“Now,” he says, one finger fiddling with his pistol, “we wait for your friends to bring me my key, Montague.” “It isn’t yours,” Helena says, so quiet I almost don’t hear her. “Then whose is it, Condesa?” Bourbon barks, but she doesn’t say anything. Her forehead is nearly touching the stone vaults. “Yours? Your brother’s? Mr. Montague’s? Your mother will have died for naught if none of us use it.”
