He always looked the same. He never gained an inch in height, or his hair an inch in length. He was always reassuringly dressed in the same black trousers and white shirt. His eyes were always deep and green, like verdigris on a tarnished coin.

And his presence always made her feel as if delicate fingers were walking up her spine. Shivery and warm, all at the same time.

“A penny is very little,” she said, keeping her voice light with an effort. “My thoughts are most interesting and should require a greater outlay of cash.”

“Pity I’m stony broke,” he said, indicating his empty pockets. “Did you have a good time at the Ruelle? Anna’s outfits are truly spectacular; I do wish that she could advise me on waistcoats and spats, but, you know…” He raised his arms, gesturing at his never-changing attire.

Lucie smiled at him. “Were you lurking about? I didn’t see you.”

It was rare that she didn’t see Jesse if he was present in a room. Four months ago, he had given his last breath—once imprisoned in the golden locket she now wore around her neck—to save James’s life. Lucie had been worried afterward that the loss would mean Jesse might fade away or disappear; while he remained bothersomely insubstantial, he was still very visible, if only to her.

He leaned his dark head back against the blue-and-gold upholstery. “I may have popped by to make sure you got into the Ruelle safely. There are a lot of suspicious types around Berwick Street at night: thieves, cutpurses, rapscallions.…”

“Rapscallions?” Lucie was delighted. “That sounds like something from The Beautiful Cordelia.”

“Speaking of which.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “When are you going to let me read it?”

Lucie hesitated. She had allowed him to read some of her earlier novels, like Secret Princess Lucie Is Rescued from Her Terrible Family, which he had enjoyed very much, especially the character of Cruel Prince James. But The Beautiful Cordelia was different. “I’m polishing the book,” she said. “It requires polishing. All novels must be polished, like diamonds.”

“Or shoes,” he said dryly. “I’ve been thinking of writing a novel myself. It is about a ghost who is very, very bored.”

“Perhaps,” Lucie suggested, “you should write a novel about a ghost who has a very devoted sister and a very devoted… friend who spend a great deal of their time trying to figure out how to make him not a ghost anymore.”

Jesse didn’t reply. She’d meant to be amusing, but his eyes had gone dark and serious. How odd that even when one was a ghost, the eyes were the window to the soul. And she knew Jesse had a soul. And that it was as alive as anything else living, desperate to be free in the world once more, not sentenced to a half-existence of consciousness that came only at night.