Since they had returned home from Highgate, Alastair hadn’t mentioned Charles or anything connected to him. He had spent most of his time at home, often in Cordelia’s room as her leg healed, reading out loud to her from the day’s newspapers. He did not go out at night. She and Alastair were certainly a pair, weren’t they, Cordelia thought. Miserable in love.

“James,” Matthew said tensely, “after what she did to you—you owe her nothing.”

“It is not a debt,” James said. “It is because I love her.”

It was as if someone had taken a small, sharp knife to Cordelia’s heart and sliced it into pieces that formed the shape of James’s name. She could barely breathe; she heard his voice in her head, low and sweet:

Daisy, my angel.

Shaking his head, James stalked out of the room. After exchanging a single glance, Cordelia and Matthew followed. They hurried down the corridor after James, through the Institute, occasionally weaving to avoid colliding with furniture.

“What’s going on?” Matthew demanded, avoiding a decorative suit of armor. “What did she ask you to do?”

“There is an object in Blackthorn Manor that must be destroyed,” said James, and quickly told them the tale of Tatiana’s madness, the clockwork automaton and the warlock spell that waited to animate it. That he must destroy it, while Grace did all she could to stay her mother’s hand.

There was something different, not just in James’s expression, but in the way he spoke. He had not said Grace’s name with that intonation since she had become engaged to Charles. Cordelia’s nails bit into her palm. She wanted to be sick; she wanted to scream. She knew she would do none of those things. She did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it.

“I am sure I am not the only one who fails to be astonished that Tatiana Blackthorn has been dabbling in necromancy,” said Matthew. “But we must tell the Clave.”

James, taking the stairs two at a time, shook his head. “Not yet. I must do this first. I will explain more later, but we cannot destroy Grace’s life.”

They had reached the top of a set of stone steps, leading downward into deep shadow. Cordelia was half-relieved to see the same expression on Matthew’s face that she was sure was on hers. Surprise and distress.

“So you’re going to go to Idris?” Cordelia said. “How?”

“There’s a Portal in the crypt,” Matthew said tightly as the stairs ended with an entrance into an enormous stone room. It was not as dark as Cordelia had imagined: dim brass lamps gleamed on the walls, illuminating smooth stone walls and floors. “My father used to tinker with his experiments down here when he and my mother ran the Institute. Most of his work was moved to the laboratory in our home, but—”