She eyed the street-facing windows. “What of the Alchemist?” she asked beneath her breath. “Please, tell me you found him.” Her eyes were bloodshot, and her teeth had reddened a spot on her lip.
I grimaced. I knew I could only give her a half-truth, and that it might break her. But at least afterward, I would be done with these deceptions. Already I felt less and less constricted.
“No,” I told her. “Domelius Becker is dead.”
Her face fell, her eyes becoming two fathomless pits, a slow wakening terror rearing in their depths.
“Polly, listen—”
“Then it’s done,” she whispered. “We’re done for.”
I nodded slowly, then steeled myself for my next words. “I have to tell him, Pol,” I whispered. I looked over my shoulder as she did, the square beyond the windows empty. “I’m sorry. I’m doing it
