It reminded James of their wedding day. He leaned back against the post to which the directory had been nailed, heedless of the snow that tumbled lightly down the back of his collar. He had been trying not to think of the night before—it felt far away and so close, all at the same time. He had been in Hell, thinking of Belial, and yet in the middle of it all there had been that space with Cordelia—a space of quiet and tumult, utterly intense yet somehow peaceful. The memory of her perfume, smoke and jasmine, heated his blood, making the cold of the snow a relief.

Through the white fall of it, he saw Cordelia go up to Matthew. He wasn’t sure whether they could see him: he was likely a shadow among shadows, half-concealed by snow.

Cordelia laid her hand over Matthew’s and leaned in to say something to him. The sight sent a jolt through James, as if his hand had brushed a live wire. He supposed Matthew had taken her for a drive the day before to cheer her up—and many times, when James had been getting the Curzon Street house prepared, Matthew had gone around to keep Cordelia company—but he had not thought Cordelia and Matthew were such good friends as to have secrets. Yet everything in the way they leaned into each other bespoke confidences.

Cordelia stroked Matthew’s hand gently and walked away; James could hear her inquiring about the adamas from a satyr manning a stall that sold faerie fruit. A snowy owl perched atop a bowl of white peaches hooted gently at her, and she smiled.

Pulling the wine bottle out of his coat, Matthew trod a meandering path toward James, squinting at him through the snow. “So it is you,” he said, as he drew closer. “If you keep standing about letting the snow fall on you, you’ll wind up as the ice sculpture at the Wentworths’ next party.”

“Seems a relaxing existence,” James said, still looking at Cordelia. “Where’s Lucie? Weren’t she and Cordelia together?”

“Went off to find Christopher, apparently,” said Matthew. “No explanation why. Maybe she remembered something.”

“She’s been acting peculiar lately,” said James. “Grace even asked me about her—”

He broke off, but it was too late. Matthew’s eyes, which usually grew wider and more liquid green as he drank, had narrowed. “When did you see Grace?”

James knew he could say at the Wentworths’ party and put an end to the questioning. But it would feel like lying to Matthew. “Yesterday. When you and Daisy were out driving.”

Matthew stared. There was something alarming in his total stillness—despite his tousled hair, his bright waistcoat, the bottle in his hand.

“She came to Curzon Street,” said James. “She—”