Grace closed her eyes. Tears spilled from beneath her eyelids, tracking through the dust on her face. There was no sign she was aware of them. Please understand, Lucie prayed. Please understand what this means and help me Could Grace understand? Grace, who had been brought up by a lunatic in a house of ruin and ghosts?

Grace rose from the chair. “Come with me,” she said, and Lucie scrambled upright, desperate with hope. Grace gestured at her with the fireplace poker. “Go on, then,” she said, sounding like a school headmistress. “We’re going to see him. Jesse.”

Using the poker as a sort of prod, she nudged Lucie down the stairs of the manor house, passing into an entryway lined with portraits of Blackthorns past: dark-haired men and women who gazed haughtily down from the walls. Tatiana must have placed them here at some point, to stake her claim on Chiswick House. Below the portraits were engraved copper plates bearing their names (and a thick coat of verdigris): Felix Blackthorn, John Blackthorn, Adelaide Blackthorn. Annabel Blackthorn, read one engraving, though the portrait above it had been slashed through with a knife, rendering the subject unrecognizable. Just the sort of decoration Tatiana would enjoy, Lucie thought.

“Hurry up.” Grace brandished the poker like an angry old man with an umbrella. “Lucie!”

“But it’s Jesse,” Lucie said, stopping in front of another portrait—though he looked quite a bit healthier in it than she’d ever seen him. His skin was tanned, his green eyes bright.

“It isn’t,” Grace said crossly. “That’s his father, Rupert. Now come along, or I shall hit you with the poker.”

“You won’t, though,” said Lucie, with confidence. Grace muttered but didn’t contradict her, and together they descended the front steps at a run. Outside it had grown warmer, the sun properly up now. Their feet crunched on the frost-scorched weeds as they crossed the garden and ducked into the shed.

Lucie had braced herself for what they would find. Still, she felt her heart give a painful thump: the coffin lid was open, the coffin itself empty. The Blackthorn sword was gone.

Grace made a despairing noise. Lucie wondered if she had quite believed the truth before this moment. “He’s really gone,” she whispered. “We’re too late. We’ll never find him—”

“Yes, we will,” Lucie said. “I will. I can sense him, Grace. Just like you were saying in the ballroom—I can sense the dead. I’ll locate him. And I’ll take Balios; I’ll be faster than Jesse could be on foot.”

Grace nodded, but there was panic on her face. “What should I do?”

“Find Malcolm Fade. Tell him what’s happening. Tell him I need his help.”

Grace hesitated. Feeling as if she had done all she could do, Lucie turned to go—and froze. Grace’s hand had shot out, clamping onto Lucie’s wrist.