The others had arrived, bringing with them the comfort of witchlight. Anna prodded the rags with her boot, then knelt to look more closely, using the tip of her finger to lift a corner of the fabric. Her face tightened. “This is the shawl Filomena was wearing when she left my flat.”

Thomas speared another dark piece of clothing with a dagger, holding it aloft. “And this is someone’s cloak. Stained with blood—”

Lucie held her hand out. “Could I see the shawl—please?”

Anna handed it to her. The shawl was of a pale cashmere, torn and ragged now. James stood back as Lucie bunched the fabric up in her hand, her lips moving, though she was making no sound. Cordelia had thought she knew all Lucie’s moods, but she had not seen her like this—so intent, so inward in her concentration.

Something glimmered in the air. Lucie looked up, and in her eyes Cordelia could see a reflection of the growing light, as if two lamps glowed within her pupils. “Filomena?” Lucie said. “Filomena, is that you?”

The shimmer resolved itself, like a sketch being filled in around the edges, taking form and shape. A long yellow dress, a blood-splattered white shoe on a slender foot. Long dark hair, catching the faint breeze, swaying like black sailcloth. The ghost of a girl, hovering above them, wrapped in the translucent ghost of a shawl.

Filomena di Angelo.

“Mi sono persa. Ho tanto freddo,” the ghost whispered, her voice desolate. Oh, I am lost. And so cold.

Cordelia glanced around at the others’ puzzled faces; it seemed she was the only one who spoke Italian. “You are among friends, Filomena,” she said gently.

“I drifted in shadow,” said the ghost-girl, in English. “Now you have called my name. Why?”

“To secure justice,” said Lucie. “You should not have died. Who did this to you?”

Filomena gazed down at them. Cordelia felt the hairs along the back of her neck rise. She had never thought closely about how eerie it must be for Lucie, for James, to be able to see the dead. They were not simply insubstantial people. They were very alien indeed. Filomena’s eyes, which had been so dark, were entirely white now—no iris at all, only two single black pinpoints of pupils. “He came out of the shadows. There was a blade in his hand. I fought him. I cut him. He bled. Red blood, like a man. But his eyes…” Filomena’s mouth twisted, elongating strangely. “They were filled with hate. Such hate.”

Cordelia glanced at James. I felt such hate. It did not seem like a human hate.

“His blood is here,” Filomena whispered. Her gaze had fallen on Thomas. “I spilled it, but not enough. I was not strong enough. He took from me. My strength, my life.” Dark hair drifted across Filomena’s face. “I could not withstand him.”