Once inside, Charlotte makes her way to the studio. Gudrun saunters out from the drawing room and calls up the stairs to Bram.

“Artist! You have a visitor.” She steps closer to me, and for the first time I feel her scrutinizing me, as she leans against the newel post, cigarette in hand, head cocked as she considers me thoughtfully through curls of smoke. “You are a very beautiful woman,” she decides, “and our Artist is a very beautiful man.”

I am trying to form a suitable response to such an odd statement when she goes on.

“Do you think this is enough, Beauty? Do you think this will overcome all?” she asks, her German accent seeming stronger today than at other times.

“I don’t know about that,” I tell her. “I think what’s beneath the surface is more important.”

“Oh? And would he love you if you were plain? Or you him?” She flicks ash carelessly onto the floor. “And what is it that you think lies underneath that matters so much? He is an artist, after all. He cares very much for beauty. They all do.”

You won’t tell him your secret!

The unexpected voice of a spirit shocks me into open-mouthed silence. He is so adept at catching me off guard. I steady myself. I have decided I will not talk with him anymore. I have asked Druscilla to help me, and we have planned a summoning. I admit I am nervous about it, this spirit has such attendant bitterness and hatred, such as I have never known before. But Druscilla is the most skilled necromancer I know. I am reassured that she will be with me. We will face him together, for face him we must. It is imperative we discover his links to the challenger and to the Sentinels.

You will never be able to tell him what you are!

The voice sounds so vehement, so angry.

Go away! This is none of your business.

Anything you do is my business, Daughter of the Night.

I have not summoned you. This is not the time …

Do not forget who you are, Morningstar. You cannot escape your destiny, any more than I escaped mine. To be free of your burden you must rid yourself of it. It was passed down to you, a poisoned chalice because it is not truly yours. You must give it up. You must.

Gudrun is frowning at me, clearly surprised I have no argument to give to what she has said, little knowing that I have another clamoring for my attention. Bram’s hurrying footsteps on the stairs save me from having to respond.

“There you are, Artist. Better not keep Beauty waiting,” she says, pausing to dust off his lapel lazily before disappearing back into the drawing room.