Enoch, she thought. Do you know if Filomena di Angelo had a Strength rune?

Silent Brothers couldn’t look surprised. Still, Cordelia sensed a sort of startlement radiating from Enoch. He said, I do not know, but her body is in Idris, with Brother Shadrach. I will ask him to examine her, if this is important.

It is very important, she thought.

Enoch nodded almost imperceptibly. The Consul will be here soon. Do you wish to remain, and to receive her?

Sona passed a hand across her eyes. “Honestly, I cannot bear it,” she said. “All I wish is to go home, and to have my children with me—” She broke off, smiling weakly. “My apologies, of course, Layla. You have your own home.”

“James won’t mind if I stay with you tonight, Mâmân,” said Cordelia. “Will you, James?” She glanced over at James, wondering if the traces of their argument would show in his eyes. But he was expressionless, the Mask firmly in place.

“Of course not. Whatever will make you comfortable, Mrs. Carstairs,” said James. “I will have Risa come to you, as well, and bring any of Cordelia’s things that she wishes.”

“There is only one thing I want,” Cordelia said. “I just want to see Lucie. Please—please let her know.”

When James left the Silent City, he did not immediately return home. He had planned to flag down a hansom cab, but something about the idea of returning to Curzon Street without Cordelia was darkly painful. He could not help but feel he had failed her.

He found himself wandering the snowy aisles between the headstones of Highgate Cemetery, recalling the last time he had been here—when he had made his way to Belial’s stolen realm with the help of Matthew and Cordelia. He had nearly died among these mausoleums, these leaning trees and solemn stone angels. Even now he sometimes wondered how he had survived, but one thing he knew without a doubt: Cordelia had saved his life.

He should have told her the truth. He struck savagely at a low branch above his head, showering himself with silvery particles of snow. Snow and ice had obscured the faces of most of the headstones, leaving only the occasional word visible: DEARLY, and CHERISHED, and LOST.

It was bad enough that he and Cordelia had exchanged sharp words. It was far worse that he hadn’t found a way to tell her, somehow: As I dreamed of your father’s death, he looked at me. He seemed to recognize me, my dream-self. He knew who I was.

I fear there was a reason for it. I am afraid these dreams are more than just dreams. More, even, than visions.