"This place looks expensive, Thomas."

  Florence stood on the sidewalk, clutching her bag with both hands, her knuckles pale against the strap. The Lacquered Swan loomed above them, its gilded sign catching the last light of the evening, the warm glow from behind the burgundy curtains spilling out onto the pavement like an invitation meant for someone else entirely.

  The clientele filing through the front door confirmed her suspicion. A woman in a fur-trimmed cape and ropes of pearls glided past, her arm linked with a man whose pocket watch chain alone could have paid Florence's rent for a year or two. Behind them, a silver-haired gentleman in a charcoal evening suit held the door for his companion, a younger woman in emerald silk whose earrings threw tiny constellations of reflected gaslight across the stone fa?ade.

  Florence looked down at herself. Thomas had insisted on the shopping detour during the tour—dragging her into a dressmaker's shop on the high street with the words "you can't celebrate in secondhand wool, Flo, it's depressing." The result was a fitted dress of deep plum fabric with a modest lace collar, simple but well-cut, the kind of thing a respectable young professional might wear to a dinner she was slightly underdressed for. It was the nicest thing she had ever owned, and she still felt like a counterfeit coin in a silk purse.

  Thomas, for his part, was not exactly blending in either. He had shed the bulk of his field gear, but the reinforced leather trench coat remained—too distinctive to abandon, too ingrained in his identity to leave behind. The heavy collar was unbuttoned, folded down to reveal the crisp white shirt beneath, but the silver eye of the Inspector Corps was still pinned to the lapel, glinting under the gas lamps with quiet authority. He didn't look like a man who belonged at the Lacquered Swan. He looked like a man who could arrest everyone inside it.

  The passing patrons noticed. A few glances lingered on the insignia—the kind of looks people gave when they were trying to determine whether they should be nervous or impressed. Thomas either didn't notice or didn't care.

  "It is expensive," Thomas said, looking up at the sign with the satisfied expression of a man about to do something he had been planning for a very long time. "That's the point."

  He looked down at Florence, and the pride in his face softened into something warmer.

  "You only get accepted into the University of Dunwick once, Flo. When I got my promotion, I celebrated with cold mutton and a pint in my kitchen because I didn't have anyone to drag me somewhere decent. I'm not letting that happen to you."

  Florence bit her lip, glancing back at the door. Another couple swept through—the man's cufflinks were sapphires. Actual sapphires. "Thomas, I would be perfectly happy with cold mutton and a pint."

  "I know you would," Thomas said, placing a hand on her shoulder and steering her firmly toward the entrance. "That's why someone has to intervene. Come on. I made the reservation three weeks ago. If we don't show up, they'll give the table to someone who doesn't deserve it."

  The ma?tre d' stood behind his podium like a sentinel, his tailcoat pressed to perfection, his expression the cultivated blankness of a man trained to assess net worth at a glance. He watched them approach, his gaze flicking from Florence's modest plum dress to Thomas's leather coat, performing the calculation.

  "Reservation for Bannerman," Thomas said, his tone easy but carrying the weight of someone accustomed to being taken seriously.

  The ma?tre d' consulted his ledger, one finger tracing down the column. His expression thawed by several degrees when he found the name—or perhaps when he registered the silver insignia.

  "Ah, yes. Mr. Bannerman. Right this way, sir."

  They were led through the dining room. Florence tried not to stare, but the room made it difficult. Candelabras flickered on every table, their light caught and multiplied in the dark lacquered wood of the walls until the whole space glowed like the inside of a jewel box. The tables were draped in cream linen, set with more silverware than Florence had ever seen assembled in one place—three forks, two knives, a bewildering array of spoons, and glasses of varying shapes clustered like a crystal skyline. A stone fireplace murmured at the far end of the room, and the air was rich with roasted garlic, wine reductions, and the faint sweetness of caramelized onions.

  Florence had baked bread for families who couldn't afford butter. She had scrubbed flour from under her nails and delivered loaves to neighbors who paid in eggs because they had no coin. The idea that people sat in rooms like this, on an ordinary evening, eating food that cost more than a week's labor—it made something tighten behind her ribs that she couldn't quite name.

  The waiter pulled out their chairs. Thomas shrugged off his heavy coat, draping it over the back of his seat with the ease of long practice, and unbuttoned the top clasp of his shirt, rolling his shoulders as if shedding the weight of the day. Beneath the coat, his frame was lean but solid, and the shoulder holster strapped across his chest was visible for a brief moment before the shirt fell over it.

