“She can forgive him regardless,” said Jesse. “My father died before I was born. I loved him nonetheless. And forgave him, even, for leaving me. One can reach peace on one’s own, though it is difficult—but Cordelia has you. That will make it easier.” Seeing her worried look, Jesse held his arm out. “Come here,” he said, and Lucie clambered onto the bed and curled up against his side.

As he had when they had danced, he felt solid. She could feel the fabric of his shirt, even, see a tiny cluster of freckles on the side of his neck.

He touched her hair again, smoothing his hand down the strands. “I feel lucky to see you like this,” he said, his voice low. “With your hair loose. As if I were your husband.”

She felt herself blush. “It’s such dull hair. Just brown, not an interesting color like Grace’s, or—”

“It’s not ‘just brown,’ ” he said. “It glows like polished wood, and it has all sorts of colors in it—bits of gold where the sun’s touched it, and strands of chocolate and caramel and walnut.”

She sat up, reaching for her hairbrush where it lay on the nightstand. “What if I were to command you,” she said, “to brush out my hair? Jessamine does it sometimes—”

His smile was long and lazy. “I am yours to command.”

She handed him the brush and turned around, dangling her legs off the end of the bed. She felt him move behind her, kneeling, his hand lifting the heavy coil of her brown hair to loosen it over her shoulders.

“Long ago,” he said in a low voice, “when Grace first came to us, I used to brush her hair out at night. My mother had no interest in doing it, and otherwise it would tangle and snarl, and Grace would cry.”

Lucie leaned back as the heavy brush slid through her hair, followed by his fingers. It felt decadent, luxurious to be touched like this. His hand grazed the nape of her neck, sending shivers up her spine. Not at all like when Jessamine did it.

“Grace must have been just a child when she first came to you,” she said.

“She was a slip of a thing. Terrified. Remembered almost nothing about her parents. I think, if my mother had loved her, Grace would have devoted herself entirely to my mother’s wishes and goals. But—” She sensed him shaking his head. “I was all Grace had. Sometimes I think that’s why I came back as I did. I do not remember death itself, but I do remember waking out of it. I had heard Grace crying in her sleep and knew I must go to her. I have always been all she has. It is why I cannot bear to tell her—”