Page 24 of Ashen Torment

The smoke slowly comes to life, coiling between my lips, while my eyes do not leave my brother for a single instant.

He grinds his teeth. “Stop uttering such nonsense.”

I raise an eyebrow, letting the cigarette smoke rise slowly toward the ceiling.

Russian tobacco. It is the best.

“Is that not it, then?”

“See for yourself, Dorian.” He pushes a single sheet forward.

I lean down slightly, the frosted green light of the lamp sliding over the upper edge of the document. Old accounts, numbers jotted in haste, a script I would recognize even years later. And then, at the bottom, a note traced in pencil.

“Cease all relations with B. Co.—affair compromised. Lestrade notified.”

I move the paper with two fingers, the graphite is still visible, stark, though time has sought to wear it away.

“Lestrade, do you not recall? He was our father’s friend and partner. I have scrutinized the old industrial ledgers, and the only venture that could coincide is the one linked to the Blackford foundry.”

“Lestrade... Lestrade...” I mumble. “Duke of Lestrieux?”

Lucien nods. “Precisely. The records show that the final installments were abruptly halted in March of 1853. In fact, the deal never reached fruition.”

“March of 1853,” I inhale the smoke. “A few months before—”

“Exactly!” He clenches his fists slightly. “Does it not strike you as strange, for a mere coincidence?”

“I do not know, Lucien...” I say, lifting the sheet between my fingers. “This,” my gaze sweeps rapidly across the words, “does not tell us much.”

“We must investigate further. Go deeper.”

“Brother, you are more adept than I at such verifications.”

I open the lowest drawer of the mahogany desk, draw out a key, and hand it to him without hesitation.

“Search through the grandfather’s archives.”

His eyes widen, incredulous.

“The Marquess Ashford’s archive? Have you lost your mind? If he were to catch me in there, he would shoot me from one end of the corridor to the other.”

“You have my permission.”

“Your permission is worth nothing to that old—”

My fist strikes before I am even aware of it. The table vibrates under the sharp blow.

“Do as I tell you, Lucien.”

He takes a step back and bows his torso slightly.

“As you wish, Lord Dorian,” he replies, seizing the key and heading toward the study door.

“Lucien.”

He advances a few more paces and, without a word, crosses the threshold.

“Lucien!” I raise my voice, gritting my teeth.