I sat on the rug and stared at the chair where Jacob had been sitting. The cushion, embroidered with a vine pattern by my mother, hadn't yet sprung back to its full plump shape. I lowered my head and would have cried—I wanted to cry—but the tears wouldn't come. Perhaps I had none left. I felt empty.

After a while I climbed back into bed and pulled the covers up to my chin. But I didn't sleep. I couldn't. Jacob might come back. He might explain the meaning of his final words to me.

You should be.

I should be afraid of him. But I wasn't. Not of Jacob. He was gentle and considerate and protective. He would never hurt me, nor would he harm someone who didn't deserve it, I was certain. Frederick had hit him first and he'd been dogging Jacob for some time if his visits to the Beaufort's house were an indication. Jacob wasn't to blame for his death.

But Frederick was the key to Jacob's.

I knew that as well as I knew my own name. The events leading up to Jacob's murder were too coincidental for it not to be linked to Frederick and the incident in the alley. But if Jacob had killed Frederick in the fight, who had killed Jacob later?

The answer to that lay in what might have happened after Jacob felled Frederick. I couldn't believe he'd leave the boy lying there, dying. Jacob was no coward. He would have faced up to his actions and I doubt he simply walked away.

So what had happened next?

And who on earth was Frederick?

These questions and a thousand others swirled around my head until, drained, I finally drifted to sleep.

I awoke with a start the next morning to knocking on my door. I jumped out of bed. "Jacob!" I opened the door but Celia stood there alone.

"No," she said with suspicion. "Why would you think I was he?" Her already narrowed eyes became slits. "Has he been visiting you?"

"Occasionally."

Her lips puckered. "Please don't tell me he's been in your room."

If Celia wanted to make it easy for me then she'd just given me the perfect opportunity. "Of course not." Of course not, I won't tell you. It wasn't exactly a lie...

"Because if I learn that he has—."

"Celia, stop questioning me." I stood with my hands on my hips blocking the doorway but she still managed to slip past me into my room.

"It's most improper," she said from my wardrobe where she contemplated my gowns.

"I doubt my reputation will be ruined by the irregular visits of a ghost."

She turned to fix me with a withering glare. "Don't be so sure. Anyway, I'm worried about more than your reputation."

More than...? Oh. "Jacob has been the perfect gentleman, Sis, don't worry." I bit the inside of my cheek. He’d kissed me. Perhaps perfect was too strong a word.

"Emily..." She shook her head but I could tell she was bursting to ask me something. I had a feeling I would regret prompting her but I did anyway.

"Ye-es?"

"Well, do you think ghosts can...you know?"

Oh dear, regret wasn't a strong enough word for how I felt about this conversation. It was heading into very murky waters. "I have no idea what you're talking about and I don't think I want to."

"I know you know what I'm suggesting because we had that little chat only last year."

"Oh, that," I said, feigning nonchalance. "You're asking me if ghosts can have marital relations?" It was the phrase Celia had used during our talk on how babies were made. Even though most unwed girls my age were quite ignorant about what happened between men and women, my sister had insisted I be made aware. I'd thought it very progressive of her, particularly since she was essentially a prude. Not even I had seen her without her clothes on. Still, discussing it with her now was no less embarrassing than it had been then.

"Yes," she said. "Well, what do you think? Can they...you know?"

"I don't know. Would you like me to ask Jacob for you?"

"No!" She turned back to the wardrobe and studied the clothes with extra intensity.

I think I won that little battle.

"Why have you been crying?" she asked suddenly.

Oh dear, I was losing the war. I rubbed my eyes and yawned dramatically, putting my arms above my head and twisting my body for effect. "I slept poorly. I've a lot on my mind."

She seemed to believe me this time. She patted my arm and sighed. "So have I. What are you going to do today?"

"About the demon?" I padded across the floor to my dressing table and peered into the mirror. Good lord, I really did look awful. My eyes were rimmed red, my nose had swelled up and the dark shadows made it look like someone had punched me. Not even a strong cup of tea would help me look like myself again. "I think I'll go and see if George has contacted Leviticus Price," I said, frowning at me reflection. Hopefully a dose of cool air would help my complexion.

