“Fortunately, I am an expert at dream-magic,” said Magnus. “I will accompany you—I would do it myself, but I do not have your power. I can pass through with you, but I cannot open the door.”

Cordelia felt a prick of unease. Magnus spoke matter-of-factly, but he had not been with them in Belphegor’s realm, had not made the terrifying journey there and back. “If James is going to do this, I would like to remain in the room with him, with Cortana drawn,” she said. “In case we catch Belial’s attention somehow, or the attention of some other unpleasant individual.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Magnus. “One cannot be too careful, and Belial fears Cortana as he fears little else.” He swirled his port, watching it coat the sides of the glass. “The great powers, the archangels and the Princes of Hell, are playing their own game of chess. They have their own alliances and enmities. Azazel and Asmodeus have worked together, as have Belial and Leviathan, while Belphegor hates his brethren. But all that could change should a new power emerge.” He shrugged. “Mortals cannot see the greater movements of the game, the strategy or goals. But that does not mean one need be a pawn on the board.”

“Shah mat,” said Cordelia.

Magnus dropped a wink in her direction. “That is correct,” he said, rising to his feet. “Alas, I must leave you, or at least, encourage you to leave me. I must be here when Hypatia returns, and you lot must be absent. She won’t like it that I let you into the caravan.” He smiled. “It’s always better to respect a lady’s personal space. James, Cordelia, I’ll meet you at Curzon Street at midnight. Now off you all go—no more shopping, dallying, or skulking about. The Shadow Market’s a dangerous place, especially after moonrise.”

20 EQUAL TEMPER

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

By the time they reached the carriages waiting for them outside the Market, Matthew had produced his refilled flask from inside his coat and was drinking steadily. He stumbled getting up into the carriage and refused James’s offer of help, batting his hand away before collapsing onto the velvet seat and breaking into a rousing chorus of “I Could Love You in a Steam Heat Flat.”

Cordelia and Lucie exchanged a worried look before clambering into their own carriage. Balios started off through the thinly powdered snow, and they rattled away from the Market. Outside the windows, London had been transformed into a winter fantasia, fat flakes of snow settling prettily on bare tree branches and dancing in the light cast by the gas lamps. Candles flickered in the windows of St. Saviour’s Church, and the distant hum of trains was muffled and almost pleasant.