She had said she did not want the details, and he had let himself hold back the truth. But now he could think of nothing else. His memory of Elias, his face twisting with surprise and fear, the recognition in his eyes, sent James pacing through the snow, kicking up white clouds with his boots. In his mind, he pleaded with Cordelia:

My nightmares come only on the nights that there are killings. When I awake, my window is open, as if I unlocked it in my sleep and threw it wide. And why? So someone could come in? So I myself could get out?

There were facts that argued against the idea. Was he moving barefoot through the streets of London, in his nightclothes? If so, he would surely have frostbite. Was he washing the blood from his hands when he came home? How was that possible, without his mind being even a little aware of it? And Filomena had not seemed to recognize him as her killer—but they had found that bloody cloak in the factory; if her attacker had been wearing it, his face might have been hidden by the hood.

What if it is me, Daisy? What if Belial is somehow controlling me, making me into a murderer, bloodying my hands?

But Belial is gone, James. Cordelia’s voice, that voice that made him want to tell her everything, that voice that promised no judgment, only kindness. For a century at least, Jem said.

James stopped, leaned against the wall of a marble mausoleum, decorated with carvings of Egyptian sarcophagi. He put his face in his hands. He is a Prince of Hell. Who knows what he can do? I cannot live my life wondering, nor can I let myself be free if I am some kind of threat. I need to know.

I must know.

Grace gazed out the window of her small room at the Bridgestocks’ town house. She had waited many hours for everyone in the house to be gone. The Inquisitor had gone to the Institute for a meeting; Ariadne and her mother were out paying calls. They had invited Grace to come with them, but she had declined, as she always did. She did not care for company and loathed meals with the Bridgestocks, where the four of them made strained conversation. She could rarely wait to get to her room, where her books waited for her—books on magic, on necromancy and science.

Her room was small but prettily furnished. There was even a little view through the window: the tops of the trees in Cavendish Square, swaying bare and black against the gray sky. She had already made sure the door was locked; she had put on a plain white dress and let her hair down. Best she look as innocent as possible.