All around him there was blowing dust. Perhaps this place had once been an ocean and had dried up, blowing away with the harsh wind. Certainly there seemed nothing in front of him but an endless sea of sand.

He turned, wondering if he could see any path back to the ballroom. To his surprise, he saw instead the skyline of London—the dome of St. Paul’s, the crenellations of the Tower of London, and the familiar arches of Tower Bridge. Tower Bridge itself seemed to glow, eerily red. James coughed; there was dust in his mouth, bitter as salt.

Bitter as salt. He knelt down and scooped a handful of the bone-colored dirt of this world into his hand. He had never been able to touch anything here before. But the dirt was solid, dusty, like any other dirt. He slid a handful into his trouser pocket and rose to his feet as the vision of London faded.

There was only darkness around him now, lit by a faint, eerie glow whose source he could not see. Trackless waste led in all directions. He tried to push down his rising terror, the part of him that said he would die here, in utter darkness: frozen to the spot with no path to follow.

And then he saw it. A tiny flicker of golden firefly light in the distance.

He moved toward it, slowly at first, and then faster, as the light became a blaze. The cold began to vanish, and the scent of living things surrounded him—roots and leaves and flowers—as he stepped back into the world again.

Cordelia had almost given up knocking when the front doors of Chiswick House finally swung open. Grace stood on the threshold. Much to Cordelia’s surprise, she was alone. Ladies did not open their own front doors—servants performed that task. But then, what ordinary human being, even one with the Sight, would be willing to work in such a place? No wonder Grace had insisted she be picked up and dropped off at the gates.

Grace was wearing the same dress she’d worn to the picnic earlier, though the hem was torn and it was stained with grass. Not that Cordelia minded. There was something humanizing about Grace exhibiting even small imperfections.

Grace carried a fiery torch in her right hand; behind her, the foyer of the house was dark. There was a dank smell in the air. Grace stared at Cordelia, her expression caught between blankness and surprise.

“Miss Carstairs,” she said finally. She did not invite Cordelia in, or ask her why she was there. Having acknowledged Cordelia’s presence, she seemed content to remain as they were.