“… and there’s a combined epicyclic gear and clutch mechanism mounted on the crankshaft,” Matthew went on. Cordelia distantly noted that the car’s slender wheels with their matching red spokes seemed barely attached to the rest of it; that its padded leather seat was only just wide enough for two. The folded-down canopy behind it was not likely to provide much in the way of coverage if it rained, and the whole contraption looked flimsy enough to blow away in a strong wind.

“This is all very nice,” she said finally, pushing her darker thoughts away again, “but I can’t help noticing that there is no roof on this car. We’re both likely to be frozen stiff.”

“Not to worry,” Matthew said, rummaging behind the seat and producing a pair of magnificent fur-lined traveling rugs. He was dressed immaculately in a smart, also fur-lined leather duster coat and boots polished to a high shine. He looked remarkably awake, considering.

“Does anyone know where we’re going?” she asked, taking hold of his extended hand and climbing up into the car.

“I didn’t tell anyone where,” Matthew said, “but I let Thomas know that we were going for a drive. We’ll be back in time to meet the others at Curzon Street this evening.”

The others, Cordelia thought. Which included James. She pushed the thought of him away determinedly as she settled herself under the traveling rug. Glancing back at Cornwall Gardens, her eyes caught a flicker of movement. Alastair stood at an upper window, looking down at her; she raised a gloved hand to him tentatively—the last thing she could bear at the moment was an altercation between Matthew and her brother—and he nodded, flicking the curtain back into place.

“What was that?” Matthew asked.

“Alastair,” said Cordelia. “Just—waving goodbye.”

Matthew cranked the starting handle, and Cordelia settled gratefully back as the Ford roared to life. She couldn’t help thinking, as they pulled out onto the street, how much her father would have loved to see the car.

James blinked his eyes open; his room was full of sunlight. If he had dreamed, he did not remember it: his mind was blissfully free of the recollection of screams, of darkness, of hatred and the flashing of a knife. He glanced down: he was still in his clothes, wrinkled after a night’s sleep. It was icy cold.

He looked around, shivering; the window was cracked open several inches.

Swearing, James sat bolt upright. The ropes lay in pieces around him, the knife beside his hand. Somehow, during the night, he had cut himself free.

He rolled out of bed and stalked to the window. He reached up to slide it closed—perhaps it was time to nail the thing shut—and paused.

In the ice on the windowsill had been traced an odd mark. He stood for a moment, studying it. Who had scratched it there?