James closed his eyes. Against the back of his eyelids, he could see the city take shape—the minarets flung darkly against a blue sky, the silver river. Cordelia’s voice, low and familiar, rose above the clamor of his nightmare. He followed it out of the darkness, like Theseus following the length of thread out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth.

And it was not the first time. Her voice had lifted him out of fever, once, had been his light in shadows.…

A sharp pain spiked through his temples. He blinked his eyes open: he was firmly back in the present, his friends all looking at him worriedly. Cordelia had already moved away from him, leaving behind the lingering scent of jasmine. He could still feel where her fingers had rested against his shoulder.

“I’m all right,” he said. He stood up straight; there were lines across his palms where the edge of the table had cut into his skin. His head ached abominably.

“You dreamed of Filomena’s death?” said Anna, perching on the arm of a chair. “And this has nothing to do with your visions of the shadow realm?”

“I did dream of her death. Pounceby’s, too. But they’re not dreams of a different world,” James said, drawing out his stele. An iratze would fix his headache, at least. “I dream of London. The details are real. The only death I didn’t see was Amos Gladstone’s, and I still had a nightmare that night, a sort of vision of blood.”

“The Enclave is fairly certain that he was also murdered,” said Thomas. “His throat was slashed roughly—they had assumed by a demon talon, but it could have been someone with a serrated blade.”

“Perhaps the murderer was still working out his technique,” said Matthew. “I suppose even killers have to practice.”

“He certainly seemed to be taking more pleasure from killing Filomena,” said James. Having sketched a quick healing rune on his wrist, he put his stele back in his pocket. “It was sickening.”

Lucie appeared in the doorway, giving them a start. She was very pale. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I stayed behind—”

“Lucie!” Cordelia exclaimed, hurrying over to her friend. “Are you all right?”

Lucie rubbed at her eyes, the same gesture she’d once made as a tired little girl. “I saw a ghost,” she said, without preamble.

“Doesn’t that happen rather often?” said Matthew. Cordelia shot him a quelling look. “Sorry—I just didn’t think it was too out of the ordinary.”

“This one was,” said Lucie. “He told me that—that Filomena’s ghost is already risen, and where she might be found. He seemed to think she might know who killed her.”

“Odd that I didn’t see him,” said James. He could usually see ghosts, though he had long harbored the suspicion that Lucie saw more of them. She would never admit it, though.