Page 52 of Vesuvius

He headed for the estate.

Where he found Clovia, bobbing in the water, purple welts around her neck.

Later, Felix watched from the shadows as Loren left for the amphitheatre, escorted by Julia and her guards. Conflict clashed in Felix’s chest, the urge to keep watch on Loren warring with the need to gather proof. Felix was in no position to accuse Darius of murder, not to Julia. Pointing fingers never worked in a thief’s favour. Usually, it got them cut off.

His initial assumption, that Darius targeted the estate because the statesman knew Felix was there, no longer struck him as right. Not after witnessing Julia’s reaction, her knowing gaze and cool confidence that Felix hadn’t killed Clovia. Like she’d expected it. Like it had happened before. Darius had wanted to be caught, wanted the murder to be recognised. Felix recalled the press of Darius’s fingers around his neck and the bitter stink of poppy sap the statesman poured. Those marks on Clovia’s body screamed of a signature style. A message.

There was a connection between the statesman and Julia, and Loren had tripped into a worse mess than Felix thought.That’swhyFelix needed proof. To convince Loren that Julia’s danger wasn’t worth any information she could offer about the damn helmet. Unless he cut ties with her, it’d be Loren’s body, drenched in bruised poppy, that Felix found next.

Not that Felix cared. He only wanted to get back on track, so when he left the city he could make a clean break. No lingering regrets. No ghosts.

Then Loren looked over his shoulder one last time, familiar mouth pinched, before the crowd swallowed them, and Felix’s stomach fluttered. Worry, or something like it, reordered his priorities.

He didn’t care for the sensation at all.

Felix left the estate too, in the opposite direction.

The streets brimmed with people ambling towards the festivities. Spirits ran high, voices jubilant. Everyone would be there, craving a break from Pompeii’s recent sour luck. Felix banked on it – though for once, he wasn’t escaping. Not when he had a point to prove.

No one noticed him moving against the flow. Again, he ditched his sandals to grab later, then followed changing bricks onto a too-familiar street. Ignoring the front gate, he made for the side door he’d entered before. He twisted the hairpin he’d pinched from last night’s party in the lock until it clicked and the door swung free.

The fresco of Vesuvius, in all her grape-crowned, writhing-snake glory, welcomed Felix into the statesman’s lararium. The lares posed in their alcove, begging for gifts and gold. Spilled wine had dried into a sticky purple smear across the floor. Even days later, Felix still felt cold tile bruising his knees, the cradle of his jaw in the statesman’s hands.

But that was the past. He shouldn’t think about the past. Swallowing, he moved away.

Silence reigned. A pin would echo from across the house if there’d been another soul to drop one. Secrets thrived here, Felix could taste them. Dangerous secrets. He wished he had the knife he’d stolen, ameagre defence, but when he checked his pocket, it had vanished. Lost. Damn.

Picking a corridor at random, he began his search.

The next door he tried was locked, too, but not for long. With a smirk, he slipped the hairpin away and pushed forward.

His grin died quickly.

Jupiter and Juno, this room held a lot of shit. The statesman called himself a collector.Hoarderwas a better word. Felix’s fingers flexed. It would be a thief’s perfect cache, a smuggler’s wet dream, if it didn’t ring so . . .wrong.

Gingerly, Felix stepped over the threshold. Tables against the wall groaned under tons of bronze and silver trinkets, and mounds of discarded treasure dominated the floor. Stacked towers of dull cups, clusters of leering statues. Shields, crowns, a scythe. He picked up a sword coated in rust or blood, stomach lurching. The room buzzed with a frenetic energy he couldn’t source, and it vibrated to his fingertips, a building static charge.

One wrong touch, and he’d light the place up.

Worst were the helmets. Empty-eyed, they glared from every angle. Shiny helmets, crushed helmets, gore-spattered helmets. All these, and the statesman still wanted the helmet Felix had stolen. The one stashed in Loren’s laundry bag. The one the statesman was willing to pay for. Kill for.

Whispering tickled Felix’s ears, more wordless chatter. The sensation of being watched, eyes dragging down his body, set off gooseflesh on his arms. Delicately, he replaced the sword and backed away, nerves strung. Whatever the statesman’s entanglement with Julia, surely a room of relics didn’t factor in.

The next room wasn’t better. These were the statesman’s private quarters, Felix could tell from . . . well, he could tell. He stood dumbstruck in the statesman’s study, surrounded by mountains of scrollsand papyrus sheets. Stacks on stacks of paperwork. A half-finished document waited on the desk, inkpot left uncapped to dry. All that predatory self-control the statesman had shown, but he chose to live in chaotic mess.

Felix closed the door behind him. Unsure what to search for, he riffled through the nearest pile. A hint, a sign, a word he recognised. Anything. Loren could’ve translated if he weren’t busy playing politician. Huffing, Felix slumped at the desk and pushed curls off his forehead. A room dedicated to random old objects, a guard with a grim message, poppy sap and paperwork. So much paperwork. How did it all tie together?

A heavy bronze box, more like a coffer, occupied one corner of the desk. When Felix dragged it closer to inspect the lock, something shuffled inside. He tinkered with his hairpin again, and the latch popped.

Inside was more fucking paper.

The top sheet was folded in thirds and a different texture from the paper scattered across the desk, expensive parchment instead of reedy papyrus, ink black as the day it was laid down. It must’ve been written to impress the reader. Or written by someone with money to waste. Felix scrutinised the text, but comprehension didn’t dawn until he reached the seal at the end.

F, looped in laurels.

He’d seen that crest before, emblazoned on Ax’s house pin. This letter had been penned by Julia. His mind whirred with possibilities, heart leaping that he had beenright.

His shock nearly caused him to miss the voices.

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