“Not like that. Not told in a way that’s—that’s so cruel.”

“The truth is better than lies! However cruel it may be, it is crueler still for him not to know—everyone knew when it happened, and no one told him, and even now he’s been allowed to believe she’s still alive all this time—”

“Grace, there are ways of telling the truth,” Lucie protested, glancing back and forth to make sure no one was approaching. “You didn’t have to throw it in his face. You’ve made him hate the Blackthorns even more; how could you think he’ll still want to help Jesse?”

Grace’s lips trembled. She pressed them together. “Betrayal and pain are facts of life. He doesn’t get to escape them just because he’s a warlock.”

Lucie knew that Grace had suffered, that Tatiana had likely made her childhood nearly unbearable. But had she entirely forgotten what people were like? Had she never known?

“I shall never understand my brother,” Lucie said, without thinking. “Why on earth does he love you?”

Grace looked as if Lucie had slapped her. She seemed about to lash out—then turned without a word and raced down the corridor.

After an astonished pause, Lucie gave chase, following Grace into the main room of the salon. It was crowded now, the floor seething with partygoers: she caught a glimpse of a blond head as Grace pushed past a group of werewolves. A moment later, she’d vanished.

Lucie stared glumly at a juggling phouka. She’d argued with Jesse, she hadn’t gotten a whit of information from Malcolm but merely angered him, and she’d upset Grace. And Jesse was fading—their time was running out. She needed to do more, know more. Perhaps if she went back in to talk to Malcolm on her own—

“Lucie?”

Lucie turned in surprise. Behind her was none other than Ariadne Bridgestock, her emerald silk dress catching the light from the wall sconces. Ariadne put a finger to her lips. “Come with me,” she said in a low voice, gesturing for Lucie to follow her.

They made their way down another corridor, this one papered in damask. Ariadne paused before a wooden door and gave it a quick knock. A plaque on the door proclaimed it the Whispering Room.

Ariadne stepped back to usher Lucie into the room and followed her inside, closing the door carefully behind them. It was rather dizzying, the number of rooms there were in the Hell Ruelle. This one was lined with bookshelves, scattered with comfortable-looking armchairs and settees. A fire, purple and sweet-smelling, burned in the grate.