"Good idea." She laid the dress on the bed and whipped her palm down the skirt to flatten it. Satisfied, she made for the door. "If there's anything I can do, let me know." She left, her back not quite as straight as usual. She must still be blaming herself for letting the demon loose.

What she hadn't asked me was if there'd been another victim and burglary overnight. Of course I didn't know because Jacob had not appeared that morning.

My heart dove violently into my stomach as I realized he may not appear at all, ever again.

* * *

George was home, as was his mother unfortunately. When Mrs. Culvert saw us together in the drawing room, she turned her nose up at me and said, "You again," as if I was the plague. "George, a word."

"Yes, Mother." But he didn’t move.

"In private."

With a loud sigh, he joined his mother outside the drawing room. A few moments later, I heard him say, "This is my house and I can entertain any sort of guest I want. Emily is an outstanding girl and—."

His mother's voice cut him off but I couldn't quite make out what she said. The click-clack of her footsteps retreating on the tiles was a welcome sound to my ears.

"Sorry," George said with a sympathetic smile when he returned. "Mothers."

I smiled too even though I didn't necessarily understand his meaning. My mother had never dictated who I could be friends with, but then I'd had so few friends growing up she'd probably have encouraged me to speak to the poor little girl who sold matches on the street corner.

"Now, where were we?" he said, sitting down opposite me once more. "Ah yes, Leviticus Price. I sent him a message requesting to see him."

"A message? Requesting to see him? George, you are being much too polite."

He looked slightly taken aback at that. "Emily, there is no such thing as too polite."

I refrained from retorting that he might as well live in a prison with all the society rules he and the people of his station had to live by. I suddenly felt an immeasurable amount of freedom, as I had done after speaking to Adelaide Beaufort the day before. My life, while complicated, was at least my own. "Come on, let's pay him a visit now."

I stood. After a moment, George stood too. "I'm not sure this is a good idea," he said slowly. "Price isn't the sort of man who likes insolence, particularly in youngsters."

"You're nineteen!" The urge to click my tongue, roll my eyes and generally make him see how immature he was behaving was very strong.

"You're right. Let's go." He tugged on his coat lapels and stretched his neck. "Greggs!" he called as he strode to the drawing room door. "Send word to the stables for the carriage."

* * *

Leviticus Price rented a few rooms in a brick terrace house in one of the newer suburbs on London's outskirts where street upon street was lined with identical brick terrace houses. The only distinguishing feature between them seemed to be the color of the door, but even there the palette was limited to blue, white and green.

Price's landlady showed us up to the tiny parlor where a thin man with short white hair and a long white beard sat eating breakfast. The Times was open on the table beside him and several books and journals were piled or scattered around the small space. Oddly, the mantelpiece was empty except for a smoking pipe on a wooden stand. The walls too were bare. It was almost as if he'd just unpacked after moving in.

Although it was almost noon, Price didn't seem concerned that he'd been caught eating at such a late hour, or that he'd been caught eating at all. He kept right on shoveling eggs and bacon into his mouth as if it was his first meal in a week. By the thinness of him, it might very well have been.

He greeted George with a nod of his long, horse-y head but hardly acknowledged me at all until George introduced us. My name did, however, catch his attention.

"Emily Chambers," he said, pausing in chewing to look me over properly. "Well, well, well." He had eyes of the palest blue, like a frozen lake, which left me shivering in the wake of his bald scrutiny.

"You've heard of her," George said, sounding pleased.

Price wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, all the while watching me. It was most unnerving. "I have indeed. She's the spirit medium. Quite a good one, I hear."

I did not like the way he spoke about me as if I wasn't there, or as if I was an object without the capability of thought or speech. "Mr. Price, if you would stop staring, I would be most grateful." I gave him a tight smile. "I'm not at my best today you see." It was a light-hearted attempt to cut through the awkwardness I felt in his presence but it was also a grim reminder of why I wasn't looking my best—I'd been up half the night crying over Jacob.

