After gathering what they needed from the weapons room—James was loaded down with more than a dozen of Christopher’s specially designed throwing knives—the group made their way down Ludgate Hill and Cannon Street as the sun set over the City. James caught himself stealing glances at Cordelia when he was sure he wouldn’t be observed; she was deep in conversation with Lucie, their heads bent together as they walked. Cordelia’s flame-dark hair had been pulled back into a smooth chignon, leaving the light brown nape of her neck exposed.

James tried not to think about the fact that he knew what it was like to curl his fingers around the back of that neck while he kissed her mouth. He was sure that if he did think about it, it would drive him mad and he would be no further use to anyone.

Those moments in the Whispering Room with Cordelia had been like nothing else in his life. No other experience was comparable, and certainly no moment with Grace. But what did that say about him? Hadn’t he loved Grace, and wasn’t love the same as desire? Didn’t the one grow from the other? And he couldn’t love Cordelia. It wasn’t possible for him to have been in love with Grace mere days ago and have transferred his affections so quickly.

He wished to talk to Cordelia, desperately, but what on earth would he say? He couldn’t tell her he loved her, but neither could he express regret for what had happened the night before. If he had to choose between a long life of peace and happiness and another five minutes like the ones he’d spent with Cordelia in the Whispering Room, he dared not guess what he would choose.

“Are you all right?” To James’s surprise, Magnus had joined him as they passed the church of St. Margaret Pattens. “I have to admit,” Magnus added, “I had been hoping to talk to you tonight, so perhaps this development is fortuitous.”

“Why would you be hoping to talk to me?” James slid his hands into the pockets of his gear jacket. It buttoned closely to the body, allowing for ease of movement while fighting. “If you are concerned that I have continued my career of shooting chandeliers, you will be relieved to know that according to the Clave, I have moved on to vandalizing greenhouses.”

Magnus merely raised an eyebrow. “Henry,” he said. “Before he went to Idris, he sent me a vial of dirt to analyze. Said he couldn’t make head or tail of it. He also said you gave it to him.”

James had nearly forgotten that Magnus and Henry were good friends and had, famously, invented the magic that powered Portals together. “And?” he said cautiously.

“It’s strange stuff,” Magnus said. “In fact, it isn’t from this world.”