Lucie looked away from the window. She still hadn’t told any of her friends what had truly saved Cordelia that night beneath Tower Bridge. Matthew was right, it seemed—she was keeping secrets, perhaps too many. James and Matthew were parabatai, and Cordelia and Lucie were meant to become parabatai as well. Yet it seemed to Lucie that none of them were being honest with each other. Was that what Matthew meant by “undeserving”?

By the time they returned to Curzon Street, Cordelia’s ebullient mood had faded. Though Christopher and James kept up a steady stream of conversation in the carriage, she could not help but let her mind stray to thoughts of the night ahead, and the danger of what was being asked of James.

The windows of the house were dark; Effie must long ago have gone to bed. As they entered the hallway, cold and weary, Cordelia’s hands slipped and fumbled at the buttons on her coat. “Here,” said James, “let me do that.”

When he leaned over her, she let herself breathe him in: the warmth, the smell of wet wool, a little salt, the fading sweetness of cologne. She studied the curve of his jaw where it met his throat, the steady beat of the pulse there. She felt her cheeks redden. Only the night before, she had kissed that spot.

James slid her coat from her shoulders and hung it on the rack by the door, along with her damp scarf. “Well, Magnus isn’t getting here until midnight,” he said lightly, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Meet you in the study?”

A quarter of an hour later, Cordelia—in a new dress and dry slippers—entered the study with Cortana in one hand and a book in the other. She found James already on the sofa, a low fire burning in the grate, and a simple meal set out on the games table. She leaned Cortana against the hearth and came over to inspect the food. James had clearly raided the kitchen—arranged on a wooden platter was sliced cheese and bread, along with apples, cold chicken, and two steaming cups of tea.

“I had no idea you were so domestic,” Cordelia said, sinking gratefully onto the sofa. Rest and warmth were bliss. She set the book she’d been carrying on the end table and reached for an apple. “Is this another inherited secret power?”

“No, just the result of providing food for the Merry Thieves. I got used to scrounging from the kitchen at the Institute. Christopher would starve if you didn’t remind him to eat, and Thomas is so enormous he needs to be fed every few hours, like a captive tiger.” He tore off a bit of bread. “I hope Thomas is managing with Alastair.”