He pressed his forehead against her shoulder, shivering at her touch. “Daisy.”

Cordelia felt again that power she had felt before. The knowledge that though James did not love her, he wanted her. Even despite himself, he wanted her. It was a shameful sort of power, stronger even for the guilt of it. “Kiss me,” she whispered.

The words seemed to go through him with the force of lightning. He groaned, crushing his lips to hers before dragging kisses down her throat, over her collarbone. His hands found the buttons at the neck of her gown: he flicked them open one by one, pressing his lips to each inch of newly uncovered skin. Cordelia sucked in a deep breath of air—she had dressed herself, and there was no corset, no chemise under the gown. She heard his sharp inhalation as the fabric fell away, baring the tops of her breasts.

He splayed his hand wide, stroking over her skin, even as he surged up to press his lips to hers again. She kissed him back eagerly, winding her fingers into the silky tangle of his black hair. His hand shaped itself to cup her breast. He moaned softly against her mouth, murmuring that she was beautiful, that she was his—

Distantly, she heard something that sounded like the chime of metal, like the striking of a delicate, tiny instrument….

James gasped and pulled away, half sitting up. His hand had gone to his right wrist; there was a red mark there, like a burn. But there was something else—something missing.

She looked down. His silver bracelet, the one he always wore, lay in two broken halves on the hearth.

Cordelia sat up, hastily buttoning her gown back up. She could feel her cheeks flaming red as James, on his knees now, reached to pick the pieces up, turning them over in his hands. Cordelia could see the long cracks that ran through the metal, as if it had been subjected to intense pressure and torsion. The words that had once been carved within the turn of the metal were nearly illegible now: LOYAULTÉ ME LIE.

Loyalty Binds Me.

James, she could say. James, I’m so sorry.

But she wasn’t sorry. She crossed her arms over her chest; every piece of her body still felt alive, sparking with excitement. Her legs were shaking; apparently it took one’s body a bit longer than one’s mind to realize the state of current events. Her hair was a tangled mess, coursing down over her shoulders; she tossed it back and said, “James? What happened?”

He was still kneeling near the hearth’s edge, his shirt rucked up where she’d half torn it off him. He turned the bracelet over in his hand and said, “Daisy, I think—”

His head snapped back. She saw his eyes—fully black, the whites gone utterly—as he spasmed once and crumpled, motionless, to the floor.

GRACE: 1903

Grace never mentioned a word about the bracelet to Jesse. He was only present at night, of course, and avoided the Herondales on principle because they were apparently able to see ghosts, though James had never seemed to glimpse him.

She told herself that there was no point in telling Jesse about the spell. If she told him that James loved her, he would be encouraging and happy for her, and she would feel terrible. And if she told him that she and her mother controlled James’s feelings, he would be horrified.

When they had moved to London in the summer, chasing James, Tatiana desperate that the enchantment of the bracelet not be broken, Grace had feared above all other things that now Jesse would find out. That he would learn that she had exploited James, used him, tricked him. That he would believe she was a monster.

And perhaps she was, but she couldn’t bear to have Jesse think so.

23

A SILKEN THREAD

I had a dove and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving.

O, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied,

With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving.

—John Keats, “I had a dove”

“Jessamine,” Lucie said crossly. “I told you, I am about to summon a ghost, and you won’t like it at all. You don’t even like other ghosts.”

“But I do like you,” said Jessamine. “And besides, your father told me to look after you while he was in Paris. I am quite sure he would not have approved of you summoning a ghost or other undead personage.”

Lucie sank onto her bed with an exasperated sigh. Usually she didn’t mind Jessamine floating about the place. When she was small, they’d had excellent games of hide-and-seek during which Jessamine continuously cheated by concealing herself in Lucie’s shoeboxes or glove drawer (Jessamine saw no reason why she should be required to remain person-size just because Lucie was). Now that she was older, Jessamine often helped her find lost items or chatted with her while Tessa did her hair.

Now, however, having her here was decidedly inconvenient. Lucie had rushed home from the shop in Limehouse, entirely determined on what to do next, only to find Jessamine wafting about her bedroom with the curtains, complaining about being lonely. Getting rid of her without raising too much suspicion was turning out to be more difficult than she’d thought.

“See here,” Lucie said. “I need to understand a—a thing that happened years ago. I can’t get it out of the living, so …” She allowed her voice to trail off meaningfully.

“So you will go to the dead?” Jessamine said. “Lucie, as I have told you before, not all ghosts are like me, with kind eyes and a wonderful personality. This could turn out very badly.”

“I know. I’ve met this ghost before. It’s going to be extremely unpleasant,” Lucie added, “and you won’t like to see it. You should spare yourself and leave now.”

Jessamine drew herself up. She had firmed up quite a bit around the edges and was giving Lucie her darkest glare. “I should say not. I will not leave your side. Whatever it is you have in mind, you should not be doing it without supervision!”

“I wouldn’t do it at all, if it weren’t absolutely necessary. But there is no need for you to trouble yourself over the matter, Jessamine.”

“I am troubled over the matter,” Jessamine said, making the lights flicker a bit for effect. “But I am not going anywhere.” She crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her chin in the air.

Lucie sprang off the bed, brushing down her dress. She hadn’t even had a chance to change clothes, and the hem of her skirt was still damp. “Stay, then, if you must.”

She stood in the middle of her room and closed her eyes, then slowed her breath until she could count several heartbeats on every inhale and exhale. This was a process she had worked out for those times when she was having trouble focusing on her writing, but she’d found that it was useful for all sorts of things. It was what she’d done in the warehouse when she’d needed to reach Filomena, to summon her out of the shadows and air….

She visualized a great darkness spreading around her, a darkness inhabited by points of light, scintillating like stars. This, she told herself, was the vast world of the dead. Somewhere, among these glimmering memories of what once was life, he was there.

Emmanuel Gast.

She felt a fluttering, as she had felt on a few occasions when she had tried to command the souls of animals. Gast’s spirit was there—she felt it—but it did not want to come forth. She drew on him, feeling his soul’s reluctance like the drag of a sleigh rail on a patch of earth.