She shivered her way out of bed and into her dressing gown. Cortana hung by its gilded hooks on the wall of her room, the scabbard gleaming, the hilt like a wand of gold. She slipped past it on her way into the bathroom, trying to concentrate on how pleasant it was to be able to wash her face in hot water instead of needing to break through a layer of ice in the washstand jug on her night table—and not on the fact that her sword seemed to be staring at her, posing a question.

After they’d left the sailcloth factory the previous day, it had been decided that there was no way around it: the adults would need to be told about the factory, the bloody cloak. Concealing the information would only interfere with the investigation into the murders. Cordelia had pled a headache, hoping to simply return home and not bother the others, but desperate for some time alone to think about Cortana. It had worked only somewhat. James had insisted on returning with her to Curzon Street, where he had gone straight to Risa for headache remedies. Risa had fussed over Cordelia half the evening until she hid under the covers of her bed and pretended to be asleep.

Now, having pinned her hair into a twist, she slipped a burgundy wool dress over her chemise and petticoats and took Cortana down from the wall. Sliding it from its scabbard, she gazed at the weapon. It bore a pattern of leaves and runes on the hilt—Cortana was unusual in having no runes upon its blade, only words: I am Cortana, of the same steel and temper as Joyeuse and Durendal.

She lifted the blade, half expecting another shot of pain through her arm. She spun, slicing at the air—spun again, a double feint, step back, blade raised.

There was no pain this time. But there was an odd sensation, a feeling of wrongness. She was used to Cortana fitting perfectly in her hand, as if shaped to be hers. She had always felt a whispered communion with the sword, especially when heading into a fight, as if they were telling each other that they would win together.

She felt only silence now. Dispirited, she hung the sword back on the wall. “Ugh,” she muttered to herself, lacing up her low boots. “It’s a sword, not a pet hedgehog. Have sense.”

After making her way downstairs, she found the dining room empty. She went out into the hall, where she saw Risa carrying a tray with a silver coffee service on it and looking extremely put-upon.

“All your friends are in the drawing room, and the circus boy spent the night sleeping on the piano bench,” she said, in Persian. “Really, Layla, this is most improper.”