James tossed the pen onto the table. “It was just a theory. But that doesn’t mean that Belial isn’t working his will through me while I sleep. Think of what Filomena’s ghost said to Cordelia, that she had wounded Belial and should have been able to help her. Perhaps because she knew her murderer was also one of Hell’s princes? Maybe even the same one?”

“We can’t know that’s what she meant,” said Thomas. “And if Belial is influencing you—you know none of this would be your fault, don’t you?”

They were all silent for a moment. James took a deep breath. “Would you feel that way?” he said. “If you were me?”

“Well, you can hardly never sleep again,” said Christopher. “Studies have shown that is quite unsafe.”

“Be reasonable,” said Anna. “How would you come and go in the middle of the night, knocking about and bumping into things because you’re not even awake, and not raise—not raise the whole house?”

“I’m not sure it’s the same as sleepwalking,” James said. “Maybe I wouldn’t be bumping into things. Maybe I’m more aware than that and the dreams are a kind of memory of what I’ve done. And—” His throat felt desert-dry. “And the night Elias died, when I dreamed—it was different from the others. He seemed to see me. He recognized me.”

Anna, who had been pacing, stopped in her tracks. “He said your name?”

“No,” James had to admit. “I saw recognition spark in his eyes—he said something, I think it was, ‘It’s you.’ But he didn’t say my name.”

His friends exchanged worried glances. “I see why you didn’t want Cordelia here,” Anna said finally. “To tell her you think you were responsible for the death of her father—”

“Though you weren’t, James,” Lucie put in.

“I do want her here, actually,” James said. “I thought she and Matthew would be back by now. I can’t keep this from her. A conspiracy of silence like that—” He shook his head. “No. If she despises me after, then I will need you to be there for her. Her friends.”

“She will not,” Anna began, “despise you, James—”

As if on cue, they all heard the sound of a motorcar coming to a stop in front of the house. His friends’ voices rose in a murmur behind James as he went to open the front door.

He was in shirtsleeves, and the cold air outside cut sharply through the cotton. It was not snowing, but a fog had come in with the setting sun, softening the edges of the city, making the motorcar look like a faerie carriage drawn by invisible horses.