“Just promise you’ll call out, if you need us,” Matthew said. He exchanged a long look with James. It said all the things Matthew would never say in front of all these people, no matter how he cared for them: it said that he loved James, that he would be here all night, if James needed him, that he believed in James as he believed in himself.

“So it’s decided,” said Anna. “We will wait down here tonight and make sure James never leaves his room; Cordelia will stand guard upstairs. And I will raid the larder, since we are likely to get hungry. An army marches on its stomach, as the saying goes.”

“So how are we planning to stay awake all night?” Thomas inquired.

“I could read to you all from The Beautiful Cordelia,” Lucie suggested. “I have some pages in my handbag. One never knows when inspiration may strike.”

“Oh Lord,” said Matthew, reaching for his flask. “In that case, I’ll be needing brandy. What was it Lord Byron said? ‘Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.’ ” He raised the flask in a salute. “Lucie, begin. As the demons of Hell are battled upstairs, so we shall battle the demons of romantic prose in the drawing room.”

James retired to his room with Thomas, who helped nail the window shut before heading back downstairs to play cards. Cordelia, after visiting her own room to change into a comfortable tea gown, joined James, who locked the connecting door firmly after her and moved a chair in front of it for good measure.

Then he began to get undressed.

Cordelia supposed she should have expected this. The whole idea was that James would go to bed, after all, and he couldn’t be expected to sleep with his shoes and jacket on. She pulled a chair up beside the bed and settled herself on it, Cortana across her lap.

“Your drive today,” he said, undoing his cuff links. His shirt sprang apart at the wrists, revealing the strong line of his forearms. “Did it lift your spirits?”

“Yes,” she said. “There’s a fanciful story of a barrow in the Berkshire Downs where if you leave a coin, Wayland the Smith will mend your sword. I brought Cortana there, and it does seem to be sitting easier in my hand now.”

She wanted to tell him the rest—of Wayland the Smith, of her swearing fealty as a paladin. She had not told Matthew. It was too new, then, and there was too much wonder in it. And now, she found, she could not tell James, either; it was too much, too strange a tale for tonight. If all went well, she would tell him tomorrow.