Thomas had sat down on the edge of the sofa. He laid a hand on James’s shoulder. “Of course. We weren’t suggesting we tell them any of that.”

“I would be prepared to tell them about Belial if it affected only me,” said James, “but it would put my mother and Lucie under the Clave’s microscope too.” He turned to Thomas. “Now. Tom, no one’s saying you can’t patrol. Just not by yourself. I’ll go with you.”

“I wish you could,” said Thomas. “But they’re setting a curfew for everyone under eighteen. None of you will be allowed to patrol at all, and if I can’t patrol with you, I’d rather be on my own. Last time they paired me with Augustus Pounceby. It was torture.”

“Speaking of Pouncebys,” said Lucie. “What could Amos Gladstone and Basil Pounceby have had in common, besides both being out on patrol?”

“I imagine that’s what the Enclave is looking into right now,” said Matthew. “As for us, perhaps we ought to concentrate on preventing James from being tormented in his dreams.”

“There are tinctures and things that are meant to offer dreamless sleep,” said Christopher. “I’ll ask Uncle Henry about them.”

“Oh, that would be wonderful,” said Lucie, looking relieved. “I’m sure these are just bad dreams—some remnant of the shadow power tormenting you, James.”

“No doubt,” said James, but Cordelia could tell from the look on his face that he had many doubts indeed.

As they collected their coats and gloves, Lucie watched her brother carefully, looking for clues to how he was holding up, but his face was impassive. She wondered if it bothered Cordelia, how little emotion James could show sometimes. But then, Cordelia probably did not expect much, or even want much, from James. It was a dispiriting thought.

“I’m going to visit the Pouncebys,” James said, wrapping his scarf around his neck. “I ought to go offer condolences.”

Matthew made a face. “I’m sure they’re being well looked after by the Enclave,” he said. “You needn’t trouble yourself, Jamie.”

“And yet I shall trouble myself,” James said, squaring his shoulders. “It’s what my mother and father would do if they were here. With them in Paris, it’s my responsibility to pay respects to the Pouncebys.”

“You’re a good man, James,” Thomas said sympathetically.

“Capital of you to step in for Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa,” Christopher added. “Please send the condolences of us Merry Thieves as well.”

“Yes,” agreed Matthew. “Whether they want them or not.”

Lucie admired her brother’s resolve but did not share it. “I’d join you,” she said, “but Cordelia and I were meant to train today. We’ve fallen dreadfully behind, and we must catch up if we’re going to be ready for our parabatai ceremony in January. Are you coming back to the Institute with us, Kit?”

“No—I’m off to Henry’s lab.”

Lucie couldn’t say she was surprised—despite the fact that Christopher was in principle residing at the Institute, she expected he’d be nearly always away: either at the Devil Tavern or at his beloved laboratory at the Consul’s house.

Christopher turned to James. “If you’re going to the Pouncebys’ anyway, come to Grosvenor Square afterward. There’s something I want you to have a look at in the lab.”

As James and Christopher fell into a discussion of the laboratory, Matthew took Thomas aside. Lucie perked her ears up. She suspected Cordelia was eavesdropping as well, though she was drawing on her napa leather gloves and looked perfectly demure.

“Do, please, be careful, Tom,” Matthew advised. “I know you’re eighteen and you can do what you like, but don’t take foolish chances.”

Thomas drew the hood of his gear jacket up, covering his light brown hair. “You, too, Matthew. Be careful.”

Matthew looked puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Thomas sighed. Lucie could not help wondering if he, too, had noticed what she had noticed about Matthew. What everyone else seemed determined not to see or address. “Just take care of yourself.”

Outside, they all scattered to their respective carriages. All save Lucie. “I’ll just be a moment, Daisy,” she called to Cordelia, then darted to Christopher’s carriage and yanked open the door.

“What on earth—?” He gazed at her through his spectacles. “Is something wrong, Luce?”

“No!” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You were meant to have more thorn-apple for me—don’t you remember?”

“Oh. Yes,” Christopher said, digging in his pocket for a small parcel. “But Henry is getting more suspicious about why you’re asking for all these things.”

Lucie took the packet of dried flower heads, holding it delicately by the corners, and tucked it into her skirt pocket.

“It’s really nothing,” she said. “I’m only working on a beauty potion—but you can imagine that my brother would give me no peace if he found out.”

“You should have said so,” Christopher said, brightening. “Henry has some sperm whale oil. It’s supposed to be good for your complexion if you put it on your face.”

“No, thank you,” Lucie said with a shudder. “I think this thorn-apple will do the trick.”

“Just be careful with it,” Christopher said, as she stepped back from the carriage. “It’s very poisonous. Don’t swallow any of it, or drink it, or anything like that.”

Lucie gave him a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t dream of making a beauty potion either, but even Christopher—who, among all the boys in the world, was surely one of the best and kindest—found it an easy enough excuse to believe. Gentlemen, Lucie thought, hurrying to catch up with Cordelia.

It was one of those days when nothing seemed to be going right in the training room.

Cordelia had caught a ride to the Institute with Lucie. Usually she found her best friend an excellent sparring partner. But neither of them seemed to be able to concentrate properly today. They had ducked where they should have dodged, missed their targets when knife throwing, and Cordelia had pivoted where she should have lunged, bruising her hip against a post. Worse, she had fumbled Cortana twice, letting it slip out of her hands in a way that had startled and alarmed her.

“Today is just not our day, I’m afraid,” said Lucie breathlessly, her hands splayed in the middle of her back. “I suppose we can’t help being distracted.”

“Is it awful if I wasn’t thinking about the murders at all?” said Cordelia.

“That depends on what you were thinking about,” said Lucie. “New bonnets might be bad, the meaning of the universe less so.”

“I was thinking about my father. We’re meant to all have dinner at Cornwall Gardens tomorrow night. It’ll be the first time we’ve seen him since the wedding.” She pushed back her damp hair impatiently. “I tried so hard to make this happen,” she said. “I did everything to get my father back, and now that he’s here, I don’t know at all how to feel.”