You named your knife,” Esta said, amused even as Viola glared. “Of course you named your knife.”