  Florence swung her bag off her shoulder, attempting to stow it quietly beneath the table.

  It slipped from her grip.

  Thud.

  The sound was unmistakable—heavy, dense, and metallic, the distinct report of iron striking polished hardwood. It cut through the ambient murmur of the dining room with the subtlety of a gunshot, which was grimly appropriate given the contents.

  A woman at the next table glanced over, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

  Thomas paused. His hand, which had been reaching for the water glass, hovered in mid-air. His eyes dropped to the bag on the floor, then rose to Florence's face.

  "That sounded heavy," Thomas said, his brow creasing. "You carrying a brick in there?"

  Florence's heart kicked against her ribs. She tucked her feet around the bag's strap, pulling it closer to her chair as casually as she could manage.

  "Just books," she said, the lie arriving a beat too late and a pitch too high. She swallowed, forcing her voice down. "Some I brought from home. Reference texts. For the course."

  Thomas studied her for a moment. The Inspector's gaze—sharp, analytical, trained to catch the micro-expressions of liars and criminals—swept across his sister's face.

  Florence held her breath.

  "Right," Thomas said, nodding slowly. "Good to have distractions. I used to lug around this enormous book on Dunwick Law during my first year. Weighed about as much as a small child. Nearly threw my back out carrying it up the stairs."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  He grinned, wide and genuine, the investigative instinct filing the observation away in whatever dusty drawer of his mind was reserved for things that weren't worth pursuing.

  "Relax, Florence. Nobody here is going to bite you."

  "It's just... a lot," Florence managed, her gaze drifting across the room. A waiter was pouring wine at a nearby table with a practiced, theatrical flourish, the bottle held at an angle that seemed to defy gravity. At another table, a man was eating something that appeared to be a single scallop perched on a smear of green foam, and he seemed to be enjoying it immensely. "I feel like everyone is looking at me."

  "Nobody is looking at you," Thomas said, leaning back in his chair. "And if they are, it's because you look lovely. That dress was a good choice."

  Florence opened her mouth to argue, but a waiter appeared at the table with the silent, almost supernatural timing that seemed to be a requirement of employment at the Lacquered Swan. He placed two leather-bound menus on the table with the gravity of a man delivering diplomatic dispatches, bowed slightly, and retreated.

  Florence opened hers.

  Her eyes moved across the page. They moved again. They moved a third time, slower, as if the problem were speed and not comprehension.

  The words stared back at her, arranged in elegant calligraphy on cream paper, each entry accompanied by a brief description in language that seemed designed to obscure rather than inform. Nothing on this menu had been written for a girl from Briar's Crossing.

  "Thomas," Florence whispered, leaning across the table. "What language is 'pheasant consommé'?"

  Thomas glanced up from his own menu. "That's fancy for soup."

  "And 'tartare de boeuf'?"

  "Raw beef. Chopped up with an egg on top."

  Florence made a face that suggested she would rather eat the menu itself. She looked back down at the page, her finger tracing the columns on the right where the prices were listed in neat, unforgiving numerals.

  Her finger stopped.

  "Thomas," Florence said, her voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "The soup is three Stags."

  "It's very good soup," Thomas offered.

  "Three silver Stags. For soup." Florence stared at him, her eyes round as saucers. "Thomas, I could buy a whole chicken for three Stags. I could buy two chickens. I could buy two chickens and a bag of potatoes and feed a family for three days and still have change for a loaf."

  "Florence—"

  "The Stag is sixteen Stags!" Florence hissed, jabbing her finger at the entry so aggressively the candle flame jumped. "Sixteen! That's almost two gold Crowns! For a piece of deer!"

  "It's highland stag," Thomas corrected mildly. "They raise them on a specific diet."

  "I don't care if they raise them on champagne and violin music, Thomas, this is insanity." Florence set the menu down on the table with a firmness that bordered on violence. She folded her hands in her lap, sat up straight, and looked her brother dead in the eye. "I can't eat here. Let's go somewhere else. That chop house on Mulberry lane was amazing for the price. Can't we jus—"

  Thomas blinked. His expression cycled through several stages in rapid succession—confusion, surprise, mild alarm—before settling on genuine bewilderment.

  "What? Why?"

  "Because it's too expensive," Florence said, her voice tight. "It's wasteful. Thomas, you work for a living. You live in a shoebox—your words, not mine. You're sending money home every month. You can't be spending a Crown and a half on a piece of venison just because I passed an exam."

