She fell immediately into step with Chéri, grasping his arm like rope tied to an anchor.

What would her mother say? Oh, God. She’d have a whole list of all the ways she’d ever disappointed her, or disown her, or try and marry her off to one of her own damned cousins. She’d been hinting at the Hawksfields for so long that Lory played sick to get out of the last Hawksfield wedding.

“We don’t even talk,” she answered Uncle Ben, miserably.

At some point, she’d started seeing her as her madame – well, secondary madame now, now that there was actually someone else to present clients instead of prayers that seemed to be answered more by Satan himself than an angel sparing scant pity.

She shrunk back when Elijah addressed them all as offenders. As though existing at a brothel were on par with violently kidnapping a woman from one, and defending said woman was offense the same. Not showing it correctly. She ducked her head, lest the wrong expression drive him to decide to pin it all on her and Chéri instead of just some of it.

He sounded friendlier toward Chéri, at least. Maybe he just hated women.

She wasn’t sure what they were saying … but she heard “tranquilles”? Tranquil sounded nice.

“Ouie. Tranquilles.”