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soon after they began their new charade, Nic noticed that Arista had avoided one particular gentleman, a portly slobbering fool too drunk to stand. Instead she went for the tall,
stately man who stood on the outskirts of the crowd.
    Nic would have gone for the drunk, but Arista had noticed the way the man’s eyes darted around and he fidgeted with his hands. Signs that he was nervous about something. Sure enough, only
moments after Arista walked away, he had been caught stealing a watch from the Duke of Rochester. In the commotion, Arista had taken a very nice pair of diamond cufflinks from the man who appeared
focused, but was in fact high on opium.
    Arista’s success at the balls had given Bones the inroad he’d needed to begin blackmailing the aristocracy. She had been his pawn for the last two years.
    Becky took her duties very seriously. From the start, she had insisted that Arista look and act like a lady, as if they actually lived in some countryside manor house and Becky was in charge of
preparing Arista to enter high society. The fact that their
home
was a twelve-by-twelve room—made of rough boards, with a lock on both sides of the door and no windows—seemed to
escape the maid’s grasp.
    Arista often wondered if the treatment Becky received from her last employer had somehow addled her sense of reality. Surely no one in their right mind would mistake how they lived as
acceptable, yet Becky went about her daily duties with nary a complaint about their living conditions—or about the fact that they were virtually prisoners.
    If not for Becky’s amazing skills as a seamstress, Arista would have been forced to wear whatever clothing Nic outgrew, or could find, tossed aside as unserviceable. As it was, Becky could
construct beautiful costumes with hardly any resources. Lady A always went out looking like an aristocrat, though her costumes were always the color of night. Each year as Arista outgrew them,
Becky had sewn something new, fancier most times, but always in black to allow Arista to hide in the shadows of the ballrooms.
    At first Arista had protested. She didn’t need fancy clothing to do what Bones needed done. She could conduct business in the shadows, dressed like a boy as usual.
    Only once had Arista refused to let Becky dress her—Lady A’s first meeting. Bones got wind of Arista’s complaints, and Becky still bore the scars from that act of defiance. It
had been a dark warning to Arista, and she had listened. Now she let Becky do what she must, if only to keep her safe from Bones’s heavy hand.
    Lady A became a familiar shadow at the masquerades with her raven-feather mask, but though people knew who she was, no one dared to think of turning her in to the Watch. Not with so many of
society’s best indebted to Bones. Their secrets gave her a small measure of safety, and Nic watched her back.
    And so far, Arista had avoided harm.
    “Did you dance, miss?” Becky’s nimble fingers made short work of the task, and soon the blessedly cool air caressed Arista’s hot, itchy scalp.
    Becky’s question abruptly brought back images of a highwayman. Specifically, his eyes. Had she really let a stranger put his hands on her like that? As Becky unlaced her stays, Arista
reached for the spot on her neck that the highwayman had touched. Her own fingers traced the path from her shoulder to just below her ear.
    It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t even the same feeling as when Nic had touched her in the hallway.
    Arista’s mind flew in a million directions. She wanted to get her trousers on, pull the dark wool cap down over her head, and go for a walk. She needed to try and sort out what had
happened at the masquerade so it wouldn’t happen again.
    “Did you remember everything I taught you, then?” Becky interrupted her thoughts, and a prickle of irritation swept over Arista. The girl loved to talk, especially after Arista had
gone to a party.
    Arista wanted to snap back that yes, she had