“The one who hired me came to me masked, face wrapped around in cloth and wearing layers of cloaks.” Emmanuel Gast answered her slowly, almost reluctantly. “I know not if they were man or woman, old or young.”

“What more do you know?” James demanded, and the ghost writhed. “Who is controlling the demons now?”

“Someone more powerful than you puny Nephilim,” snarled the ghost. “Someone who tore down my wards, ripped my body apart—” His voice rose to a wail. “I shall not think on it! I shall not relive my death! Truly you are monsters, despite your angel blood.”

Lucie could not bear it a moment longer. “Go!” she shouted. “Leave us!”

The ghost winked out of existence, between one breath and the next. Cordelia was already over by the bed, dragging the dirty coverlet off, throwing it over what remained of Gast. The air reeked; Lucie was choking. James reached for her.

“I have to get outside,” she whispered, turning away from her brother. “I must breathe.”

She pushed past her friends and into the living room. The door to the flat was not locked. Lucie clutched at the banister as she stumbled down the narrow steps and outside into the street.

Cockney voices floated around her, men in round hats passing by with packages under their arms. She struggled to catch her breath. Ghosts had never frightened her—they were the restless dead, grieving and disquieted, rarely seen. But there had been something different about Gast.

A coat settled on Lucie’s shoulders, bottle green superfine, and warm, smelling of expensive cologne. Lucie glanced up to see Matthew’s face hovering above hers, sunlight making his hair brilliant. He looked serious for once as he carefully buttoned the coat closed around her. His hands, usually swift and bright with rings, flying through the air when he talked, were moving with great deliberation over such a small task. She heard him draw in a slow breath.

“Luce,” he said. “What happened in there? Are you all right?”

She shivered. “I’m all right,” she said. “I’ve rarely seen a ghost in such—such a condition.”

“Lucie!” James and Cordelia joined them on the street. Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand and squeezed it. James ruffled his sister’s hair.

“Gast did not die easily,” he said. “Good work, Lucie. I know that can’t have been pleasant.”

He called me a monster. But she didn’t say it out loud. “Did you find anything in the flat after I went into the bedroom?” she asked.

James nodded. “We took a few things—sketches, and Cordelia has the wood shards in her satchel.”

“That reminds me,” said Matthew, relieving Cordelia of her bag. He approached the grubby-faced newsboy he’d pointed out to Lucie earlier and engaged in a spirited discussion with him, eventually proffering the satchel.

“Is Matthew selling my satchel to a newsboy?” Cordelia said curiously.