“What do you mean by enchantment?” Lucie said. “Grace can’t cast a spell to save her life. I ought to know.”
Malcolm looked at Lucie for a long time. “There are different sorts of enchantments,” he said at last. “Miss Blackthorn is of the sort who know that men like to be needed. She plays at helplessness and flirting.”
“Humph,” said Lucie. She forbore to point out that given the limits placed on women by the world, they often had no choice but to seek assistance from men.
Malcolm shrugged. “All I am saying is that you should not trust that girl,” he said. “The decision, of course, is up to you.”
“It’s the most extraordinary thing,” Ariadne said, closing the door of the Whispering Room behind her and locking it for good measure. “Grace Blackthorn just burst out of Malcolm Fade’s office and went running out of the Ruelle. Do you think I should go after her?”
They had lit a fire in the grate; Anna was lounging in front of it, wearing only a man’s white button-down shirt. Her long bare legs, extended toward the flames, were elegant as a poem. She rolled over onto her stomach, propping her chin on her palms, and said, “No—she’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t care much about you. Perhaps you should extend her the same consideration. Besides,” Anna added, her red lips curling into a smile, “you’re not thinking of charging out into the night wearing that, are you?”
Ariadne blushed; she’d nearly forgotten she was only in her shift—white muslin with an olive-green ribbon threaded through the bodice. The rest of her clothes—dress and shoes, petticoats, drawers, tapes, and corset—were scattered around the room.
She started back toward Anna, dropping down on the rug beside her. It was Ariadne’s third trip to the Whispering Room to meet Anna, and she had grown quite fond of the place. She liked the silver paper on the walls, the copper bowl always kept full of hothouse fruit, the smoke from the fire that always smelled like roses. “She isn’t rude to me,” she said thoughtfully. “She’s polite and mouths responses when she’s asked questions, but she’s just not really there.”
“Probably busy thinking about how she can ruin James’s life,” said Anna, rolling onto her back. Her ruby pendant gleamed at her throat. “Do come here,” she said languidly, reaching up her arms, and Ariadne slid on top of her.
Anna was all length and loose limbs, every gesture a sensual sprawl. Ariadne’s heart fluttered as Anna reached a pale hand up to tug gently at the straps holding up Ariadne’s shift. It slid down to her waist. Anna’s eyes darkened to sapphires.
“Again?” Ariadne whispered, as Anna’s hands worked their magic. It still amazed her how fingers brushing her throat, even her shoulders, could make her ache all over, setting off a storm of longing. She tried to do the same things to Anna, and sometimes Anna allowed it. She preferred, though, to be in control. Even when Ariadne was touching her, she never quite lost herself.
“Do you mind?” Anna said, in a tone that indicated she knew perfectly well the answer.
“No. We’re making up for lost time.”
Anna smiled and drew Ariadne down. Her hands found Ariadne’s thick, dark, unbound hair, her tongue the hollow of Ariadne’s throat. Her fingers worked music from her body as if it were a violin. Ariadne gasped. This was what she was living for, every long, dark winter day as she waited to see if the invitation from Anna would come in the evening. The folded piece of paper slipped through her window, the message scrawled in Anna’s strong, elegant hand.
Meet me in the Whispering Room.
Her body felt as out of control as a train that had jumped its tracks. She found the buttons on Anna’s shirt, undid them, pressed her bare skin to Anna’s. She knew she was in love with Anna again, just as badly as she had been before, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care about anything but Anna.
When the world had come apart and together again like the fractured glass in a kaleidoscope, they lay before the fire, Ariadne curled against Anna’s side. Anna’s arm was crooked behind her head, her blue eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“Anna,” Ariadne said tentatively. “You do know that what happened with Filomena—even if she was coming home from your party, it wasn’t your fault.”
Anna glanced over. “What brought that thought into your head?”
The way you kissed me. Like you were trying to forget something.
Ariadne shrugged.
“Ari,” said Anna in her low, husky drawl. “I appreciate the effort, but if I have concerns about my feelings, I have many friends to talk to.”
Ariadne sat up, drawing her arms through the straps of her shift. “Are we not even friends?”
Anna put both hands behind her head. In the rose-scented light, the dips and hollows of her slender body were described softly by light and shadow. “I think I was very clear the first time we spoke,” she said calmly. “I choose not to have my emotions bound up in romances. When you give people your heart, you deliver them the opportunity to hurt you, and it leads to bitterness. You would not want us to be bitter with each other, would you?”
Ariadne had risen to her feet. She began to look about for her discarded clothes. In the past, when she had not dressed quickly enough, Anna—whose masculine attire was much easier to don and doff—had departed without her, leaving her to find her own way out of the Ruelle. “No.”
Anna sat up. “I’m not being dishonest with you, Ari. I’ve told you exactly what I have to offer. If it’s not enough, I won’t blame you if you leave.”
Ariadne stepped into her petticoats. “I’m not leaving.”
Anna looked at her with real curiosity. “Why not?”
“Because,” Ariadne said, “when you want something very much, you are willing to accept the shadow of that thing. Even if it is just a shadow.”
LONDON: SHEPHERD MARKET
It was a grimy dawn, yellow light beginning to seep through the cracks in the heavy gray clouds, when the man half tumbled out of the pub and into the square. He limped along toward Half Moon Street, past the hodgepodge of shops—greengrocers, butchers—that lined the central square. The neighborhood had its charms despite the close quarters and grime, but the man took no notice. He had not been the last patron in Ye Grapes, but the others had drunk themselves unconscious and would soon be treated to a complimentary trip out the back door, where they would be unceremoniously deposited on the pavement to await the coming day.
The killer slipped from one doorway to the next, trailing his prey more for sport than necessity. Stealth was hardly needed here. The man was staggering drunk, singing a tuneless little song, his breath puffing out in white clouds as it met the icy air. He did not seem to feel the cold in his battered coat.
The girl had been too ready, too quickly. She had turned the killer’s own blade on him, sinking it deep into his shoulder. Her death had been messy, fast and brutal; afterward he had been forced to slip away and hide, abandoning the bloody evidence in an empty factory in Limehouse. As he swiftly healed, he had heard the scrape and chitter of an Ourobas demon nearby, drawn by the scent of murder and blood. He did not fear it; demons knew him as kin now.