Thomas drew the hood of his gear jacket up, covering his light brown hair. “You, too, Matthew. Be careful.”

Matthew looked puzzled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Thomas sighed. Lucie could not help wondering if he, too, had noticed what she had noticed about Matthew. What everyone else seemed determined not to see or address. “Just take care of yourself.”

Outside, they all scattered to their respective carriages. All save Lucie. “I’ll just be a moment, Daisy,” she called to Cordelia, then darted to Christopher’s carriage and yanked open the door.

“What on earth—?” He gazed at her through his spectacles. “Is something wrong, Luce?”

“No!” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “You were meant to have more thorn-apple for me—don’t you remember?”

“Oh. Yes,” Christopher said, digging in his pocket for a small parcel. “But Henry is getting more suspicious about why you’re asking for all these things.”

Lucie took the packet of dried flower heads, holding it delicately by the corners, and tucked it into her skirt pocket.

“It’s really nothing,” she said. “I’m only working on a beauty potion—but you can imagine that my brother would give me no peace if he found out.”

“You should have said so,” Christopher said, brightening. “Henry has some sperm whale oil. It’s supposed to be good for your complexion if you put it on your face.”

“No, thank you,” Lucie said with a shudder. “I think this thorn-apple will do the trick.”

“Just be careful with it,” Christopher said, as she stepped back from the carriage. “It’s very poisonous. Don’t swallow any of it, or drink it, or anything like that.”

Lucie gave him a reassuring smile. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t dream of making a beauty potion either, but even Christopher—who, among all the boys in the world, was surely one of the best and kindest—found it an easy enough excuse to believe. Gentlemen, Lucie thought, hurrying to catch up with Cordelia.

It was one of those days when nothing seemed to be going right in the training room.

Cordelia had caught a ride to the Institute with Lucie. Usually she found her best friend an excellent sparring partner. But neither of them seemed to be able to concentrate properly today. They had ducked where they should have dodged, missed their targets when knife throwing, and Cordelia had pivoted where she should have lunged, bruising her hip against a post. Worse, she had fumbled Cortana twice, letting it slip out of her hands in a way that had startled and alarmed her.

“Today is just not our day, I’m afraid,” said Lucie breathlessly, her hands splayed in the middle of her back. “I suppose we can’t help being distracted.”

“Is it awful if I wasn’t thinking about the murders at all?” said Cordelia.