Grace reached into her handbag. She removed an object and held it up between her thumb and forefinger—a round, multifaceted crystal about the size of a cricket ball. “This is an aletheia crystal.”

“I know what it is,” Malcolm whispered. So did Lucie: she had read of them. Aletheia crystals were carved of adamas. In past years, the Clave had used them to contain information in the form of memories that could be viewed again if the viewer had the power to see them. As far as Lucie knew, only Silent Brothers could release the image contained in such a crystal—though it made sense that a warlock or magician might have that same ability.

Grace placed the crystal on the desk in front of Malcolm. He made no move to touch it. “It was stored in Chiswick House. It contains memories that will prove the truth of what I’m saying.”

Malcolm spoke in a low, guttural voice. “If any part of what you are telling me is true,” he said, “I will kill them. I will kill them all.”

Lucie surged to her feet. “Mr. Fade, please—”

“It does not matter to us,” said Grace, quite coldly, “what you do for revenge.” In the firelight, her silver-spun hair gleamed like ice. “We have done what you asked; we have provided you word of Annabel Blackthorn. I have told you the truth. No one else would tell it to you, but I did. That must matter. It must count for something.”

Malcolm looked at her blindly. Fury had made his expression a near blank; only his eyes moved, and they were like wounds in his face. “Get out,” he said.

“We had an agreement,” said Grace. “You must tell us—”

“Get out!” Malcolm roared.

Lucie caught at Grace’s arm. “No,” Lucie said through her teeth. “We are going.”

“But—” Grace clamped her mouth shut as Lucie dragged her out of the room and into the corridor. A second later, Malcolm’s door slammed shut; Lucie heard the lock click.

She stopped short and whirled on Grace. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“I told him the truth,” Grace said defiantly. “You said I should tell him the truth—”

“Not like that. Not told in a way that’s—that’s so cruel.”

“The truth is better than lies! However cruel it may be, it is crueler still for him not to know—everyone knew when it happened, and no one told him, and even now he’s been allowed to believe she’s still alive all this time—”

“Grace, there are ways of telling the truth,” Lucie protested, glancing back and forth to make sure no one was approaching. “You didn’t have to throw it in his face. You’ve made him hate the Blackthorns even more; how could you think he’ll still want to help Jesse?”

Grace’s lips trembled. She pressed them together. “Betrayal and pain are facts of life. He doesn’t get to escape them just because he’s a warlock.”

Lucie knew that Grace had suffered, that Tatiana had likely made her childhood nearly unbearable. But had she entirely forgotten what people were like? Had she never known?

“I shall never understand my brother,” Lucie said, without thinking. “Why on earth does he love you?”

Grace looked as if Lucie had slapped her. She seemed about to lash out—then turned without a word and raced down the corridor.

After an astonished pause, Lucie gave chase, following Grace into the main room of the salon. It was crowded now, the floor seething with partygoers: she caught a glimpse of a blond head as Grace pushed past a group of werewolves. A moment later, she’d vanished.

Lucie stared glumly at a juggling phouka. She’d argued with Jesse, she hadn’t gotten a whit of information from Malcolm but merely angered him, and she’d upset Grace. And Jesse was fading—their time was running out. She needed to do more, know more. Perhaps if she went back in to talk to Malcolm on her own—

“Lucie?”

Lucie turned in surprise. Behind her was none other than Ariadne Bridgestock, her emerald silk dress catching the light from the wall sconces. Ariadne put a finger to her lips. “Come with me,” she said in a low voice, gesturing for Lucie to follow her.

They made their way down another corridor, this one papered in damask. Ariadne paused before a wooden door and gave it a quick knock. A plaque on the door proclaimed it the Whispering Room.

Ariadne stepped back to usher Lucie into the room and followed her inside, closing the door carefully behind them. It was rather dizzying, the number of rooms there were in the Hell Ruelle. This one was lined with bookshelves, scattered with comfortable-looking armchairs and settees. A fire, purple and sweet-smelling, burned in the grate.

Nor was the room empty. Lounging on a chaise by the fireplace was Anna. She wore black trousers and a sapphire-blue waistcoat unbuttoned over a fine-milled linen shirt. Her legs were crossed, a glass of red wine in one of her hands. “Glad to see Ariadne found you,” she said. “Is there a reason you and Grace Blackthorn keep having fraught meetings with Malcolm Fade? Something scandalous I ought to know?”

Lucie glanced back and forth between Anna and Ariadne, who had seated herself atop a large walnut desk. She was swinging her legs, her petticoats rustling around her ankles.

So Ariadne had been expecting to see Anna. Lucie had been right. But she’d imagined that Ariadne had simply been hoping to bump into Anna by mischance. It was clear, however, that a prior assignation had been made. Well, that’s an interesting development.

“And where is Grace?” Anna said, and took a sip of wine.

“She bolted,” said Ariadne. “I never knew she could run so fast.”

Anna gave Lucie a sharp look. “This is beginning to sound familiar,” she said. “Isn’t this the second time you’ve appeared at the Hell Ruelle with Grace Blackthorn and she’s run off like her hair was on fire? I hope this isn’t going to become a pattern.”

Lucie raised her eyebrows. “You saw us the last time?”

Anna shrugged. “Lucie, ducks, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to tell me. Your secrets are yours. But Malcolm Fade is a powerful man. If you’re going to have dealings with him …”

“I was trying to help,” Lucie said. She stuck her hands out to the purple fire. Her mind was spinning. What could she tell, and what must she hold back? “To help Grace.”

“That’s awfully odd,” said Ariadne. “She’s never mentioned you. In fact, I have never seen her meet a single friend, and when she takes the carriage—Charles lent her his, for her use while he is in Paris—she is always alone. I don’t think she likes me much.”

“I don’t think she likes anyone much,” Lucie said. “At least, not anyone living.” A story was spinning itself into being in her mind, one that might do nicely. “But she’s not all bad. As you’ve probably noticed,” she added, looking back up at her cousin, “Grace was raised by a delusional monster, and as such has had a miserable life. I don’t think she ever experienced a whit of caring from any part of her family save her brother.”

“Jesse, you mean?” said Anna. “My cousin?”

Lucie looked at her with a little surprise; it had not quite really occurred to her before that Anna, being older, might remember Jesse. “Did you meet him?”