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The ballroom had become a forest of fairy-tale winter, of garlands of holly and ivy, red berries against dark green, and white mistletoe hanging above every doorway.
To Lucie this seemed only fitting. After all, she and Jesse had met in a forest—the forest of Brocelind, in Idris, where faeries laid clever traps, and white flowers that shone at night grew among the moss and the bark of the trees.
The party had not yet started, officially; the rush to get everything ready before guests arrived was ongoing. The problem of the missing Christmas tree had been solved by Tessa, who had talked Magnus into creating a tree-shaped sculpture out of a variety of weapons before he left for Paris. The trunk of the tree was made of swords: hook swords and falchions, longswords and katanas, all held together by demon wire. At the top of the tree was a golden starburst, from which dangled smaller blades: daggers and zafar takieh, bagh nakh and cinquedeas, jambiyas and belawas and jeweled stilettos.
Bridget and a smaller crew of maids and servants were rushing to and fro, setting up the refreshment tables with their silver bowls of punch and mulled wine, dishes of gooseberry and bread sauces next to plum puddings and roast goose stuffed with apples and chestnuts. Candles glowed from every alcove, illuminating the room with soft light; gold ribbons and paper chains hung from hooks in the walls. Lucie could see her parents over by the ballroom doors, deep in conversation: Will’s hair was full of pine needles, and as Lucie watched, her mother reached up and drew one out with an impish smile. Will rewarded her with a gaze so adoring Lucie looked swiftly away.
Next to the weapon tree was a tall ladder upon which Jesse was perched, trying to put a figurine of Raziel atop the gold starburst. When he caught sight of her, he smiled—his deep, slow smile that made her think of dark chocolate, rich and sweet. “Wait,” he said. “I’m coming down, but it’s going to take me a moment—this ladder is held together with old runes and a spirit of optimism.”
He descended and turned to Lucie. He was not smiling now, though her mother had not been wrong. He did look handsome in his new, Anna-and-James-provided clothes. They actually fit him, following the lines of his slender body, the emerald velvet collar of his frock coat darkening the green of his eyes and framing the elegant shape of his face.
“Lucie,” he said, drawing her a little bit behind the weapons tree. He was looking at her in a way that made her feel hot all over, as if her whole body was blushing. A way that said he knew he shouldn’t be looking at her like that, but that he could not prevent himself. “You look…” He raised a hand as if to touch her face, then dropped it quickly, his fingers clenching in frustration. “I want to make a romantic speech—”
“Well, you should,” said Lucie. “I firmly encourage it.”
“I can’t.” He leaned in close; she could smell Christmas on him, the scent of pine and snow. “There is something I must tell you,” he said. “You reached out to Malcolm, didn’t you? About what was happening when—with us?”
She nodded, puzzled. “How did you know?”
“Because he sent me a message,” Jesse said, glancing at Will and Tessa as if—though they were a good distance away—they might overhear. “He’s in the Sanctuary, and he wants to see you.”
Going into the Sanctuary had not been part of Lucie’s plan for the evening, and she was even more unhappy to be there when she realized that it was still arranged for Jesse’s funerary rites. There was the bier his body had been laid upon, with its muslin shroud and the ring of candles. There too was the white silk blindfold that had been tied around his eyes, discarded on the floor next to the bier. She was sure nobody in the Institute, staff or resident, knew what to do with the blindfold. She had never before heard of one that had been used on a body, but not cremated along with it.
Malcolm, dressed all in white, was perched on a chair near an unlit candelabra. His suit seemed to glow in the sparse light from the high windows. “Nephilim never clean up after themselves, it seems,” he said. “Very fitting, I think.”
“I take it you got my message.” Lucie cocked her head to the side. “Though there’s no need for this kind of subterfuge. You could simply drop by. You’re the High Warlock of London.”
“But then I would have had to pay my respects, chat with your parents. Pretend I had other business that needed attending to. In this case, I only came to speak with you.” Malcolm rose to his feet and made his way over to the bier. He laid a long hand on the muslin shroud crumpled atop it. “What you did here,” he said, his voice low. “Truly marvelous. A miracle.”
And suddenly Lucie saw it as if it were happening again: Jesse sitting up, his chest hitching as he took his first breaths in seven years, his eyes rolling to look at her in shock and confusion. She could sense the gasp of his desperate, hungry breaths; she could smell the cold stone and candle flames; she could hear the clatter on the floor as—
“There’s something wrong,” she said. “When I am close to Jesse, when we kiss or touch—”
Malcolm looked alarmed. “Perhaps this would be a conversation better had with your mother,” he said. “Surely she has, ah, told you how these things work—”
“I know about kissing,” Lucie said crossly. “And this is not at all normal. Unless normal is touching your lips to someone else’s and feeling as if you are falling… faster and faster toward an endless, yawning darkness. A darkness that is full of shining outlines like foreign constellations, signs that seem familiar, but are changed in odd ways. And voices crying out…” She took a sharp breath. “It only lasts until the contact with Jesse ceases. Then I am back on solid ground again.”
Malcolm bent down to pick up the silk blindfold. He drew it through his fingers, saying nothing. He probably imagined she was being ridiculous, Lucie thought, some silly girl who got the vapors when a boy came near her.
In a low voice, he said, “I don’t like the sound of this.”
Lucie felt her stomach swoop and fall. Perhaps she had hoped Malcolm would dismiss the issue as nothing.
“I suspect,” went on Malcolm, “that in raising Jesse, you drew on your power in a way you never have before. And that power is of the shadows in origin, you know that as well as I do. It is possible that in pushing it to its limit, you may have forged a channel between yourself and your demon grandfather.”
Lucie found she was breathless. “Would my—would Belial know that?”
Malcolm was still looking down at the blindfold in his hands. “I cannot say. Does it seem to you that he is trying to communicate?”
Lucie shook her head. “No.”
“Then I think we can assume he is not yet aware of it. But you should avoid attracting his attention. There may well be a way to sever this connection. I will set myself to finding out. In the meantime, not only should you avoid kissing Jesse, you should refrain even from touching him. And you should avoid any summoning or commanding of ghosts.” He looked up, his dark purple eyes nearly black in the dimness. “At least you need not worry that I won’t be motivated to help you. Only once it is safe for you to engage with the magic of life and death again can you call Annabel forth from the shadows.”
“Yes,” Lucie said slowly. It was better for him to be personally invested, surely. And yet she did not like the look in his eyes. “I will help you say goodbye to Annabel, Malcolm. I promised, and I intend to keep that promise.”
“Say goodbye,” Malcolm echoed quietly. There was a look on his face Lucie had not seen before; it vanished quickly, though, and he said calmly, “I will consult my sources and return the moment I have any answers. In the meantime…”
Lucie sighed. “Avoid touching Jesse. I know. I ought to get back,” she added. “If you’d like to come to the party, you’d be welcome.”
