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now and ask him instead,” Yasmeen said.
    That made her willing to talk. Her lips parted. Yasmeen didn’t allow her enough air to make a sound.
    â€œIs Zenobia in the house? Nod once if yes.”
    Nod.
    â€œIs she alive?”
    Nod.
    Good. Yasmeen might not kill this woman now. She eased back just enough to let the woman respond. “Where did you hear about the sketch?”
    â€œPort Fallow,” she whispered. “Everyone knew that Fox boarded your airship in Chatham. We realized he must have found the sketch on his last salvaging run.”
    Yasmeen had only spoken to one art dealer in Port Fallow: Franz Kessler. Damn his loose tongue. She’d make certain he wouldn’t talk out of turn again—especially if this had been his idea. This woman certainly hadn’t the wits to connect the sketch to Zenobia.
    â€œYou and the one upstairs. Was this his plan?”
    Yasmeen interpreted her hesitation as a yes—and that this woman was afraid of him. She’d chosen the wrong person to fear.
    â€œWhat airship did you fly in on?”
    â€œ Windrunner. Last night.”
    A passenger ship. “Who’s upstairs?”
    â€œPeter Mattson.”
    Miracle Mattson, the weapons smuggler. A worthy occupation, in Yasmeen’s opinion, but Miracle Mattson sullied the profession. He always recruited partners to assist him with the job, but as soon as the cargo was secure, the partners conveniently disappeared. Mattson usually claimed an attack by Horde forces or zombies had killed them, yet every time, he miraculously survived.
    No doubt that if this woman had secured the sketch for him, she’d have disappeared soon, too.
    â€œDid he hire you just for this job?”
    â€œYes. I’m grateful. I’ve been out of work for almost a full season.”
    A full season of what? This woman’s soft hands had never seen any kind of labor. Only one possibility occurred to her.
    â€œAre you an actor ?”
    The blond nodded. “And dancer. But the company replaced us all with automatons.”
    If this woman’s performance was an example, Yasmeen suspected that the automatons displayed more talent. “All right. Call Mattson down.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œBecause I’ll make you a better deal than he will.” Yasmeen wouldn’t kill her, anyway. Probably. “And because if I go upstairs holding a knife to your throat, he might do something stupid to Miss Fox.”
    â€œOh.” Her eyes widened. “How do I call him?”
    God save her from idiots. “I’ll let you up. You’ll open and close the door as if you’ve just come in from outside, and yell, ‘I’ve got it! Come see!’ You’ll be very excited.”
    â€œAnd then?”
    â€œI’ll do the rest.” She waited for the woman to nod, then hauled her up. “Now.”
    Yasmeen had to give the actress credit; even with a knife at her throat, she played her part perfectly. Mattson must have realized that something was amiss, however. No answer came from upstairs. Perhaps he’d taken a look out the window and saw that Yasmeen had never climbed back up to the airship. She didn’t think he’d heard their whispers. When noise finally came from above, the walls and ceiling muffled Mattson’s low voice.
    â€œGet up.” A thud followed the rough order, the sound of a body falling onto the floor, then the slow shuffle of feet and the heavy, regular tread of boots. “Stay quiet. Don’t try anything stupid.”
    Ah, Mattson. Always predictable. Of course he wouldn’t come down alone and risk his neck. He was bringing Zenobia with him, probably with a gun at her head—and he likely intended to offer the woman’s life in exchange for the sketch. Yasmeen couldn’t imagine why he thought it would work. Did she look that foolish? After she handed over the sketch, nothing would stop him from shooting them all.
    No,