This was not news to Lucie. She recalled the first time Jesse had told her about his death, and what had happened after. I know she brought a warlock into the room in the hours after I died, to preserve and to safeguard my physical body. My soul was cut free to wander between the real world and the spirit realm.

It had not occurred to her, though, that Malcolm would be aware of it, or know which warlock Tatiana had hired. And the warlock who had preserved Jesse, who had arranged for him to remain in this half-alive state—well, who better to know how to bring him back?

“Which warlock?” she demanded. “Do you know?”

Malcolm templed his fingers. “We had an agreement,” he said. “Tell me what you know of Annabel. Then we will discuss what I know, and not before.”

Grace hesitated.

“If what you need to tell me is that Annabel wishes to hear nothing from me, then say it,” said Malcolm. His voice was calm, but his face was strained, his fingertips pressed so hard together they had gone white. “You think I have not already thought of that, resigned myself to it? Hope is a prison, truth the key that unlocks it. Tell me.”

Grace was breathing very fast, as if she had been running up a hill. “You wanted to know what news I have from my mother, from the Adamant Citadel?” she said to Malcolm. “Well, here it is: she is dead. Annabel Blackthorn is dead. She was never an Iron Sister.”

Malcolm flinched back in his chair, as if he’d been shot. It was very clear he had been braced to hear one thing—that Annabel wanted nothing to do with him—and entirely unprepared for this. “What did you say?”

“She never became an Iron Sister,” Grace repeated. “That was a lie you were told, to let you believe she still lived, to make you think she didn’t want to be with you. Nearly a hundred years ago, the Clave tortured her until she was nearly mad—they planned to ship her to the Citadel to rave out her remaining days. But her family murdered her before she ever arrived there. They murdered her because she loved you.”