I shoved all thoughts of my ghost away. I needed to concentrate and I couldn't do that if I let sadness consume me.

Price snorted a laugh and sat back in his chair. The move made his smoking jacket gape open, revealing a plain linen shirt underneath. "Sit, sit, both of you." I sat on the only spare chair, a hard-backed, unpadded affair that looked as old as the white-haired man himself. George removed a stack of books from another chair and, not finding anywhere to deposit them, piled them up on the floor near the unlit fireplace. He sat too and offered me a small shrug. Price wouldn't have noticed since he was still staring at me. I felt like an exotic bird at the zoo, a feeling that wasn't entirely foreign but definitely not welcome.

"Can you really see ghosts, Miss Chambers?"

"Yes." I saw no reason to lie to him, or indeed to anyone. Once upon a time I would have been considered a witch but this was an enlightened age. Society had come a long way since the days when my kind was burned at the stake.

Price rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. "Interesting."

Usually at this point people ask me to demonstrate my abilities by summoning a loved one. Sometimes I oblige them but most of the time—because Celia is with me and insists upon it—I agree to come back for a séance. Price didn't ask and I didn't offer, although he undoubtedly was intrigued. He couldn't stop staring.

I tried not to let him see how unsettled his scrutiny made me. It wasn't easy.

"We've come to ask you about a Mr. Blunt from the North London School for Domestic Service," George said. He offered no preliminaries, no how-do-you-do's or idle chatter and I sensed that was the best way to deal with Price. He didn't seem like the sort of man who liked to discuss the weather. George may not be the most socially adept person but he knew enough about Price to keep to the point. Was that because they were so alike in their obsession with the Otherworld?

"Blunt?" Price turned to George and I let out a relieved breath. I'd had enough of being viewed as a museum piece. "I'm on the board of his school. What of it?"

"He told us you and he had a discussion about demons, mentioning myself as an authority on the subject."

"We might have. What of it?" he asked again.

George cleared his throat. "I was burgled recently. The Complete Handbook of Shape-shifting Demons and Weres was stolen from my library."

I think Price squeezed his lips together but it was difficult to tell with his untrimmed moustache hanging over his mouth like a hedge in need of pruning. "A good general primer on the subject, suitable for a newcomer to the art of demonology."

Art? Now there was a word I'd not thought to hear in the same sentence as demonology.

"What a shame to lose it from your collection," Price went on, "but I fail to see the connection to myself or Blunt."

"I suspect it was stolen by my new maid who was sent to me from Blunt's school. I wondered if she perhaps overheard your conversation with the schoolmaster before she left. He suggested you might remember when exactly you had the conversation."

"He did, did he?" He appeared to think about this for a moment, then said, "No, sorry, I can't recall. Memory's not what it used to be. Could have been last week, could have been a month ago." Price picked up a piece of bread from his plate but didn't eat it. "What does it matter anyway? I assume the girl's long gone."

"She is but we'd like to find her."

Price frowned. "Does the book really mean that much to you?"

"It's not so much the book." George glanced at me.

"What then?" Price prompted and popped the bread in his mouth. He had not so much as offered us a cup of tea. Not that I would have agreed to one—I didn't want to stay any longer than necessary—but it would have been polite.

"A demon was summoned from the Otherworld during one of my séances," I said. "It was unwittingly done but it appears to have been orchestrated by someone intent on doing harm to others. The only lead we have is the stolen book."

We waited while Price chewed then swallowed. His frown grew deeper and darker as his mouth worked slowly. "You think the girl is using this demon for her own nefarious reasons?" he eventually asked.

"Yes," I said quickly before George could tell him we suspected she'd been ordered by others to steal the book. Thankfully he didn't counter my answer. "But we wouldn't like to blame her if she's not responsible. So if you could remember when you had that conversation with Mr. Blunt, we would be most grateful. Indeed, if you could remember anything at all...you could be saving lives."

