In Total Surrender by Anne Mallory

other than exceptional events.
    Leaving meant he had to pretend other people existed.
    Andreas followed Phoebe Pace and her new shadow though, once more, unhindered, pushing his unfriendliness to the front of his features. The crowd parted when he needed it to.
    The man started gaining on her, increasing his speed, his frustration overcoming his movements, his motivation to intercept her instead of continuing to trail her suddenly clear. The crowd parted in front of Andreas more rapidly as he quickly advanced, people rubbing their exposed skin, feeling the sudden need to shrink away, to the sides. He made full use of it, caught up to the man, and gripped the back of his neck. “Let’s have a conversation,” he said in a low voice and thrust him sideways through the crowd and into the alley.
    A ndreas emerged from the alley with a new low-slung cap to hide the top half of his features. He loosened his knuckles and continued to Phoebe Pace’s house. His pace, always quick, was faster than usual.
    He rapped the knocker. He should send a courier. He should send an army. There was no reason for him to be standing here as a goddamn messenger.
    No one answered the door. He tried again, then just gripped the handle and pushed it open, striding inside, a messenger of death. Phoebe Pace peered around the edge of a doorway to the left, one bushy brow still attached, contrasting sharply with its well-groomed sibling. Both real and fake brows rose in shocked surprise. Her . . . shirt . . . was open two buttons down from the top.
    He stared at her for a moment, unable to say anything.
    “Mr. Merrick.” She started to emerge farther, then caught herself and pulled back, her hand suddenly gripping her shirt together at her throat. “What can I do for you?”
    “We need to speak.”
    She blinked. “It’s not a good time. Perhaps I can visit you in an hour?”
    “No.” He walked forward, looking around the house. It was a standard layout. He headed for where the study was sure to be.
    “Mr. Merrick.” She hurried after him. “Mr. Merrick, what—”
    He looked around the interior. It was cluttered and disorganized. He ignored the mess as best as he could, disorganization always made him feel tense. “Pack and leave for the country, Miss Pace.”
    “What?”
    “Now. Start packing.”
    “No, I have two more meet . . . I mean, our man of business has two more meetings with—”
    “Miss Pace.” He thought it was said quite pleasantly. He was quite pleased by the widening of her eyes. “You have forgotten to remove your eyebrow.”
    Her hand immediately went to her brow, dropping her fisted collar, exposing the skin just enough to see the cleft of a shadowed canyon squished together and bound by tape. “Oh. How . . . how could that have happened?”
    It took him a moment to recover from the sight. “How, indeed. Let us just put it down on the register of absurdity that you continue to enact—dressing up in men’s clothes in your own home, hmmm? Perhaps Madame Vestris inspired you?”
    She brightened, as if it were the perfect excuse. That was not good.
    He rushed on, completely against the natural order of things. “However, that is beside the point. Start packing. You have two hours and not one minute more.”
    “I think we are failing to properly communicate, Mr. Merrick.”
    “You have one hour and fifty-nine minutes to pack,” he enunciated.
    She blinked at him. “No I don’t.”
    “Good. You have only fifty-eight minutes then.”
    She looked flustered for a moment. Her eyes drifted to something in the corner, and she regained a cheerful mien. “I am unable to leave for the country at this time, unfortunately. In a few weeks—”
    “The Watch is coming for your father in the morning.”
    The color left her face abruptly. Rosy cheeks bled to parchment.
    “But—”
    “Your little antics have forced someone’s hand. Your fund’s results will be released early and with . . . modifications.”
    He