“I was not going to propose marriage,” he said. “I was going to propose something else. That you come to Paris with me.” He tightened his grip on her hand; there was high color in his cheeks, and he was speaking almost feverishly. “Hear me out. You need to forget as badly as I do. Paris is a city of wonders, my favorite in the world. I know you have been there, but you have not been there with me.” She smiled—it was good to know Matthew’s vanities had not deserted him. “We will see the Pont Alexandre lit up at night—go to Montmartre, where everything is scandalous—eat dinner at Maxim’s and know it is but the start of a magical evening of cabarets and dancing and theater and art.” He tipped his head back to look directly into her eyes. “I would never press my attentions on you. We will stay in separate hotel rooms. I will be your friend, that is all. Only let me see you happy in Paris. It is the greatest gift you could give me.”

Cordelia closed her eyes. For a moment she was back in the motorcar, and the road was unrolling before her, the wind in her hair. She had left her agony behind for those hours. She could glimpse that liberty again in Matthew’s words, in the picture he painted of a city of wonders. The thought of leaving sodden, heartbreaking London behind made her feel free. Free the way she wanted to be. Free the way Matthew was free.

But my mother, she thought. And then remembered what Sona had said to her just that afternoon: I do not want you hovering over me, doting on me until the baby comes.… What I want for you above all things is that you follow the truth of your dreams. No scorn, no shame, no part of society’s opinion matters more than that.

“My father,” she said, instead. “His funeral—”

“Will not be for at least a fortnight,” said Matthew. It was true—the bodies of the murdered were to be kept in the Silent City until they had been purified; they had, after all, been used in a demon-summoning ritual. “If we are still in Paris, I promise you, we will travel to Idris for it.”

Cordelia took a deep breath. “Paris,” she whispered, testing it out. “But—I have nothing with me. I left Curzon Street in one dress and ruined shoes.”

Matthew’s eyes lit. “In Paris, I will outfit you in a whole new wardrobe of clothes! All the latest styles, all the best dressmakers. In Paris we can be whomever we wish.”

“All right,” she said, still looking straight at Matthew. “Let’s go to Paris. On one condition.”

Matthew’s expression blossomed with shock and pleasure; he clearly had not thought this was how the conversation would go. “Anything,” he said.