Price rubbed his beard, dislodging a few crumbs, then reached for the newspaper. He flipped it open to a page and pointed to a small article with the headline DOG ATTACKS SERVANT. "Read it only this morning. It says the police think the footman was mauled to death by a stray dog. He sustained terrible injuries that killed him a few hours later. Do you think that's your demon?"

"Probably," I said without reading the article. "So you understand we need to find out as much as we can. The police can't do anything in this situation. It's up to us."

He nodded, stroking his beard again as he re-read the article. Then he suddenly folded the newspaper and placed it back on the tea table. "Sorry, Miss Chambers, but I can't recall the exact date of my conversation with Blunt." His freezing gaze shifted from me to George then back again. "I do, however, remember that he asked some very precise questions about demons."

"What do you mean?" said George.

Price suddenly stood and pressed a hand to his temple. "I don’t like to tell you this as it might get the man into trouble."

George and I exchanged glances. "Go on," I urged Price.

He sighed and picked up the pipe from its little stand on the mantelpiece. He put it into his mouth but didn't light it. "Blunt wanted to know how to summon one," he mumbled around the end of the pipe, "how to control them, all the different kinds of demons, that sort of thing."

"You didn't think his questions unusual?" George asked, incredulous.

"Of course I did, boy!" He pulled the pipe out and pointed the end at George. "I told him about you and your library and I said if he wanted to know anything, you were the man to ask." He sighed, and folded his long, thin arms over his chest. "I even told him about that specific book you mentioned. I said it was a good place to begin."

George groaned and I closed my eyes. It was looking more and more like Blunt was involved. But if that was the case, why did he tell us about the conversation with Price at all? He must know Price could turn the suspicion back on him.

"And no one else overheard you?" I asked.

Price shrugged sharp, angular shoulders. "They might have. I don’t know, do I?" He strode to the door, reaching it in two giant strides even though he had to avoid George's chair and a pile of books stacked beside it. "Anyway, it's not my problem, I didn't summon the bloody thing." This he directed straight at me, as if it were my fault my sister had accidentally released the demon. I suppose it was, in a way. "Give my regards to Blunt."

George stood but instead of leading the way out, he confronted Price. "I say, you don't seem too perturbed by the fact there's a shape-shifting demon loose in the city and that you might be partially responsible."

"I am not responsible, partially or otherwise." Price grunted and popped his pipe back in his mouth. His gaze flicked to me, cool and assessing once more, then back to George. "The death is a tragedy of course," he said with a nod at the newspaper. "But I don't see how I can help. Demons are your specialty, Culvert. Of course if there's anything I can do to help, I trust you'll let me know."

Dismissed, George and I had no alternative but to leave although George hesitated for a brief moment in the doorway. Once outside, we climbed back into his carriage just as the clouds parted above and let the sun shine through. It didn't last long and the gray clouds had swallowed up the beams by the time we reached the end of the street.

"He's not a particularly nice gentleman," I said. We sat opposite each other, our knees almost touching. Fortunately the bench seats were covered in padded maroon velvet cushions or it would have been a terribly uncomfortable ride. The carriage traveled fast along the wider, emptier outer-suburban roads and we were jostled about like beans in a pot of boiling water.

He sighed. "I'm sorry I subjected you to his rudeness. I should have come alone."

"Nonsense. I found it quite beneficial."

"Oh?" George pushed his glasses up his nose. "In what way?"

"It gave me a chance to form an opinion about him and I now think he had something to do with the release of the demon."

The spectacles slid down his nose again and he peered over the top of them at me. "You've made that assumption on the basis that he's not particularly nice?"

When he put it like that it didn't sound like a very convincing reason. "And because he didn't seem shocked at the damage the demon has caused."

George nodded and once more pushed the glasses up to their rightful position. "True. He was quick to turn the discussion back to Blunt and his possible involvement too. You do think he's involved, don't you?"

"Blunt? Of course he is. It's obvious."

