“Not at all. She’ll re-form again somewhere tonight, just as bitter and vengeful as always. But she’ll stay away from you now.”

“Because she’s afraid of you?”

“As you’ve said before, ghosts gossip.” His tone was very flat. “I cannot harm them, not really, but I can make them uncomfortable. And they always worry if it might be more. Most ghosts are cowardly, afraid to lose the ragged little bits of life they have left. I am not one of them exactly, but I can see them, touch them. That makes them afraid. They know who I am—hopefully Martha will let them know to stay away from you unless they wish to deal with me.”

“They are not afraid of me,” Lucie said thoughtfully, “though I have always been able to see them—”

Though, she had to admit, that was not entirely true. She remembered the shade of Emmanuel Gast, the dead warlock, hissing at her—truly, you are monsters, despite your angel blood. But he had been a criminal, she reminded herself, and a liar.

“Oh, they likely are afraid,” Jesse said grimly. “But they are also greedy. The ghost who gave you the location of that factory—others are starting to hear what you did for him. That you made him forget what tormented him.”

Lucie clasped her gloved hands together. “He asked me to do it. I did not command him without his request—”

“And I’m sure he would not tell you where Filomena’s ghost was unless you helped him,” Jesse said. “Ghosts can be as unscrupulous as the living. But you didn’t tell me about it, did you—”

“Because I knew you would take on like this,” Lucie snapped—she was cold, worried for James, and most of all she could not bear the disappointed look on Jesse’s face. “This is my talent, my power, and I can decide when to utilize it.”

“You can,” he said, in a low voice, “but there are consequences, and I cannot help you with them if you do not tell me—I will not always be waiting in the shadows, Lucie. It was only an accident that I was here to stop Martha.”

“Why were you here?”

He set his hands on her shoulders. There was no warmth where his fingers touched her, yet there was weight there, and realness. “I know you have been trying to—to help me. To raise me.” She wanted to lean into his touch. “When I rise at night, I see where you and Grace have left the marks of your works behind—the ashes, the scattered bits of potion ingredients. But now blood—blood magic is dark stuff, Lucie.”

Lucie frowned inwardly. Grace, what are you doing? “You have been fading,” she said softly. “I worry that there is not much time. I think Grace feels it too, in her way.”

“As do I,” he said, a deep ache in his voice. “You think I do not want to live again, truly? To walk with you by the river, hand in hand in the sunlight? And I have had hopes. But after what we tried last night, Luce—you cannot keep putting yourself in danger. That includes seeking out dangerous people as though you’re at some—some garden party.”

To walk with you by the river, hand in hand. Words she would store away and take out later to turn over in her memories as someone might take out a beloved photograph to study its details. Now, however, she only said, “Jesse, I am a Shadowhunter, not some mundane girl you need to shelter from the riffraff.”

“We’re not talking about riffraff. We’re talking about necromancers. Real danger, for you and for Grace.”

“We have hardly done anything that serious. Why don’t you speak to Grace about this? Why am I the only one scolded?”

“Because I can say to you what I cannot say to her.” He hesitated. “Remember, I have witnessed this journey before. I cannot bear the thought of you—either of you—drawn into dark magic as my mother was.”

She stiffened. “Tatiana and I are nothing alike.”

Jesse flashed a bitter smile. “Certainly you are not alike now. But I think my mother might have been a whole person once, a—an ordinary person, maybe even a happy person—and I do not know how much of that life was taken away from her by bitterness, and how much was because she lost herself to this sort of shadowy magic and necromancy—all the forces that you and Grace are dabbling in.”

The hollowness in his eyes when he spoke of Tatiana broke her heart. How deep were the scars his mother had given him?

“Do you—hate her now? Your mother?”

Jesse hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the street beyond. A second later Lucie heard the sound of wheels, and turned to see the delicate faerie wings of the Fairchild family crest painted on the side of a carriage. Grace had finally arrived.

She knew without looking that Jesse was already gone by the time Grace joined her under the awning. His voice still rang in her head: I can say to you what I cannot say to her.

He had disappeared into the night as if he were part of it. And maybe he was, she thought. It was almost a comfort to imagine Jesse as a part of the stars and shadows, always around her, ever-present even if he could not be seen.

“Lucie,” Grace said, and it was clear she was repeating herself. “Goodness, you’re in a brown study. What were you thinking about?”

“Jesse,” Lucie said, and saw Grace’s expression change. Was there anything in the world Grace cared about as much as she cared about her brother? In fact, was there anything else in the world she cared about at all? “I—saw him a bit earlier. He said you’d been experimenting in the shed. Do be careful. Blood necromancy is nasty stuff.”

Something flickered in Grace’s eyes. “It’s rabbit’s blood,” she said. “I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d want nothing to do with it.” She headed for the entrance of the Hell Ruelle, forcing Lucie to scramble after her. Grace’s heels clicked on the pavement; she wore delicate boots under a narrow blue-and-ivory skirt frothed with lace. “You’ll be pleased to know it seemed to have no effect. The rabbit population of Chiswick House is safe from my further depredations.”

Lucie was mildly horrified; she was quite sure she could never have harmed a rabbit. “Did you get the information about Annabel that we promised to Malcolm?”

Grace’s shoulders seemed to tighten. “Yes, but I’m not going to tell you. I’m only going to tell him.”

Humph, Lucie thought, but there was no point arguing. At least getting into the Hell Ruelle was easier this time; the door guardian recognized them and, with a sideways smile, sent them on their way.

Inside the large central chamber, a relaxed crowd of Downworlders chatted at small tables scattered throughout the room. Lucie searched for Hypatia but did not see her, though she saw a number of other familiar faces, including Kellington, who was playing violin among a string quartet onstage. The women were dressed in the height of fashion—narrow skirts and pagoda sleeves, the sort of thing one might see in Paris—which was only fitting, since the walls had been painted with scenes of Parisian life. The theme had been extended to the waiters serving moules frites and ham sandwiches with tiny cornichons. Bottles of French wine and absinthe lined the bar. The guests seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves, gossiping and laughing. The liveliest were attempting to learn the beguine on a makeshift dance floor in the corner.