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below. Much to Frannie’s surprise, he dropped to his hands and knees and began to crawl around on the fire-blackened wood boards. She hadn’t installed her new curtains yet, and the light through the broken glass laid the room’s every fault bare. She was mortified when he stuck his head under the bed; surely the neglected dustbunnies were one step away from craving blood.
    When Thom emerged holding a crude device of charred metal and fabric, Frannie was more confused and embarrassed than concerned. After all, she hadn’t moved her bed a single time in her entire life, and she hadn’t spent much time poking around under there, either. Having grown up with a mortal fear of bludrats, hanging about under a pitch-dark bed wasn’t something that interested her.
    “Tell me, lass. D’ye have any enemies?”
    “Not to my knowledge.” She had many secrets, but no one knew about them. And if anyone did, setting her home and shop on fire would have rendered them useless, anyway. “What is that thing?”
    Thom stood, turning the object over in his dusty leather gloves. Although he held it easily in one large hand, when he gave it to her, she needed both hands to manage the size and weight of it.
    “An incendiary device.” She cocked her head at him and raised an eyebrow, a trick she had picked up from the parrots. He moved closer, his arm brushing hers, to point at a blackened, pointy part. “Bit like a fire lighter. See, here, where the bit of slate strikes the flint? My best guess is that someone threw it through your window while it was on fire. That would explain why the flames were concentrated on the curtains, aye?”
    Frannie handed it back to him, noting that for a fellow who seemed rustic and rough, his vocabulary was rather crisp. She stood before the window, the skin crawling on her neck as she thought about the only person who’d ever tried to hurt her. But this—this wasn’t his style. She was fairly certain it couldn’t be the neighbors, either. The building across the street was owned by a baker, and she knew the family well enough to be sure the device hadn’t originated there. In any case, the baker’s roof was sloped, not high and flat like her own.
    “It must have come from the street,” she said. “But why me? The shop’s worth nothing burned.”
    He shrugged, his shoulders stretching the gray coat. “Plenty of arson in this city, most of it never explained to my satisfaction. Did you sleep here last night?”
    She blushed and stared at the bed, which was stripped to an old, singed sheet over the striped mattress.
    “Of course ye didn’t. Good. Ye never know when they’ll try again. I’ll speak to the local Copper, make sure someone patrols this street at night. Have you considered barring the windows? Or setting a clockwork to guard?”
    “My family has been here for thirty years without a single problem. This part of town is still good.” Her glare dared him to disagree, but he only raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never felt unsafe before.” She swallowed, crossing her arms over her chest as she stared at the cold, charred incendiary device. Metal was so impersonal. “Not like this.”
    Thom set the device down on her bed and stepped closer. His hand half-lifted from his side, but in the end, he didn’t touch her.
    “You’re scared of something more than the fire, lass. What’s amiss?”
    She hugged herself and tried to smile, although it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
    “It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.”
    “Was it that rakehell with the floofy shirt? Because I’ll turn his face into liver.”
    She couldn’t help laughing, which surprised him. “He couldn’t hurt a fly, that one. Not my type, anyway. All bluster and no blood, as my father used to say.”
    His eyes were crow-sharp, considering. “So you two . . . aren’t involved?”
    “I took him in like a dying dog, and he’s paying me well to sleep in an empty room. That’s the depth of our