Making him hope.

On the fifth afternoon, Bo breezed into his study carrying a box under his arm. “I just had an interesting conversation with a butcher in Chinatown.”

Winter lay on his leather sofa, one arm and leg dangling off the side, staring at the ticking grandfather clock his father had shipped over from Sweden. “If it’s not about Black Star or those symbols, I don’t want to hear about it.”

“It’s not directly about Black Star, but it might be.”

The pendulum on the clock swung several times while Winter waited for Bo to elaborate. “You going to tell me, or make me guess?”

“This butcher says that his cousin joined a secret tong two years ago. He said that no one knew the name of the leader, where it was based, what it controlled. But his cousin underwent a strange initiation that involved enduring insect bites.”

Now Winter was interested. “Insects? Like the Gu poison?”

“Maybe, and remember the tong leader killed by bees? I’ve heard of blood initiations, but this . . .”

“It does sound strange,” Winter admitted.

“There’s more. The cousin said that the leader of the tong claimed to be a descendant of a mystical group of Chinese rebels from the Han Dynasty. A military group. Their leader was a necromancer.”

“What is that? Black magic?”

“Calls up the dead. Could be nothing but legend, but it’s the first connection I’ve heard between sorcery and a tong, and it’s awfully strange.”

“Damn right it is. We need to talk to the butcher’s cousin who joined this tong.”

Bo shook his head. “The night after he spoke to the butcher, he turned up dead in a gutter. The butcher thinks the tong killed him for blabbing about the initiation ceremony. The butcher also said after his cousin’s death, he was so worried the secret tong would come after him and his wife that he moved his business to the opposite end of Chinatown.”

“Christ. A secret tong with mystical roots . . . This has to be it, Bo.”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground and let you know what else I can dig up.”

Unease wormed its way into Winter’s gut. Bo was savvy and sharp; he knew what he was doing. But Winter had already lost too many people in his life. If anything happened to Bo while he was slinking around Chinatown’s alleys, Winter would never forgive himself. “Tread carefully,” he told him. “If any of that is remotely true, and if they’re connected to this Black Star, God only knows what they’d do if they thought someone was poking into their business.”

Bo flicked the cap on his hat and winked. “I’m always careful.”

“I mean it, Bo.”

“Your concern for my well-being is touching. I will agree to be careful if you agree not to bite my head off for giving you this.” He handed over the box. “A courier dropped it off.”

Winter walked to his desk and dug around in a drawer for a letter opener to cut the strings. When he lifted the top of the box, he found himself staring at the gown Ju had made for Aida. The pain he’d been nursing for the last few days reared up, making his chest tight and hot.

“Helvete,” he swore under his breath.

Not the gaudy yellow fabric, but the color he’d wanted, so delicate, like silver and sand. At least Ju had some sense. It was finely made. Looked like something a goddess would wear. He imagined Aida wearing it, and the unending hollowness he’d felt since their fight grew wider.

He crammed the box top back on, crushing one side of it in frustration. He should just throw it in the trash. She wouldn’t take it anyway.

“It’s a beautiful gown,” Bo noted.

Yes. Ju’s girls had gone to a lot of trouble making it, and it was exceptional work.

A shame to let it go to waste.

Maybe Astrid would want it. Then again, if she ever wore it, it would likely just remind him of the spirit medium.

Only sensible option was to just give the damned thing to Aida. She might not accept it. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up—he knew better now. This was just the logical thing to do, that’s all.

• • •

Someone pounded on Aida’s apartment door when she was getting ready to leave for her late show at Gris-Gris. Who would be calling on her at seven on a Friday night? And why did it make her so angry? Everything made her angry lately, and it was all Winter Magnusson’s fault.

She was ill—physically sick to her stomach. She’d lost her appetite and had spent the last four nights rolling around on her narrow bed, feeling every spring, kicking the covers, cursing Winter’s name.

Even one-way conversations with Sam about the matter, usually a comfort, gave her no support or relief. She tried to recall a Sam-ism that would apply to the situation and only remembered warnings about the uselessness of love, which she didn’t care to consider—maybe because she was weaker than he’d been when it came to these matters.

It was ridiculous, all this anger and disappointment Winter stirred up inside her. She wasn’t mad at him anymore about Sook-Yin, now that the shock had worn off. She wasn’t even secretly mad about his dead wife, because that would be petty and selfish of her to be mad about something like that. It was none of her business, and he was obviously struggling with grief she couldn’t fathom, and it would be silly to be jealous of a dead woman.

She was, however, still angry.

Because he’d given up on the two of them.