She smiled up at both of them. “I did it,” she heard herself whisper. “I brought him back. I commanded him.”

Her eyes drifted shut. Malcolm was still talking, saying that they had to get her out of here now, had to get her to the carriage before anyone discovered what she’d done.

And then there were arms under her, and someone was lifting her off the floor. Carrying her. Jesse, she thought, clinging to consciousness as they crossed the Sanctuary floor. She let her head fall against his chest, a sound in her ear she had never before heard: Jesse’s heartbeat, steady and strong.

I did that, she thought wonderingly. There was a creak of hinges, a blast of cold air. She heard Malcolm say something about getting her into the carriage, but she could no longer hold on. She slipped away into the darkness and silence.

As quietly and hastily as she could, Grace filled her valise, repacking it with the things she’d brought to the Bridgestocks’ when she’d left Chiswick House. Her clothes, she knew, were entirely impractical for a visit to rural Cornwall. Her mother had always insisted she dress in the height of feminine fashion—yards of lace, acres of silk, nothing warm or waterproof. But it would have to do.

Having closed the valise, she hurried to her vanity table. Not hers, she reminded herself. Nothing here was hers; she was only a guest, and not a particularly wanted one. The Bridgestocks would be relieved to be rid of her. Opening a drawer, she dug around inside for the small silk bag full of coins. It was all she had—not much, but enough for a hansom cab to the Institute. Malcolm would be arriving there any moment to meet Lucie. She couldn’t be late. Hurrying back across the room, she picked up her valise, went to the door—

“Grace.”

It was like a kick to the stomach. The valise slipped out of her hand and struck the floor, spilling petticoats, stockings, a lace shawl. Shaking, Grace turned slowly, swallowing hard against her own fear.

“Mama,” she said.

There, her face glowering from the surface of the mirror on the vanity table, was Tatiana. She wore the robes of an Iron Sister, as she had the last time Grace had seen her. Around her forehead was bound an iron circlet, and her long gray-streaked hair hung unkempt over her shoulders. She looked like the oldest of the three Fates, the one who cut the threads of human lives.

“You have been a foolish and disobedient girl, Grace,” Tatiana said, without preamble or greeting. “You have helped others against our family, and you have put me in an awkward position with my patron.”

Grace took a long, slow breath. “You mean Belial.”

Tatiana rocked back. “Oho. The chit has been sneaking about, spying on me. Learning my secrets. Is that how it is?”