Thomas turned down the side street where Pounceby’s body had been found. It was snowbound, quiet, no hint that anything dreadful had happened here. Only a sense of tension in the air—a prickle at the back of Thomas’s neck, as if he were being watched—

A footfall crunched on packed snow. Thomas tensed and spun around, landing in a defensive stance.

There, in the shadow of an awning, a dark figure froze, face obscured by a hood. For a moment neither moved—and then the stranger bolted. He was fast—faster than Thomas expected. Even as Thomas broke into a run, the stranger was already putting distance between the two of them. Thomas sped up as the figure cut nimbly into an alley.

Swearing, Thomas ducked under a railing; he thundered into the alley, but the figure had already vanished around a distant corner. Thomas jogged to the alley’s end, already knowing what he would see. Nothing. His pursuer had vanished, his footprints indistinguishable from dozens of others in the much-trodden snow.

14 THE FLAMING FORGE

Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Village Blacksmith”

Cordelia was waiting early the next morning, when Matthew arrived in his shiny Ford Model A. It was quite cold; despite her heavy coat and wool dress, the wind seemed to cut through to her skin. Cortana was strapped across her back; she had not glamoured herself to be invisible to mundanes, but she had glamoured the blade.

She had slipped out before breakfast, leaving a note for her mother saying that she had to return to James and Curzon Street. Her mother would understand that; demands of home and hearth were paramount for Sona. As for Alastair, Cordelia had left him a separate note, repeating firmly that he was welcome at her house and begging him to visit whenever he wanted. She was worried about him; she could tell from signs around the house that he had been up all night.

Thinking about their father, she assumed. She felt a little unreal as Matthew gave her a tour around the little car, absently admiring its gleaming red paintwork and shiny brass rails while he talked excitedly about the finer points of its engine, including something called a crank chamber. Though she tried to stop them, every once in a while pain-dark thoughts would intrude:

My father is dead. My father is dead. This is the first morning of my life when I will wake up knowing he is gone.