"Yes, yes, obvious." He gave me a grim smile but it vanished when the carriage turned a corner and we both lurched to one side. Righting himself, George banged on the cabin roof. "Slow down, Weston!" To me he said, "Apologies. The driver knows I like to go fast but I don't usually have a passenger of the female persuasion with me."

"It's quite all right, George." I straightened my pillbox hat and hoped my hair had managed to maintain some semblance of control. "And another thing about Price," I said. "Blunt mentioned he was a generous benefactor, but I cannot see how Price would have much money if his housing situation is any indication." I pointed at the buildings through the window but we'd long since left behind the rows and rows of identical houses. They'd been replaced by the statelier, colonnaded, residences of old money and the occasional shop that catered for their exclusive needs. "Price doesn't seem like he can afford to be all that generous with his funds."

George nodded. "I'd not thought of that. Well done, Emily."

"Thank you, George."

He smiled at me. I smiled back.

And then I realized why he was smiling. He moved to sit beside me and covered my hand with his own. With a squeak of alarm, I slipped it free and shifted to where he'd been sitting so we were once more opposite each other.

His crestfallen face told me he understood the meaning behind the maneuver. Thank goodness. I thought he might attribute it to female coquettishness or some nonsense. He at least was mature enough to realize I was rejecting him.

That didn't make me feel any less horrible for doing it. "George," I said softly, "I'm so sorry."

He waved a hand and gave me a smile that was much too bright in its eagerness. "That's all right. We're not really very well suited, you and I, are we?"

I wasn't sure how to take that. Was it simply an excuse to cover the fact I'd hurt his feelings, or did he genuinely believe we weren't a very good match? Why he would think we weren't, I couldn't say. Perhaps deep down he agreed with his mother that I wasn't good enough for him. Perhaps I was just too odd.

I shoved that line of thought aside. George could think what he liked of me. It was Jacob's opinion that mattered most. "We are still friends, aren't we?" I ventured.

"If you'd like to be." I detected a pout in his voice even though there wasn't one on his lips.

I reached across the space between us and took his hand. "I have so few true friends, but I'd like to count you amongst them."

His face lifted and brightened. "And I you. Let's forget all this, shall we?"

"Gladly." I smiled but something inside me felt hollow, sad. I missed Jacob and it didn't help not knowing when I would see him again. I desperately wanted to speak to him, ask him more questions, and just hold him. But I could not.

How much easier it would be to love a man like George. Dependable, sweet. Alive.

"It's looking more and more likely Blunt and the Finch boy are involved," he said as if the rather embarrassing interlude hadn't occurred. If he wanted to pretend it never happened, then I was more than willing to go along with him. "The big question is whether Price is in it too."

"What I find odd is that Blunt asked Price about demons. If Price is to be believed, Blunt's questions were entirely unprompted and were quite specific. If he was indeed acting with Finch alone, then where did either of them hear about demons? The idea to summon one must have been planted in their minds at some point but by whom?"

"Price," George said. But then he shook his head. "It goes against the code of the Society. None of us would intentionally bring harm upon another by using supernatural means."

I wasn't convinced by the gentlemanly rule of conduct but I didn't say as much. I got the feeling the Society was important to George. It was probably the one place he felt accepted by people with similar interests, and I didn't want to destroy that security.

"There's one other mystery in this too," I said. "Who was the woman who sold Celia the amulet?"

"Mrs. White?"

It was looking more and more likely. I hoped I was wrong. I liked her. Lucy our maid liked her. But if Blunt had orchestrated the demon's release, then she might very well be involved. Drat.

"Shall we go and confront them now?" I asked.

"Perhaps we should contact the police."

"We can't tell the police there's a demon on the loose! They'll never believe us, and if they do then they're more likely to lock Celia and I up for releasing it, not Blunt."

"You're right." He sighed. "I'll drive you home then I'll go alone to the school."

"Don't be ridiculous. I'm coming."

George had the good sense not to argue with me although he made a great show of scowling his displeasure at the suggestion. "I think Jacob should come along too," he said. "He could scare Blunt a bit if need be. Throw something around or create a disturbance."

