Chapter 4 — Chapter 04

She was already at table four when I came down for my set.

I'd dressed carefully — not my best dress, but close. Blue silk that my mother would have called "too bold" and I called "appropriate for the venue." I'd pinned my hair up the way the customers liked, neck exposed just enough to be interesting without being obvious.

Eleanora Vance watched me walk to the stage with the same expression she'd worn all week: patient, amused, like a cat who knows the mouse has nowhere else to go.

I sang "St. Louis Blues" first. Then "After You've Gone." Then "I Ain't Got Nobody." The songs about being alone and losing everything felt different tonight. More real.

She didn't applaud. She just watched.

---

"Sit down, Miss Quinn." Her voice was low and cultured, with an accent I couldn't quite place. European, maybe. Old money, definitely. "You have a remarkable voice."

"Thank you." I sat across from her, not beside her. Keeping the table between us. "Mr. Malone said you wanted to talk."

"Did he?" She smiled, and it was like watching a curtain move aside to show something sharp. "I suppose he would say that. Patrick is very... literal."

The waiter appeared with two glasses of wine. I didn't touch mine. Eleanora didn't touch hers.

"You've been coming here for two months," I said. "Twice a month. Always alone."

"I appreciate good music." Her eyes never left my face. "And discretion."

"I mind my own business."

"Do you?" She leaned forward slightly, and I caught the scent of something floral and expensive. "Because minding your own business and not seeing what's right in front of you are two different things. Wouldn't you agree?"

The lights in Malone's were dim, but I could see her clearly. Too clearly. Her skin was pale in a way that looked like marble rather than sickness. Her lips were red, but the rest of her was colorless. And her eyes — in the low light, I could have sworn they caught the candle flame and held it.

"I know what I saw," I said carefully. "I also know what's smart to say I saw."

"And what's that?"

"A man had a heart attack. Very sad. Very unexpected."

Eleanora laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. Genuine. That was what made it terrifying.

"You're clever," she said. "Cleverer than I expected. When I first saw you, I thought: she's pretty, she has a voice, she'll be easy to handle. But you're not easy at all, are you, Miss Quinn?"

"I'm a singer at a speakeasy who wants to keep her job."

"You're more than that." She picked up her wine glass, swirled it, set it down without drinking. "You're something that might actually be interesting."

The silence stretched between us. I could feel her weighing something, measuring me against some standard I couldn't see.

"What do you want?" I asked, because someone had to.

"Want?" She tilted her head. "I want what everyone wants, Miss Quinn. I want to be safe. I want to be comfortable. I want to enjoy the things I enjoy without... complications."

"And I'm a complication?"

"You could be." Her fingers traced the stem of the wine glass. "Or you could be something else. Something useful. Someone who sees, but doesn't see. Understands, but doesn't understand. Sings, and keeps singing, and never, ever tells anyone what she thinks she knows."

My heart was pounding, but my voice came out steady. "And if I can do that?"

"Then you have a patron. Someone who appreciates your voice. Someone who makes sure no one ever bothers you, or breaks into your apartment, or makes you nervous about walking home alone at night." Her smile sharpened. "Someone who tips very, very well."

"And the alternative?"

"Alternative?" She looked genuinely puzzled for a moment. Then understanding flickered across her face. "Oh. You think I'm threatening you. No, Miss Quinn. I'm offering you a choice. The alternative isn't death — that's crude, and it draws attention. The alternative is simply... no longer being useful. And no longer being useful in my world means you become invisible. Forgettable. The kind of person who loses jobs, loses apartments, loses friends, and can never quite figure out why."

She leaned back.

"So. Do we have an understanding?"

I thought about the letter in Danny's pocket. I thought about Malone, who couldn't protect me. I thought about the man at table four, who'd never left the back room.

And I thought about what it would mean to have someone like Eleanora Vance on my side, instead of wondering when she'd decide I was too inconvenient to let live.

"I have conditions," I said.

Her eyebrows rose. "Conditions?"

"I don't know what you are. I don't want to know. I don't want to see anything, or hear anything, or know anything about what happens in the back rooms. I just want to sing."

"Reasonable."

"And if anyone ever asks me about you, or about what happens at Malone's — I don't know anything. I've never seen anything. I couldn't tell them anything useful even if I wanted to."

"Also reasonable."

"And you never touch me. Not ever. Whatever you are, whatever you do — you don't do it to me."

The silence that followed was longer than the others. I could feel her testing the words, turning them over, looking for weaknesses.

Then she smiled, and it was almost warm.

"Miss Quinn," she said, "I think we're going to get along beautifully."