"Cats," Laurent said, soft and hesitant, unsure about his answer. "I don't understand why you're interested. None of that matters."

He put the kettle on to boil, filling a pretty porcelain teapot with leaves and taking out a little box of pastries. Arranging them prettily on a plate, he set the plate in the center of the table. It was easier to focus on the tea than on his prisoner. His complicated, beautiful, fascinating prisoner.

"Don't you understand," Laurent said, interrupting, "that I can't let you go? Even if you promised never to tell, you might return, armed. You might bring others. You might return and die in the mirror room while I wasn't here to stop it."

You might mention that the Ghost was alive, a blond-haired beauty, among your wealthy circles, and the rumor might reach my uncle.