I would have loved to have Jacob with us but I wasn't sure he would see the benefit of my presence. I wasn't sure he'd want to see me at all.

"I could do much more than create a disturbance," Jacob said, suddenly appearing on the seat beside me. He sat with his shoulder against the door, as far away from me as possible.

"Jacob's here," I said to George, jerking my head in the brooding ghost's direction. I tried not to let his presence unnerve me in any way, but I failed. My heart tripped merrily over itself at the mere sight of him and I ached to get closer to him.

"We were just talking about you," George said. He sat up straighter and pressed his finger to the bridge of his glasses even though they hadn't slipped down. "Care to visit Blunt with us?"

"You're not going," Jacob said to me, ignoring George.

"I am so," I said. "And you can't stop me."

"It's dangerous."

"Riding in this carriage is dangerous." I crossed my arms but it wasn't because I was making a point, it was to hold myself back from climbing into his lap and kissing him. I didn’t think George would appreciate witnessing such a scene. Besides, I was almost certain Jacob would disappear again if I did. His closed expression with the shuttered eyes was a clear indication he didn't want to get into a discussion about last night.

Proving he was full of surprises, he said, "Is this about what happened between us in your room?"

"No, this is about you telling me what to do. You have no right."

He groaned and fixed his gaze on the ceiling. "I'm sorry we parted on such angry terms."

"I wasn't angry."

"You're angry now."

"No, I'm...never mind. Now is neither the time nor the place to discuss it." I risked a glance at George. He was staring out the window a little too hard for me to believe he was interested in the scenery whizzing past at an astonishing rate. "Aren't you going to tell the driver to go to Clerkenwell?" I asked him.

"We'll return to my house first," George said. "I have a pair of old dueling pistols that belonged to my grandfather in the study."

"Pistols! Do you think that's necessary?"

George nodded grimly. Jacob nodded, equally grim. "There was another victim last night," he said.

I gasped and put a gloved hand to my mouth as bile filled it. "Oh God." I told George what Jacob had said. He removed his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose.

"Another footman," Jacob said. "Later on, the house where he worked was burgled. There was no sign of forced entry."

I passed the information onto George, all the while trying not to think what a shape-shifting demon could do to a poor, unarmed man.

"This is awful," George said with undisguised horror. "It's looking more and more like the person or persons who summoned the demon are directing it to take on the form of its victim in order to gain access to the house where he worked." He screwed his top lip up and shook his head. "For money," he spat. "Despicable."

We were all silent for some time after that.

"Did you speak to the footman's ghost?" I eventually asked Jacob.

He nodded. "He couldn't tell me anything useful. He thought a wild dog or a bear had killed him. He said it came out of nowhere, from the shadows. When I explained what happened he decided to stay in the Waiting Area until the demon is returned to the Otherworld."

We remained silent until the carriage stopped outside George's house and he got out. Finally I was alone with Jacob. But after the terrible news, I didn't want to argue with him anymore. I just wanted to hold him and be held by him.

On the other hand I couldn't allow the opportunity to speak pass me by. I might not get another one.

"You failed to finish your story last night," I said.

"I know." He shifted his long legs, cramped in the tight space of the cabin, but still managed to keep them well away from mine. He must not want to risk getting too close. "I owe you an explanation after...everything." He shifted his legs again, putting them back where they were to begin with, under the seat we shared, crossed at the ankles.

"You got to the point where Frederick fell and hit his head," I prompted. "What happened next? Did you check to see if he was thoroughly dead?"

"He wasn't dead at all. He got up and ran away."

"Got up! Not dead! Jacob, that's—."

He held up a hand. "Wait, let me finish. I know what you're going to say—that I didn't kill him."

"Well of course!"

"He was unconscious for only a few seconds during which time I tried to waken him. I was in the middle of feeling for a pulse when he opened his eyes. He took one look at me, screamed, then got up and ran off. He seemed disoriented and I went after him to ensure he didn't fall again but he climbed into a carriage that I hadn't noticed waiting further down the street, and sped off before I could catch up.

