Lucie had only just gone when Cordelia’s door opened again, and Alastair came in; he looked immensely tired, fine lines drawing down the corners of his mouth and eyes. Some of the black dye had faded out of his hair, and there were still bits of blond in it, incongruous among the darker strands. “Mâmân is finally asleep,” he said, sitting down on the edge of her bed. “She kept weeping over and over to Risa about how this child will never know its father. I say: lucky child.”

Another Cordelia, at another time, might have scolded him for saying such a thing. Instead she sat upright against the pillows and reached out to pat his cheek. It was a little rough—she struggled to remember when Alastair had started shaving. Had her father taught him how to do it? How to tie a tie, put on cuff links? If he had, she couldn’t recall. “Alastair joon,” she said. “The child will be lucky, but not because our father is dead. Because it will have you for a brother.”

Alastair turned his face into her palm, gripping her wrist with one hand. “I can’t mourn,” he said in a choked voice. “I cannot mourn my own father. What does that say about me?”

“That love is complicated,” said Cordelia. “That it lies beside anger and hatred, because only those we truly love can truly disappoint us.”

“Did he say anything to you last night?” Alastair said and, when she widened her eyes, added gruffly, “He died in Shepherd Market, a few blocks from Curzon Street. It wasn’t a great leap to assume he was visiting your house.”

“He didn’t say anything to me,” said Cordelia. Alastair had let go of her wrist; she laced her fingers together thoughtfully. “He spoke to James. Asked him for money.”

“How much money?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

“Bloody hell,” said Alastair. “I hope James sent him packing with a flea in his ear.”

“You don’t think he should have given him any money?” said Cordelia, though she knew the answer. “He said it was for Cirenworth.”

“Well, it wasn’t,” said Alastair. “Our mother’s money paid for Cirenworth. Our father, on the other hand, owed money at bars and gaming hells all over London—he has for years. It simply would have gone to paying down those debts. Good for James, which are words I never thought I would speak during my lifetime.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t as understanding,” Cordelia admitted. “I snapped at him about sending Father out in the snow, though I knew it wasn’t at all his fault. What does that say about me?”

“That grief makes us mad,” said Alastair quietly. “James will understand that. No one is expected to be on their best behavior the day their father dies.”

“It’s not so simple,” Cordelia whispered. “Something is wrong with Cortana.”