  Thomas set his own menu down. The confusion cleared from his face, replaced by something quieter, steadier.

  "Florence," he said. His voice had dropped out of its usual animated register into something lower, something that reminded her of the way he used to talk to her when she was small and frightened by the storms that rattled the bakery windows. "Look at me."

  She looked at him.

  "I can afford this," Thomas said. "I promise you, I can. Senior Inspectors get hazard pay, Flo. We get a generous stipend on top of the salary, equipment allowances, and a housing subsidy that I've been pocketing because my shoebox is government-issued."

  He spread his hands on the tablecloth, palms up, as if showing her he had nothing to hide.

  "I have been saving up for months, waiting for you to arrive in Dunwick. Every patrol, every overtime shift, every time my partner dragged me out to clear some pointless disturbance at three in the morning—I put the bonus aside. For tonight."

  He leaned forward, his expression earnest in a way that made him look less like a Senior Inspector and more like the nineteen-year-old boy who had knelt beside her bed after the fever took their parents and promised her, with a voice that shook, that everything was going to be fine.

  "Every day won't be like this," Thomas said. "Tomorrow we go back to normal. Cheap coffee, day-old bread, whatever Mrs. Gable is boiling in that terrifying cauldron she calls a stew pot. But tonight is special, Florence. You worked harder for this than anyone I know. Three attempts at the exam. Three. And you kept going."

  He held her gaze.

  "Let me do this for you."

  Florence examined his face. She searched for the strain of a man stretching beyond his means, the tightness around the eyes that came with financial anxiety, the forced cheer of someone performing generosity they couldn't sustain.

  She found none of it. He was calm. He was steady. He was her brother, and he meant every word.

  "Are you sure?" Florence asked weakly.

  "I am positive," Thomas said.

  Florence exhaled. The rigid set of her shoulders loosened by a fraction, and she nodded, small and reluctant, but real.

  Thomas smiled—a broad, triumphant grin that crinkled the corners of his eyes—and reached across the table, plucking the menu from Florence's side before she could pick it up and start panicking about the price of garnishes.

  "There we go," he said, flipping it open. "Now, let me handle the—"

  He stopped.

  His thumb had brushed against the edge of the leather cover as he turned it over, and something caught. He frowned, the grin fading. He looked down at the menu in his hand.

  Deep, crushed grooves were pressed into the leather binding. Five of them, finger-width, running parallel along the edge where Florence had been gripping it. The indentations were clean and precise, molded into the hide as if someone had squeezed the cover in a vise. The leather hadn't torn—it had simply yielded, compressed into permanent furrows by a force that had no business coming from a seventeen-year-old girl's hand.

  Thomas turned the menu over, running his thumb along the grooves. His frown deepened.

  "Leather's ruined," he muttered, shaking his head. He held it up to the candlelight, inspecting the damage with the mild irritation of a man who expected better from a place that charged three Stags for soup. "High-end establishment, and they can't even maintain their menus. Some brute probably manhandled this earlier. Sloppy."

  He set the damaged menu aside, picking up his own unblemished copy with a tsk of disapproval.

  Florence sat very still, her hands folded carefully in her lap, her fingers interlocked so tightly the knuckles were bone-white. She did not look at the crushed leather. She did not look at her own hands. She looked at the candle flame and focused on breathing.

  "Right then," Thomas said, oblivious, scanning the entries with the confident eye of a man who had been here before. "I'll order for us. Trust me on this."

  He flagged the waiter with a crisp, economical gesture.

  "We'll start with the roasted marrow bones and the game terrine, both for the table. Then the pheasant consommé for myself and the wild mushroom velouté for my sister—she'll like that better, it's earthy. Mains, we'll have the highland stag, one rare and one medium. Gratin potatoes for both. And a bottle of the eighty-one Montclair."

  The waiter's pen scratched in rapid, practiced strokes. "An excellent selection, sir. Anything else?"

  Thomas looked across at Florence. The grin was back—warm, unguarded, and utterly oblivious to the fingerprint-shaped ruins he had just dismissed as shoddy craftsmanship.

  "Bread," Thomas added, not breaking eye contact with his sister. "Bring the bread first. She's been traveling, and if I know my sister, she hasn't eaten a proper meal in two days."

  Thomas leaned back... looking for the first time in days as if he finally allowed himself to breathe.