But she was shaking her head. “I have been wanting to apologize to you. You have nothing to be sorry for. You could not have saved my father. By awful luck, you were the last one to see him, and he was—oh, the shame of him demanding money from you.” There was a cold passion of anger in her voice. She shook her head, her hair straining against the few pins still confining it. “Alastair set me right, of all people. You did what you should have, James.”

“There’s more,” he said, forcing the words past his dry throat. “More that I have to tell you. I do not know if you will still feel as kindly toward me when I am done.”

He saw her flinch, saw her steel herself. It was a reminder of how much her childhood must have taught her to brace for bad news. “Tell me.”

In a way, it was easier to tell her than it had been to explain himself to the others. Daisy already knew of his screaming awakenings from nightmare, of the open window in his bedroom, the things he saw when he dreamed. Daisy, like him, had met Belial. It was one thing to imagine you could face down a Prince of Hell. It was another entirely to stand near one, to feel the freezing blast of their hatred, their evil, their power.

He forced himself through the last of it—explaining his experiment, the ropes, the mark on the sill—as she stared at him, her expression very still.

“I see,” she said, when he was done, “that I should not have left you alone last night.”

His hair was in his eyes; he raised a shaking hand to push it back. “The worst of it is, I know precious little more now than I did then. And we may need to hire another maid to replace Effie.”

“And what do the others say?” she asked.

“They refuse to believe it—any of it,” he said. “They may think the shock of what happened with your father has turned my brain.” His breath caught. “Daisy. The hate I have felt, every time I have dreamed, I cannot but imagine it is anything but Belial’s hate. And your father—” His breath caught. “If you want nothing to do with this, with me, I would never blame you.”

“James.” She took hold of his wrist; the small gesture went through him like an electric shock. Her face was set, determined. “Come with me.”

He let her pull him down the hall, into the drawing room, where the others had congregated. Matthew was seated on the back of the sofa; he turned toward James as he entered the room, his eyes dark with worry.

Anna’s blue gaze flicked to Cordelia. “Did you tell her?”