“I’ll catch you up,” Lucie called as James led the others toward the nearly hidden entrance to the Sanctuary—the one chamber in the Institute where Downworlders could comfortably come and go, since it was without wards against them. It was often used as a meeting room, and in a pinch, a holding cell for troublemakers, since there was another set of doors inside that kept it secure from the rest of the Institute. Cordelia glanced back worriedly, but Lucie made a gesture that she hoped communicated Don’t fret. I’ll be there in a moment.

She bent down to pick up James’s gloves, just to seem as if she was doing something; by the time she straightened, the others had disappeared through the Sanctuary door. She edged around the side of the Institute, just out of sight of the front steps. Gazing directly at an odd patch of shadow, between two bare trees, she said, “All right. You might as well show yourself again.”

Slowly, the ghost began to coalesce out of shadows and air, darkening to an appearance of solidity. She had seen him in the courtyard first, just past James’s shoulder—for a moment she had thought he was Jesse, and nearly panicked.

But Jesse could not appear during the day. Most ghosts took no notice of sunrise or sunset, though, and this one was no exception. He did appear to be a young man, but looked nothing like Jesse: he was sandy-haired and short, with a sharp, pointed face. He wore the clothing of the Regency era—breeches and boots and a wide cravat, like a portrait of Mr. Darcy. There was a desperate look about him as he drifted a little closer to her, twisting his insubstantial top hat between his hands. “Miss Herondale,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “I have heard that you listen to the dead. That you can help us.”

There was a rattling sound: more carriages, arriving in the courtyard. Lucie shook her head slowly. “I can see and hear the dead,” she said. “But I do not know what I could do to help you. I don’t think I’ve ever been very helpful in the past.”

The ghost’s eyes were entirely colorless. He blinked at her. “That is not what I’ve heard.”

“Well,” said Lucie, “I cannot help what you’ve heard.” She started to move away. “I ought to go inside.”

The ghost held up a transparent hand. “I can tell you that the ghost of the young lady whose body lies in the courtyard has already awakened,” he said. “She is filled with the grief and terror of the newly dead.”

Lucie sucked in a breath. Not all the dead became ghosts, of course. Only those who had unfinished business in the land of the living. “Filomena? She—she didn’t pass on?”