“The marriage to Charles,” James said, feeling his way back through half-clouded memories. Would his mind ever be entirely clear? “You used your power on him, convinced him to drop Ariadne. Marry you.”

She nodded.

“Who else have you used your power on?” James said, his voice hard. “Any of my family? My friends? It only works on men, you said.”

“He—they would have forgotten—”

“Stop.” James ceased pacing. “Never mind. Don’t tell me. If you do, I cannot answer for what I will do.”

She shrank back, and he hated her, and hated himself.

“I tried and tried to take the bloody thing off,” he said. “Every time I went to remove it, I would find that I was doing something else, thinking of something else. If I had been stronger …”

“You can’t blame yourself,” Grace said. James thought she probably meant it. “The bracelet was forged by a Prince of Hell. Woven into it was the power to make those who had observed the bracelet and what it could do forget what they had seen. If you tried to think about it, if your friends or family tried to think about it, they would quickly forget. No matter your behavior, they would accept that you loved me.” She took a ragged breath. “But you didn’t, did you? You loved Cordelia despite everything. Loved her enough to shatter the spell, break the bracelet.” There was wonder in her voice. “I know I have done you an immense wrong, James. But truly, if any mortal in this world has proof of the truth of love, it is you.”

James regarded her for a long moment, taking in her damp pale eyelashes, the sharp planes of her cheekbones, the mouth he had once thought he would die to kiss.

“I cannot imagine the life you must have had,” he said harshly, “that would lead you to offer that to me as comfort.”

“No,” said Grace. “You cannot imagine my life.”

“I will not pity you,” said James. “The bracelet broke only last night, and even in the short time since then, I’ve been remembering. I can remember Cordelia reading to me—how I felt about her—and it may have been puppy love, but it was new and wonderful and you smashed it underfoot as if you were crushing a butterfly with a brick.” He could hear the bitterness in his voice. “I remembered how, when you took the bracelet off me four months ago, I felt as though a fog had been lifted from my brain. I could think again. I’ve only been half-alive since I was fourteen. You have not just made me think that I loved you, you have subsumed my will over and over until I no longer know who I am. Do you even understand what it is that you’ve done?”

“You want me to say I will atone,” Grace said, in an oddly flat voice. “It does not matter, I suppose. I will do what I am told, save one thing. I came here to beg you for help because I can no longer bear to do my mother’s bidding.”

“Yet you still pretended you loved me when you did, and expected me to love you,” said James. “You did not ask for my help—you expected it to be compelled. Why should I believe anything you say?”

Grace put her hand to her head as if it pained her. “No matter what my mother did to me, I thought that she loved Jesse, and that everything she did was in service of raising him—of bringing him back. But now I see that she cares only for herself. Letting Belial use Jesse as he did, to commit murder—it is unconscionable.”

James laughed shortly. “So Anna was right, you roped Lucie into this Jesse business. As if it wasn’t bad enough, you dragged my sister into your schemes.”

“About Lucie—”

“No,” James snapped. “Enough. Not another word out of you. You came here tonight thinking I was still under the spell’s power—that I would hide you from your mother because I was your duped, doting fool. You had no intention of telling me the truth—”

“I know no other way to ask for help,” Grace whispered.

Bitterness made it hurt to speak. “I would throw you onto the street,” said James, “but this power of yours is no better than a loaded gun in the hands of a selfish child. You cannot be allowed to continue to use it. You do know that?”

“Yes.” Her voice shook. “I am throwing myself on your mercy. I have no one else in this world. I will do whatever you advise.”

James felt suddenly weary. He was exhausted—by his own fury, his own regret. He could not bear to look at Grace and think of all he had lost. He certainly did not want the responsibility for her now.

But he couldn’t risk abandoning her. As long as she and Tatiana were both alive, Grace was at risk of being used as her mother’s weapon. When Tatiana discovered Grace had broken with her, it would only seal her alliance with Belial, her rage and fury.

“We must go to the Clave,” James said. Grace started to object, but he shook his head. “This power you possess is evil. No human should be able to force others to act against their own free will. If you wish to prove that you indeed have broken with your mother, you will tell the Clave what she did to you, and ask the Silent Brothers to remove this power. No good can come of it. I will protect you from your mother and her demons however I can, but I will not do it alone. I will work with the Clave to help you. We are not friends, Grace. I do not want that intimacy with you. But I will help you. You have my word.”

Grace sat down on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap like a child. For a moment, James remembered the little girl who had passed him the briar cutters through the gaps in the fence around Blackthorn Manor, and felt a wash of sadness. “I don’t want to look at you,” he said. “I am going to summon the Silent Brothers. Do not think of going anywhere. They will hunt you down.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” Grace said. She was staring fixedly at the broken halves of the silver bracelet, where they had fallen on the floor. “I have nowhere to go.”

James felt sick to his stomach as he left the drawing room—shutting and locking the door behind him—and headed upstairs. How could he ever have thought he loved Grace? Even in the throes of enchantment, he had never felt for her what he felt for Cordelia. She had never made him happy. He had only felt agony when she was not there, and assumed that that was love. We suffer for love because love is worth it, his father had told him once: James had thought that meant that to love was to endure anguish. He had not realized his father had meant there should be joy to balance the pain.

The sort of joy that Daisy brought him—the quiet happiness of playing chess together, or reading, or talking in the study. Reaching the door of her bedroom, he threw it open, suddenly unable to wait to see her.

But the bedroom was empty. The bed was made, corners neatly tucked. Cortana was gone from its place on the wall. There was no fire in the grate. The air felt cold, the space very quiet. Desolate. He raced to his room; perhaps she was waiting for him there.

His room was empty too.

He hurried downstairs. A quick search of the ground floor yielded no Cordelia. A cold pebble of dread was now lodged in his stomach. Where was she? He started back up the stairs, only to hear footsteps. He spun around, his heart lifting—then falling again.

It was Effie, in a billowing gray dressing gown, covered in frills. Her hair was up in paper curlers. She sighed mightily at the sight of him. “I tell you,” she said. “A body can’t get a night’s rest around this bloomin’ place.”