Risa hurried in from the front hall. “Oun pessareh ke tou Sirk bazi mikoneh, injast,” she told Cordelia, rolling her eyes.

James looked inquiring.

“She said, ‘The one from the circus is here,’” translated Cordelia, giving Risa a mock-stern look. “She means Matthew. She disapproves of his waistcoats.”

James started to grin as Matthew swaggered into the dining room, a spring in his step. He wore burgundy-and-olive spats with a matching waistcoat, and folded gracefully into a seat at the head of the table. He helped himself to a kipper from James’s untouched plate before announcing, “I have news.”

“Please make yourself at home, my delinquent friend,” James said. “I’m sure the lady of the house won’t mind.”

“Do you mind?” Matthew asked Cordelia, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“No,” said Cordelia decidedly. “Come whenever you like.”

“Oh, good. Then do you think I could have some coffee? With milk, and an exceptional amount of sugar?” Risa, who had been lurking in the corner of the room, gave him a suspicious look and departed for the kitchen. Matthew leaned forward. “All right. Do you want to hear the news?”

“Is it good news?” said Cordelia.

“No,” said Matthew, and James groaned. “But I think it’s important. I heard Charles talking to Mother this morning, before he Portaled to France with your parents. He was on patrol late last night, and he came in with the dawn contingent. One of their number was missing—Basil Pounceby. Augustus’s father. Charles went with the search party and was there when they found his body. It seems he was killed while on patrol last night.”

James and Cordelia exchanged a glance.

“Do they suspect the same demon that killed Amos Gladstone?” Cordelia asked.

“They’re thinking it wasn’t a demon at all,” Matthew said as Risa appeared with coffee. “The wounds were made with a knife—a very sharp blade that was used to poke a lot of holes in the senior Pounceby. Demons tend to slaughter, like animals do. Pounceby was stabbed by a thin metal blade, Gladstone had his throat slit, and there were no traces of demonic presence at either murder site.” He tipped his head back to smile at Risa like a Botticelli angel. “You are as beautiful as all the stars,” he told her, “but better, because you have coffee.”

“Dary mano azziat mikoni,” Risa said, threw up her hands, and stalked from the room.

“My attempts to charm her have not been successful,” Matthew observed.

“Risa is a sensible woman,” said James. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance. He seemed almost unbearably tense; Cordelia could see it in the set of his shoulders, the hard line of his mouth. “Was Pounceby killed someplace near white pillars? And a statue, perhaps of someone on a horse?”

Matthew set his coffee cup down with a slow deliberation. “Near a statue of the Duke of Wellington, in fact,” he said. “Close to the Bank of England.”

“Which has a colonnade of white pillars,” said Cordelia, looking at James in surprise. “How did you—?”

James had the look of a man who had suspected a deadly diagnosis and had just had it confirmed by his doctor. “He was near Threadneedle Street, correct?”

“Have you been in touch with Uncle Gabriel, or Aunt Cecily?” said Matthew, clearly puzzled. “You should have stopped me if you knew all this already.”

“I didn’t.” James pushed his chair back from the table and went to stand by the window, staring out at the frost-covered hedges. “Or at least, I didn’t realize what I knew.”

“James,” Cordelia said. “What is going on?”

He turned back to face them. “This is—more than it seems, I think. It would be best if I spoke to everyone together. We should gather the other Thieves.”

“That’ll be easy enough,” Matthew said casually; Cordelia had the clear sense that he was holding off peppering James with questions. “Lucie and Christopher are already at the Devil, reasoning with Thomas.”

James’s black eyebrows lifted. “Why does Thomas need to be reasoned with?”

“Well, if you come to the Devil, you’ll find out,” said Matthew. “I’ve got my carriage waiting; we can be there in a quarter hour. Do you think Risa would mind if I brought a plate of buttered toast with me?”

* * *

“I will not bow out of patrol,” Thomas was saying as James, Matthew, and Cordelia entered the room. Faint cheers had greeted Matthew and James as they crossed through the pub below, but the mood at the Devil seemed muted. News of murders and the like tended to travel swiftly through Downworld. “It’s a ridiculous suggestion and there’s nothing you could say to convince me!”

He broke off as he caught sight of Cordelia and the others. He had one hand upraised, his finger jabbing the air as he spoke, as if to punctuate his sentences. He was flushed, his light brown hair in disarray. Cordelia was surprised—kind, calm Thomas rarely got out of temper.

Though there had been that moment with Alastair at the wedding.

Lucie and Christopher sat side by side on a sofa in front of Thomas, like two small children being scolded by their parents. Both had their hands folded in their laps, though when she caught sight of Cordelia, Lucie couldn’t help but wave. “Thank the Angel, you’re all here! Isn’t it awful?”

Cordelia joined Lucie and Christopher on the old sofa. When she sank gratefully into the well-worn feather cushions, a puff of dust drifted into the air to join the comforting smells of old books and incense. Despite the circumstances, it was good to be back in these familiar rooms. Cordelia watched James take a seat in one of the sagging brocade armchairs and Matthew his usual spot in the corner. While they were settling in, Lucie touched Cordelia’s hand.

“We were just telling Thomas he oughtn’t patrol,” she said earnestly. “At least not alone. Not with what happened to Basil Pounceby.”

“And Amos Gladstone,” said Christopher. “Two deaths in such a short time, both killed on patrol—it seems reasonable they might be connected.”

“Or it might just be bad luck.” Thomas threw up his arms. “Patrol is always going to be dangerous. That’s just part of the job, like demons and Alastair Carstairs—” He broke off, turning bright red. “Ah, Cordelia, I—”

She smiled pleasantly. “Did you just remember that Alastair is my brother?”

“Yes. No,” Thomas said. He looked around at his friends beseechingly.

“Oh, no,” said James. “You have to get yourself out of this one, Tom.”

Thomas turned to Cordelia, making her suddenly aware how very tall he was. She had to stretch back her neck to look up at him. “Cordelia, I—I have owed you an apology for some time. I may have my own issues with Alastair, but I’m sorry I was rude to him at your wedding. It was unforgivable. I like you very much and consider you a friend. Though I cannot forgive Alastair, I will treat him politely for your sake. I should never have suggested otherwise.”

“Well,” Cordelia said. “Thank you. Though I agree that you shouldn’t be patrolling alone right now.”