Anna’s door was, as she had said, wide open. The flat inside was much pleasanter than Cordelia had imagined, given the state of the hallway. Softly colored old Victorian wallpaper in dark green and gold, a haphazard scatter of furniture that didn’t match but looked glorious anyway, like warring armies who had found a peculiarly harmonious peace. There was a fearsomely large sofa of worn, deep gold velvet, some winged armchairs with tweedy pillows, a Turkish rug, and a Tiffany lamp of a dozen colors of glass. The mantel of the fireplace was decorated with a multitude of knives that had been stuck into it at odd angles, each with a jeweled, glittering hilt; atop a small table by the bedroom door was a large, vibrantly colored stuffed snake with two heads.

“I see that you’re examining Percival,” said Anna, gesturing at the serpent. “Spectacular, isn’t he?”

She stood in front of the sash window, looking out as the sun sank behind the rooftops of London. Her dressing gown fell open about her long body, and beneath it Cordelia could see that she was wearing dark trousers and a sheer white gentleman’s shirt. It was unbuttoned to below her clavicle; her skin was only a shade darker than the whiteness of the shirt, and her hair, curling at the back of her neck, was the same black as James’s. Herondale black, the color of the wing of a crow.

“He’s certainly brightly colored,” said Cordelia.

“He was a love gift. I never do court dull girls.” Anna turned to look at Cordelia, the dressing gown sweeping around her like wings. Her features were not what Cordelia would ever have called pretty—she was striking, stunning, even. “Pretty” seemed too small and imprecise a word for Anna.

“Did that woman call you ‘sir’?” said Cordelia curiously. “Did she think you were a man?”

“Possibly.” Anna flicked her cigar into the fireplace. “Best to let people believe what they want to believe, in my experience.”

She threw herself onto the sofa. No braces held up her trousers, but unlike the men for whom they were tailored, she had hips, and the trousers hung from them, clinging close to her slight curves.

“Poor Evangeline,” said Cordelia, undoing the strap that held Cortana and leaning her sword against the wall. Settling her skirts about her, she sat down in one of the armchairs.

Anna sighed. “This is not the first time I have tried to break it off with her,” she said. “The last few times I was gentler, but as her wedding day drew near, I felt one must be cruel to be kind. I had never wanted her life ruined.” She leaned forward, her focus on Cordelia. “Now, Cordelia Carstairs—tell me all your secrets.”

“I think I’d better not,” said Cordelia. “I don’t know you very well.”