“People are dull. Gossiping about them is never dull. Look—there’s Thoby and Rosamund, already arguing. I wonder what about? Lilian Highsmith hit Augustus Pounceby with her umbrella earlier: What could he have done? Did he insult her? Esme Hardcastle is telling Piers Wentworth all about the book she’s writing on the history of the London Enclave, but he only has eyes for Catherine Townsend. And the lovely Eugenia, rejecting every suitor. Possibly due to bad past experiences.”

“What happened to Eugenia?”

“Augustus Pounceby.” Matthew scowled. “He led her to believe they had an understanding.” Cordelia was surprised; an understanding could be quite a serious thing. It meant a girl was confident of an offer of marriage. “So she behaved rather freely with him—going for walks with him without a chaperone, all very innocent—but when he proposed to Catherine Townsend, who refused him, Eugenia was made to look a fool. She went off to Idris to get away from the Enclave’s gossip.”

“How rotten,” said Cordelia. “But surely someone must have a bigger secret than all that? Skeletons under the floorboards and such?”

“You mean is anyone a murderer?” Matthew turned her in a swift circle: the dozens of candles seemed to blur into a stream of light all around them. “I am.”

Cordelia laughed, a little breathless. They had spun toward the outer edge of the dance floor. She caught sight of James; he was still in animated conversation with Will and Tessa.

“What if I told you I could lip-read?” said Matthew. “That I knew every word James and his parents were exchanging? And that the news they share is shocking?”

“I would tell you to stop eavesdropping. Also, I wouldn’t believe you. It takes ages to learn lipreading. In fact, what I would say is that you are telling frightful bouncers to make yourself seem more interesting, when the truth is that if there is shocking news, you probably heard it from your mother.”

Matthew mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Doubted! Unmanned! Cruelty, thy name is woman.” He peered at her out of a narrowed eye. “Does that mean you don’t want to know what they’re talking about?”

“Of course I do, you oaf.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder. The polonaise was not as intimate a dance as the waltz, but she was still close enough to Matthew to note the faint lines around his eyes when he really smiled. She didn’t see them that often. He smelled of brandy, frangipani, and cigars.

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice. “You know Charles has been in Paris, working at the Institute.”

“I heard the head of the Paris Institute was ill, and Charles was pitching in.”

“And quite a help he’s been,” said Matthew. “There was a meeting with all the vampire clans of France, and Charles neglected to invite the clan from Marseilles. Probably just forgetfulness, but they took mortal offense.”