"For days I worried if he was all right. I also tried to think who he might have been, but I had no luck. Anyway, about a week after that incident, I was walking home again and was attacked once more. This time it was by someone wearing a hooded cloak. Whoever it was caught me off guard, delivering a blow that made me lose my senses. I woke up some time later with a blanket or cloak over my head. I struggled to free myself but my wrists were tied." He lifted both hands to his face and stared at them. "I was hit again as I struggled and it was then that I realized I was inside a carriage and it was traveling fast. I continued to struggle of course and by this time I was asking my companion, or companions, what they wanted. The only answers I received were more blows and again I became unconscious."

"Oh, lord." I sidled up to him and touched his cheek. How could anyone hurt my Jacob?

He took my hand and pulled it gently away and placed it on his thigh. Tears stung my nose and eyes and burned the back of my throat. He did not want my sympathy, or my love.

"The carriage stopped and I was dragged out. We were in the country, I know that much. I could smell earth and grass."

"Did it have a farm smell?" I screwed up my nose. I'd only been to one farm in my life, when Mama had taken me to see where milk came from as a child. I'd got dung on my boots and straw in my hair and the aroma had stayed with me ever since. I knew after that experience I was a London girl through and through.

He smiled, despite the horrible tale he was telling. "No. Just a pleasant country odor. I could hear an owl but nothing else. It was very quiet. I was dragged further away again and I remember rolling into a ditch."

"And left there to die," I whispered.

"I suppose so. I was in and out of consciousness by this stage. I remember being extremely cold, all the way through, as if my very bones had frozen. I'd lost my coat and hat and the blanket had also disappeared."

I shivered and hugged myself. "How long before you died, do you think?"

He shrugged. "It could have been minutes or days, I really don’t know."

I looked out the window but there was no sign of George, which was good because I hadn't finished questioning Jacob and I wanted to continue to do it alone. I'd discovered years ago that discussing a ghost's death with them could be quite an intimate affair. I suspected Jacob wouldn't want George to know all the harrowing details. I felt privileged that he was confiding in me.

"Did the killer remain with you until you died?"

"No." He blinked rapidly and rubbed a finger across his bottom lip. There was something he wasn't telling me.

"Did your killer say something before he departed?"

He hesitated then his gaze leveled with mine. "Yes. He cursed me for killing his son."

My heart thudded once against my ribs. "Frederick."

Jacob nodded. "He must have died from his injury. The injury I gave him. Only not straight away but some time later."

I felt like I'd been punched in the chest. Breathing suddenly became difficult. I didn't understand. There was something wrong, something missing in this puzzle and I couldn't put my finger on it. Perhaps Jacob was still withholding information.

"What exactly did he say?" I asked. "Tell me the curse. We can do some research on it and perhaps find out more about your killer that way."

"I won't tell you the precise wording of the curse since I don't know if it can be activated by words alone." I agreed with an urgent nod. George had just emerged from the front door of his house and was speaking to the driver. "My attacker said if I wanted to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me." His voice shook slightly. "He likened it to the loss of his only child, the most important thing to him. My loss had to match his."

"But prove how? You were dying in a ditch for goodness sake!" I clutched Jacob's hand. George would be joining us at any moment. There wasn't much time. "What did he think you'd do, get up and walk away to perform this sacrifice he wanted? And if you didn't, was he threatening to...?" I couldn't finish the sentence. It was just too horrible to think about Jacob's murder. Besides, George was opening the door and climbing into the carriage.

He lifted the coat he carried over his arm to reveal a rectangular wooden box about the size of a large book. He placed it on the seat beside him and called out, "Drive on!"

The carriage jerked forward and the horses' hooves clip-clopped a merry tune on the road. I looked to Jacob. If he wanted to speak, he could and it would be like having a private conversation with me. But he did not. He turned away and looked out the window.

His words haunted me the entire journey to Clerkenwell: if I want to live, I must prove I deserve to by sacrificing something important to me.

So why hadn't the murderer given Jacob the chance to make the sacrifice before ending his life?