“I can see how your father can be very charming when he is drinking,” said James. “Like Matthew.”

Cordelia looked at him in surprise. “Matthew isn’t like my father. Matthew drinks to amuse himself and be amusing—my father drinks to sink deeper within himself. Matthew is not …” Ill, she wanted to say, but it seemed wrong to even bring the word that close to Matthew, to his situation. “Bitter,” she said instead.

“I sometimes wonder,” James said, “if we can ever quite understand other people.” He ran a hand through his hair. “All we can do is try, I suppose.”

“I am grateful to you,” she said. “For trying tonight.”

He smiled unexpectedly. Mischievously. “I know of a way you can repay me. One I would greatly appreciate.”

She indicated he should continue.

“I want you to read to me from The Beautiful Cordelia.”

“Oh, by the Angel, no. James, it’s not a real book. Lucie just wrote it to amuse me.”

“That’s why I want to hear it,” James said, with a disarming straightforwardness. “I want to know what she thinks makes you happy. Makes you laugh. I want to know more about you, Daisy.”

It was impossible to say no to that. Cordelia went and fetched the book; by the time she returned, James had pulled a lap rug onto the sofa and was half under it. He was shoeless, his tie gone, his hair a soft halo of dark flames.

Cordelia sat down beside him and opened the bound book Lucie had given her for her wedding. “I’m not going to start at the beginning,” she said. “It wouldn’t make any difference, and that was when I was thirteen—so it’s quite different now.”

She began to read.

“The brave princess Lucinda raced through the marble halls of the palace. ‘I must find Cordelia,’ she gasped. ‘I must save her.’

‘I believe the prince holds her even now, captive in his throne room!’ Sir Jethro exclaimed. ‘But Princess Lucinda, even though you are the most beautiful and wisest lady that I have ever met, surely you cannot fight your way through a hundred of his stoutest palace guards!’ The knight’s green eyes flashed. His straight black hair was disarranged, and his white shirt was entirely undone.

‘But I must!’ Lucinda cried.

‘Then I will fight at your side!’

Meanwhile, in the throne room, the beautiful Cordelia struggled against the terrible iron shackles chaining her to the floor.

‘I really do not see why you don’t want to marry me,’ said Prince Augustus in a sulky manner. ‘I would love you forever, and give you many jewels and a herd of stallions.’

‘I want none of those things,’ said the noble and beautiful Cordelia. ‘I only wish you to release my true love, Lord Byron Mandrake, from durance vile.’

‘Never!’ said Prince Augustus. ‘For he was an evil pirate. And before that, you were entangled with a highwayman, and before that, there was the band of smugglers…. Really, if you agreed to marry me, you would finally be making yourself respectable.’

‘I do not want to be respectable!’ cried Cordelia. ‘I only care for true love!’”

Hardly daring to look, Cordelia glanced up at James—and realized he was laughing so hard he seemed to be having trouble breathing. “Many jewels,” he gasped, “and a herd—a herd of stallions.”

Cordelia stuck her tongue out at him.

“Do you want a herd of stallions?” he inquired, struggling to get his laughter under control.

“They would be terribly inconvenient in London,” said Cordelia.

“Not as inconvenient as Lord Byron Mandrake,” said James. “Is he fictional Cordelia’s true love? Because I don’t think I like him.”

“Oh, not at all. Cordelia has many suitors. She meets them, they woo her, they kiss, and then they usually die a horrible death to make way for the next suitor.”

“Jolly hard on them,” said James sympathetically. “Why so much death?”

Cordelia set the book aside. “Probably because Lucie doesn’t know what happens after the kissing bit.”

“Quite a lot,” said James absently, and suddenly the room seemed slightly too warm. James must have been thinking the same thing, because he kicked the rug off and turned his body so that he was facing her. Though the Mask had gone, she still couldn’t quite read his expression. His gaze traveled over her, from her eyes to her lips, to her throat and down, like a hand tracing the curves and hollows of her body. “Daisy,” he said. “Have you ever been in love?”

Cordelia sat up. “I have had—feelings for someone,” she allowed, finally.

“Who?” he demanded, rather abruptly.

Cordelia smiled at him with all the unconcern she could muster. “If you want the answer,” she said, “you’ll have to win a chess game.”

Her heart pounded. The air between them felt charged, like the air during a lightning storm. As though anything could happen.

Suddenly James winced and put his hand to his head, as though in pain.

Cordelia caught her breath. “Is something wrong?”

The strangest look passed over James’s face—half surprise and half almost confusion, as though he were trying to remember something he’d forgotten.

“Nothing,” he said slowly. “It’s nothing, and you’re tired. We’d better get to bed.”

LONDON: SHOE LANE

Morning came, spilling blood and flame across the sky like the fruits of a great massacre.

The killer chuckled a little at his fanciful thoughts. London in winter was surely worthy of poetry. The temperature had fallen, last night’s snow giving way to a freezing mist that drifted through the icy gray streets. His strength had grown, leaving him feeling impervious to the elements, and he moved with a new confidence, daring to walk among the mundane businessmen on their way to work, rather than crossing the street to avoid them. He passed merchants and deliverymen and the occasional drunkard frozen in the lee of a building. None of them held any interest for him.

He was stronger—stronger by far than any of these mortals—but not yet strong enough. Not for what he intended to do.

The killer could afford to be choosier now, and he passed over several possibilities before spotting the dark-haired girl tottering home in a party dress, her long hair mussed, ice crystals sparkling among the strands.

Others saw her too. But he did not want what other men wanted from her. Even from a distance he could sense her strength.

The girl turned a corner onto High Holborn, a broad boulevard lined with law offices. He kept his distance, blending in with the clerks and shopkeepers hurrying past. When she turned down a narrow, quiet lane, he drew closer once again.

She didn’t notice him. She didn’t know that she was breathing her last breaths.

He was ready when she passed into the shadow of a church. He fell on her like a wolf.

To his surprise, she tried to fend him off. No, she did more than try—she fought ferociously, spinning and kicking and punching as he stabbed clumsily with his blade, the angle all wrong, barely nicking her. Droplets of blood fell to the snow-covered street, but it was not enough to kill.