Jesse had said that both his mother and sister could see him. How strange that must be, for him and for them. She recalled the night before: Jesse saying that death was in the ballroom. But it hadn’t been, she thought. There had been a demon occurrence in the city, but it had been handled easily.

But what if he had not meant death was there last night? What if he had meant that a greater danger surrounded them all?

Lucie shivered and glanced down toward the lake, where everything was comfortingly ordinary—Charles and Ariadne chatting with Barbara and Oliver; Alastair skipping stones across the lake with Augustus Pounceby. Rosamund and Piers Wentworth looking smug about something. Catherine Townsend sailing a small boat with remarkable skill.

She heard Cordelia, beside her, murmur to Matthew about how it seemed as if it might rain. A few dark clouds scudded across the sky, casting shadows across the silvery surface of the water. She caught her breath. She was imagining things, surely—the reflections of the clouds could not be getting thicker, and darker.

“Cordelia,” she whispered. “Do you have Cortana?”

Cordelia looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. Under the blanket.”

“Reach for it.” Lucie rose to her feet, aware of Cordelia drawing her shining gold blade without another question. She was about to call out when the lake water burst apart as a demon broke the surface.

“That was Cordelia Carstairs,” said Grace. She had approached James when he signaled, but had paused a few feet away, her expression troubled.

James had rarely seen her in the sunlight; she reminded him of a pale, night-blooming flower easily singed by the sun. Her hat shaded her eyes, and her ivory kidskin boots were planted in the long grass. He had always wondered that Tatiana bothered to make sure Grace had well-made and fashionable clothes when she cared about so little else.

“Yes?” James said. It wasn’t like Grace to be jealous, and he wasn’t sure that she was. She looked worried, but that could be many things. “You know the Carstairs have long been my friends.” He held out his hand, the silver bracelet on his wrist sparking in the sun. “Grace. You are far away, and we have been far away from each other long enough.”

She took a step toward him and said, “Do you remember when you told me all about Cordelia? That summer after you had the scalding fever?”

He shook his head, puzzled. He remembered the fever, of course, and Cordelia’s voice through the dizziness. She had been kind to him, though he did not recall telling Grace about it. “No,” he said. “Not specifically, but I have always told you everything, so it would hardly be surprising.”

“Not just that she was with you when you were ill,” Grace said. “But about her. About Cordelia.”