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And Thomas was about to lean forward, he was about to crush his lips to Alastair’s, was about to suggest that much as he wanted to claim Alastair as his in front of the whole Enclave, they had to go somewhere, anywhere, where they could be alone, when a scream split the air. The scream of someone in anguished pain.
Alastair jerked bolt upright. Thomas reeled back, his heart slamming in his chest. He knew that scream. It was his aunt Cecily.
James paused halfway down the corridor, his heart pounding. He had not meant to follow Cordelia and Matthew to the games room; he’d gone there to retrieve a cheroot Anna had good-naturedly demanded, but as he’d approached the door, he’d heard their voices. Matthew, low and intense; Cordelia, obviously distressed. The pain in her voice kept him nailed in place, even as he knew he should back away. He had started to back away, when he heard Cordelia say, “I cannot and never will love you in the way you wish to be loved, Math. The way you deserve to be loved. I do not know what I will do about James. I have no plan, have made no decision. But I do know this. I know I must not let there be false hope between us.”
He would have thought he would be relieved. But it had felt like a thorn driven into his heart: he felt Matthew’s pain, nearly choked on it. He walked away then, not staying to hear what Matthew said. He could not bear to.
He found himself walking mechanically back into the ballroom. He could barely even perceive the other partygoers, and when his father tried to get his attention, he pretended he didn’t notice. He slipped into one of the alcoves and stared across at the Christmas tree. He could barely breathe. I do not know what I will do about James, she had said. Perhaps they would both lose her, he and Matthew. Perhaps it would be better that way; they could share their pain, repair each other. But a small and treacherous pulse beat inside his chest, repeating over and over that she had not said she was done with him, only that she did not know what she would do. It was enough for hope, a hope that warred with guilt, and a darker feeling that seemed to tighten like a band around his chest, cutting off his breath.
The party whirled on in front of him, a torrent of color and sound, and yet through it, he seemed to see a spill of shadows. Something dark, rising like smoke: a threat he could taste on the air.
This was not sorrow or worry, he realized. This was danger.
And then he heard the scream.
Lucie knew she should have taken Jesse aside immediately to tell him what Malcolm had said to her, but she hadn’t had the heart.
He appeared truly to be enjoying himself at this, the first social occasion he had ever attended as a living adult. The admiring glances shot his way nonplussed him, but Lucie glowed with happiness for him. She was proud of the way he held himself, and the real interest he showed in people, and she couldn’t bear to ruin it.
She’d once read in an etiquette book that when one introduced two people, one should add a small detail about one of them that might spark a conversation. So she told Ida Rosewain, “This is Jeremy Blackthorn. He collects antique cow-creamers,” while she informed Piers that Jeremy was an amateur astronomer, and told the Townsends that he had spent fourteen days living in the basket of a hot-air balloon. Jesse quite calmly went along with all the fibs, and even embroidered on them: Lucie had nearly choked when he’d told the Townsends that all his meals in the balloon had been brought to him by trained seagulls.
Eventually, as guests ceased arriving and more people joined the dancing, Lucie squeezed Jesse’s hand (she was wearing gloves, as was he; surely it did not count as touching) and said, “There’s only a few people left you haven’t met. Do you want to brave the Inquisitor and his wife? You’ll have to meet them eventually.”
He looked down at her. “Speaking of inquisitions,” he said, with a slightly self-mocking turn to his mouth, “I note that you have been avoiding telling me what Malcolm said in the Sanctuary.”
“You are too clever for your own good.”
“If you’d rather tell me later, we could dance—”
She bit her lip. “No,” she said quietly. “Come with me. We should talk.”
She glanced around to see if anyone was watching—no one seemed to be—before leading him to the French doors that gave onto the long stone balcony outside the ballroom. She slipped through them, Jesse on her heels, and went to the railing.
The snow had not been cleared, and it chilled her feet through her slippers: it was not expected that anyone would come out here during the coldest time of the year. Beyond the railing was a London gripped by cold, a Thames sluggish with chill water, the constant smell of burning wood and coal. The rooflines of distant houses resembled an Alpine ridge, dusted with snow.
“Can’t we just have one lovely night?” Lucie said, gazing out at the city from the chilly stone balustrade. “Can’t I refuse to tell you what Malcolm said?”
“Lucie,” Jesse said. He had joined her at the railing; the cold had already whipped color into his pale cheeks. She knew he liked it, liked the extremes of heat and cold, but he did not seem to be enjoying it now. “Whatever it is, you must tell me. I am not used to having a mortal heart, one that beats; it is out of practice. It cannot sustain this kind of panic.”
“I did not mean to make you panic,” Lucie murmured. “Only—Jesse—I cannot touch you. And you cannot touch me.”
She quickly summarized what Malcolm had told her. When she was done, Jesse rested a hand on the cold stone of the railing and said, “For so long, as a ghost, you were the only one I could touch. And now I am alive, and you are the only one I cannot.” He looked up at the stars in the clear sky above them. “It hardly seems worth the return.”
“Don’t say that,” Lucie breathed. “There is so much to being alive, and you are wonderful at it, and Malcolm will find a solution. Or we will. We have found solutions to worse problems.”
He almost smiled. “Wonderful at being alive? That is a compliment.” He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek—then drew it back, eyes darkening. “I don’t like to think that raising me made you more vulnerable to Belial.”
“I raised you,” Lucie said. “I did not ask you. I commanded you. The responsibility lies with me.”
But she could tell that had not comforted him; his gaze had turned inward, dark. The gaze of the boy who withdrew easily into himself, because for so long he had not been seen, not been heard. “Jesse,” she said. “The shadow of Belial has always hung over myself and my brother. You did not bring that upon us. It has become clearer and clearer over the past year that it was always his plan to turn his attention to us—that whatever his goal is, his blood descendants are a part of it.”
“So what you are saying is that the only thing to be done is to end Belial. Even though they say he can’t be killed.”
“But they also say that Cortana can kill him.” She thought, with a piercing loneliness, of Cordelia. “We have to believe it is true.”
He looked down at her. He looked like Christmas and winter: dark green eyes, snow-white skin, hair as black as coal. “Then what do we do?”
“We think about it tomorrow,” Lucie said softly, “but not tonight. Tonight is a Christmas party, and you are alive, and I am going to dance with you in the only way we can.” She held out her hands. “Here. Let me show you.”
