Uncle Gabriel had described the house, too, in a much more exciting and suitable story about the way that he, Aunt Cecily, Uncle Jem, Lucie’s parents, and Uncle Gideon had dispatched the evil Benedict Lightwood, who had turned into a demonic worm and marauded through the Lightwood gardens. It was a story with a great deal of blood and excitement, and it had been very clear—to Lucie at least—that the gardens had been glorious. The manor house itself had been glorious: white stone, spreading green lawns down to the Thames. Gorgeous Greek follies seeming to float above the ground. There had been Italian gardens, and moonlight-washed balconies, and tall, proud pillars, a famous reproduction of the Venus de’ Medici from the Uffizi Galleries in Florence, a magnificent avenue of cedars sweeping up to the house.…

“My mother said she heard it had fallen into disrepair, but I did not expect this,” Cordelia whispered back. Her gaze, like Lucie’s, was glued to the outside of the massive gates that closed off the property. Latin words were etched across the top of the ironwork.

ULTIMA FORSAN. The end is closer than you think.

They sent a shiver down Lucie’s spine. She put her hand to her waist, where her weapons belt rested. Bridget had left seraph blades, belts, and steles in the carriage for them, and they had Marked themselves carefully with various runes—Strength, Stealth, Night Vision. One never could be too careful in a possibly haunted place.

Lucie only wished they had been able to change into gear. They were still wearing their dresses from the picnic, torn and bloodstained.

“There is disrepair and then there’s disaster,” Lucie said, reaching for her stele. “How can Grace bear to live here?”

“I suppose she finds other things to make her happy,” Cordelia said in a subdued voice as Lucie scratched an Open rune on the gates and they swung open, scattering a powder of red rust.

They stepped forward onto the broken stones and overgrowth of what had once been a gorgeous avenue lined with potted cypress and cedar trees. The rot of dying cedar filled the air now and tickled the back of Lucie’s throat. The trees overhead had grown into each other, their branches tangling, bending, and snapping. Dead branches littered the ground.

As they came out from the avenue and into the broad circular drive in front of the house, Lucie was struck by the destroyed beauty of the manor. A double set of stairs, wonderfully constructed, led up to a broad entryway: blackened vines twisted their way around fluted columns. If she cast her gaze up she could see the balconies her mother had spoken of—but they had been taken over by clusters of thorns.

“Like Sleeping Beauty’s castle,” Lucie murmured.