Cordelia kissed Alastair goodbye on the cheek as James went to offer the necessary excuses to their hosts. They collected their things in silence, and soon found themselves on the front steps of the Wentworths’ house, waiting for the carriage to be brought around.
It was a lovely night, the stars water-clear, like diamonds. Grace had watched them go, a thoughtful expression on her face. Cordelia could not help but wonder how much Grace concealed. It was not like her to approach James. Perhaps she had felt desperate. Cordelia could not blame her if she did.
She could not ask James, though, because they were not alone on the steps—Tessa and Will were there. Tessa was smiling up at Will as she tucked her hands into fur-lined gloves; he bent to brush her hair from her forehead.
James cleared his throat loudly. Cordelia glanced up at him. “Otherwise they’d start kissing,” he said matter-of-factly. “Believe me, I know.”
Tessa seemed delighted to see them. She beamed at Cordelia. “Don’t you look lovely. Dreadful we have to leave the party so early—fortunately, Miss Highsmith has offered poor Filomena the use of her carriage later—but we’re meant to Portal to Paris early tomorrow morning.” She did not, Cordelia noted, mention Charles.
“We tried to approach you inside but were cut off by Rosamund chasing Thoby around because their ice sculpture had melted,” said Will. “What does it mean for the youth of today, that they don’t know that ice melts? What are we teaching them in the schoolrooms?”
James looked amused. “Is this another ‘youth of today’ speech?” He dropped his voice into a passable imitation of Will’s. “Running about, no morals, using ridiculous words like ‘barmy’ and ‘brinkets’—”
“Even I know ‘brinkets’ is not a word,” said Will, with great dignity. He and James bantered back and forth as the Institute’s carriage rolled around the corner and stopped at the foot of the steps, driven by a skinny footman in silver and ivory. Cordelia could not help but think how different James’s relationship with his father was from Alastair’s with Elias. She wondered, sometimes, what Elias would say if he knew about Alastair and Charles. If he knew Alastair was different. She wanted to think he wouldn’t care. Months ago she would have been sure of it. Now, she was sure of nothing.
Her reverie was broken by a sudden shout. The skinny footman had leaped to his feet, balancing on the seat of the carriage. He looked about, wild-eyed. “Demon!” he shouted hoarsely. “Demon!”
Cordelia stared. Something that looked like a spinning wheel covered in wet red mouths shot out from under the carriage and rolled about in a circle. She reached back for Cortana—and flinched, her palm stinging.
Had she cut herself on it, somehow? That couldn’t be possible.
James laid a hand on Cordelia’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he said. “There’s no need.”
Will was looking at Tessa, his blue eyes wide. “Can I?”
Tessa smiled indulgently, as if Will had asked for a second helping of cake. “Oh, go ahead.”
Will made a whooping sound. As Cordelia stared in puzzlement, he leaped down the stairs and raced off, chasing the wheel-demon. James and Tessa were both smiling. “Should we help him?” Cordelia asked, utterly bewildered.
James grinned. “No. That demon and my father are old friends. Or rather, old enemies, but it amounts to the same thing. It likes to chase him around after parties.”
“That is very peculiar,” said Cordelia. “I see that I have married into a very peculiar family.”
“Don’t pretend you didn’t know that already,” James said.
Cordelia laughed. It was all so ridiculous, and yet so very much the way James’s family always was. She felt as if things were almost normal again by the time their carriage came around and they clambered into it. As they rolled off into the night, they passed Will, brandishing a seraph blade as he happily chased the wheel-demon through the Wentworths’ rose garden.
“You must be so terribly disappointed to miss the party tonight,” Jessamine said as she drifted past the bookcases in the drawing room. “You must be absolutely crushed.”
Lucie had been in the middle of reading Kitty Costello, or trying to, when Jessamine had appeared, looking for company. Normally Lucie didn’t mind Jessamine, but her bone-jarring headache had only just faded, and she simply felt weary.
With a sigh, she folded down a page to mark her place and closed the book. “Honestly, I’m not sorry to miss the party.”
“Even though that Italian girl got to go?” Jessamine inquired.
“Filomena?” Lucie felt she hardly knew Filomena; the older girl, though nominally living at the Institute, was always rushing around London, going to museums and exhibitions. Lucie hardly saw her. “No, I’m glad she’ll be having some fun. It’s just that I don’t really want to see Rosamund and Thoby being smug, but I am sorry not to be a support for Cordelia. Rosamund will doubtless cloister her away with the married ladies and she’ll be terribly bored.”
Jessamine had drifted down to sit on the desk’s edge, swinging her insubstantial legs. “At least her marriage is publicly recognized. When I married Nate, no one even wanted to hear about it.”
“Well, that’s probably because he was a murderer, Jessamine.” Lucie set her book aside and stood up, tightening the sash on her flannel dressing gown. She had already let her hair down for the evening, and it spilled to the middle of her back, making her think nostalgically of being a little girl—she had spent so many evenings in this room, curled up by her mother’s side as Tessa put her hair into bows and plaits, and Will read aloud. She would miss her parents while they were in Paris with Charles, Lucie thought; them leaving so soon after James had moved out was a blow, though they had reassured her they would certainly return in time for the Institute’s annual Christmas party. At least Aunt Cecily and Uncle Gabriel would be keeping her company, as they were stepping in to head the Institute while the Herondales were gone. Christopher and Alexander too, though she suspected Christopher would spend most of his time in the cellar blowing things up.
Jessamine sniffed but said nothing. Occasionally she romanticized her past, but she knew the truth as well as Lucie did. Not, Lucie thought as she headed back down the corridor toward her room, that Jessamine had deserved to die for the mistakes she’d made, or deserved to become a ghost, either, always trapped between life and death, haunting the Institute and unable to leave it.
It really made one quite melancholy to think about. Reaching her room, Lucie wondered if she ought to seek out Bridget and wheedle a cup of hot milk, lest she be unable to sleep—then the door swung wide, and suddenly hot milk was the last thing on her mind.
Bright moonlight spilled into the room, illuminating the carefully laid-out lilac dress she’d picked out for tonight, which had gone unworn. Low-heeled ivory kid boots stood under the window; her necklaces and rings were spilled across her vanity table, glittering like ice in the cold light. At her paper-strewn desk sat Jesse, the pages of The Beautiful Cordelia spread out in front of him.
Lucie felt a rush of panic. She had intended to show Jesse The Beautiful Cordelia, but she had also planned to curate which pages he saw. “Jesse!” she said, slipping into the room and closing the door firmly behind her. “You shouldn’t be—”