“No doubt a very good explanation for everything,” said Huntley, who had retreated behind Oscar.

“And the Paris train leaves from … ?” James said.

“Waterloo,” said the porter, and James fled back into the night—followed, he suspected, by at least two pitying stares.

James elected to take a hansom cab to the station, which he realized very quickly was a mistake. Though it was past rush hour, the streets were crowded—not only were there commuters returning late from work, but the London evening was well underway and the city’s revelers were hurrying to dinner, drinks, and the theater. His hansom soon came to a dead stop on Waterloo Bridge in a mass of omnibuses, carriages, and horses. The thumping and rattling of the wheels made it hard for James to read Matthew’s note, but familiarity with his parabatai’s looping, evocative script helped. By the time they inched to the end of the bridge, he had read it three times.

Jamie,

I never thought to write such a letter as this to you, my dearest friend, but I hope that when it finds you, you are happy. By now you will know that Cordelia and I have gone to Paris. This was not a lightly considered decision. Though I knew what you and Cordelia have was not a real marriage, I had sworn that I would respect it, and respect also what seemed to me the clear possibility that, being Daisy’s husband, you would fall in love with her.

I understand now that you will not be happy unless you are with Miss Blackthorn. I know that you promised Daisy that you would stay away from Grace, and it seems that you cannot, which bespeaks how much you must love her. Cordelia is proud. You know that as well as I do. She would tell herself she must endure the situation, but I love her, and I cannot bear to see her suffer for the next year. I hope you will forgive me—I think you will forgive me. You must see that in the situation we have now, there are four unhappy people. Surely you, too, wish that were not the case. Surely you care for Daisy even if you do not love her, and want her to be happy. And surely you will forgive me for keeping the secret of my feelings for her from you—I had never meant to speak of them to anyone, before tonight.

You’ve always laughed at my idea that Paris is a place of magical healing, but I believe that after some time there Cordelia will smile again, and that then we three will be able to decide the best course of action, without bitterness and sorrow.

Yours,

Matthew

James wanted to throttle Matthew. He also wanted to spill out the whole story of the bracelet to him, to beg his forgiveness for everything he had not noticed for all these years, for the fog that had clung to his every emotion, his every thought, blunting them all. Matthew needed so much, and James had not been there to provide it.

“I’ll get out here,” he yelled to the cabbie, thrusting some money in his direction. He scrambled out of the cab into a sea of Londoners heading up the short hill to the grand arch of Waterloo Station’s main entrance; outside was a crush of carriages and hansoms, unloading passengers and luggage for the overnight trains.

Inside, the massive train station was absolutely heaving with people, the hubbub from the crowds and the trains deafening. Pushing through the crowd, James narrowly missed being crushed by three small boys in Eton uniforms with an enormous trunk on wheels.

“Mind the gentleman!” said a passing porter crossly. “Need help, sir? Any luggage?”

James nearly caught the poor man by his sleeve. “I need to find the train to Southampton—the one that connects to the Le Havre ferry. The first-class cabins,” he added, and saw the porter’s jowly face light with interest.

“Lovely, lovely. I’ll escort you to the train meself. Train leaves spot on time, it does, and finding the platform is a difficult job, sir, what with the numbers on some of them being doubled….”

James followed the porter as he wove through the crowd. Bright posters overhead encouraged travelers to VISIT FRANCE, showing scenes from Brittany, Paris, and the Côte d’Azur. Then they were at the platform, where a smart-looking train with gleaming brown paintwork stretched down the track. James handed over sixpence and heard nothing of what the porter said to him in response. He was too busy staring.

The first-class carriages were down at the platform’s end, near the train’s head. The air was full of smoke and steam, the platform crowded with travelers, but through it all James could see them. Matthew, stepping into a carriage with a gold-painted door, then turning back to help Cordelia up after him. She wore a too-big coat, her bright-flaming hair slipping out of its combs, but she was smiling at Matthew as he assisted her into the train.

Daisy, my Daisy.

James had just started toward her across the platform when a hand came down on his shoulder. He turned, his coat whirling out about him, about to snap at whoever was delaying him. But the protest died on his lips.

It was his father. He wore a hat, a blue Inverness coat, and a frantic expression. “Thank the Angel I caught you,” Will said. “You have to come with me. Now.”

James’s heart stopped, then started again; the shock of seeing his father there, entirely absent of any context that would make his presence seem reasonable, made words desert him. “I—I can’t—I’m about to get on the train.” He gestured at it wildly. “Cordelia’s already in a carriage—”

“I know,” Will said. He had clearly raced out of the Institute without bothering to glamour himself, though there was a Tracking rune visible on the back of his left hand. How he’d located James, no doubt. “I saw her getting in with Matthew. Where the blazes are you three going?”

“Paris,” James said. “After all the terrible things that have happened—I thought Cordelia deserved to enjoy herself, if only for a few days. We never had a honeymoon, any sort of trip—”

“And you decided now was the proper time?” For a moment, Will looked exasperated. Under other circumstances, James knew, his father would have been more than briefly put out; he would have realized how ridiculous the story James was telling really was and interrogated him like the Inquisitor. James felt a gnawing bite of worry. His father was clearly deeply distressed.

Will passed a hand over his face, struggling to control his expression. “Jamie. I understand—believe me—one does ridiculous things when one’s in love. But you can’t go. This is desperate.”

“What’s desperate?”

“Your sister’s gone,” Will said.

“What?”

“She’s gone, Jesse Blackthorn’s body is gone, and Malcolm Fade is missing. According to the note she left, she and Fade intend to engage in some kind of necromancy to raise young Jesse from the dead. I don’t think I need to tell you what kind of price magic like that exacts.” There were sharp lines at the corners of Will’s mouth; James had rarely seen his father look so worried. Will usually hid his concerns. “James, she will listen to you where she will not listen to me or your mother. I need you to come with me to find her.”

Numb with shock, James stared at his father. Along the platform, the porters were walking the length of the Southampton train, making sure everything was buttoned up tight.

“You had better run to tell them you’ll be staying back,” Will said quietly. James knew he meant Matthew and Cordelia. “Though I must ask you to tell neither of them about Lucie. The fewer people who hear of this, the better, for her sake.”