“This variety does not grow on Earth. It heals most spiritual injuries. Had you taken amaranth after your encounter with the poltergeist, the wound might not have scarred so deeply. It would also heal some of the damage done to your brain, should you use your spirit too often without life support.”

Well, well. A cure for my brain. Jaxon would never let me sleep again if he got wind of amaranth. “Why do you drink it?”

“Old wounds. Amaranth eases the pain.”

There was a brief silence. My turn to speak. “This is yours.” I held out the pendant.

“Keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I insist. It may not repel the Emim, but it could save your life against a poltergeist.”

I placed it on the arm of the chair. Warden glanced at it, then flicked his gaze up to catch mine.

There was a light knock on the door. A boy came in, about my age, maybe older. He wore a gray tunic, and his eyes were bloodshot. Despite that, he was beautiful, like something out of a painting. His hair was a fine gold, cut around his chiseled face, and his lips and cheeks were pink as petals. Past the redness, his eyes were a clear, liquid blue. I thought I could detect the shaky traces of an aura around him.

“Coffee, please, Michael,” Warden said to him. “Do you take sugar, Paige?”

“No, thank you,” I said. Michael bowed and left. “So he’s your personal slave, is he?”

“Michael was a gift from the blood-sovereign.”

“How romantic.”

“Not particularly.” Warden glanced at the windows. “There is little to be done with Nashira when she wants something. Or someone.”

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?”

“I know she has five angels.”

“Yes, she does. But they are as much her weakness as her strength.” He took another sip of his drink. “The blood-sovereign suffers under the influence of her so-called angels.”

“I’m sure the angels are sorry.”

“They despise her.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do.” He was clearly amused by my disdain. “We have only been speaking for two minutes, Paige. Try not to waste all your sarcasm in one breath.”

I wanted to kill him. As it happened, I couldn’t.

The boy returned with a pot of coffee. He placed the tray on the table with a generous plate of baked chestnuts, dusted with cinnamon. Their sweet smell made my mouth water. There was a vendor near the Blackfriars Bridge that sold them in the winter months. These ones looked even better than his, with cracked brown shells and velvety white insides. There was fruit, too: segments of pear, glossy cherries, soft smiles of red apple.

Michael made a sign, and Warden shook his head. “Thank you, Michael. That will be all.”

He bowed again before he left. I found myself wanting to scream at him. He was so submissive.