Risa had long gone to sleep; Alastair went himself to answer the door. When he flung it open, he found Thomas Lightwood standing on the doorstep.
Alastair couldn’t think of a thing to say. He just stared. Thomas, like all his fool friends, went without a hat: his hair was wet, and the damp ends kissed the angles of his face. His features were surprisingly refined for all that he was so enormous—well, “enormous” wasn’t really the word for it. It didn’t capture Thomas’s compact way of moving. He was tall, but unlike some other tall men, he carried himself with a quiet authority that matched his height. His body was perfectly proportioned too, from what Alastair recalled—it was hard to tell when someone was bundled up in an overcoat.
Thomas cleared his throat. His hazel eyes were steady as he said, “I came to tell you that I’m sorry about your father. I really am.”
“Thank you,” Alastair whispered. He knew he had to stop staring at Thomas, but he wasn’t quite sure how to manage it, and in a moment, it didn’t matter anyway. Without another word, Thomas turned on his heel and strode quickly away.
* * *
“What did you do with my gold comb?” Lucie said.
Jesse, who had sprawled on her bed with a most unghostlike aplomb, smiled. He was leaning back against her pillows, looking rather pleased with himself. She had been sitting at her desk in her nightgown, scrawling notes, when he had appeared, causing her to blot her page. He seemed pleased to have managed to surprise her.
“Hidden it away safely,” he said. “It reminds me of you when you are not there.”
She sat down on the edge of the bed. “Perhaps you should haunt me more often.”
He touched a wisp of her hair, which she had taken down for the evening. She wished sometimes she had radiant hair like Cordelia, who always looked like a sunset. Instead hers was plain brown, like her mother’s. “But then you would not be able to see your friends in the evening, which would be a shame,” he said. “It sounds as if you are having quite a lively time. Though,” he added with a frown, “I wish I knew who this Regency gentleman was who importuned you. I don’t like the idea of you seeing other ghosts.”
Lucie had told him all about the murders, their visit to the factory, and her conversation with Filomena. The only thing she had not told him was the favor she had done for the Regency ghost. She did not think he would like it.
“What’s wrong?” Jesse inquired. “You seem plagued with dark thoughts.”
Uncle Gabriel, Aunt Cecily, and Christopher had all surrounded Lucie when she returned from Cordelia’s, wanting to know how the Carstairs were managing. Lucie had felt too exhausted to say much then, but talking to Jesse was different.
“I am worried about Cordelia,” she said. “I cannot imagine losing my father.”
“Yours seems to be a very good father,” said Jesse. He was looking at her with that level, serious gaze that always made her feel as if he were listening to her, thinking about her above all other things in the world.
“I always thought he was perfect,” she confided. “Even now, when I am old enough to realize no human being is perfect, I can say with confidence that as a father, he has never disappointed me or left me in doubt of how much he loves me. But for Daisy…”
“Her father was gone,” said Jesse. “And when he came back, any joy she might have felt was complicated by his behavior.”
“And now she will never have a chance to confront him, or to make peace with him, or even to forgive him.”
“She can forgive him regardless,” said Jesse. “My father died before I was born. I loved him nonetheless. And forgave him, even, for leaving me. One can reach peace on one’s own, though it is difficult—but Cordelia has you. That will make it easier.” Seeing her worried look, Jesse held his arm out. “Come here,” he said, and Lucie clambered onto the bed and curled up against his side.
As he had when they had danced, he felt solid. She could feel the fabric of his shirt, even, see a tiny cluster of freckles on the side of his neck.
He touched her hair again, smoothing his hand down the strands. “I feel lucky to see you like this,” he said, his voice low. “With your hair loose. As if I were your husband.”
She felt herself blush. “It’s such dull hair. Just brown, not an interesting color like Grace’s, or—”
“It’s not ‘just brown,’？” he said. “It glows like polished wood, and it has all sorts of colors in it—bits of gold where the sun’s touched it, and strands of chocolate and caramel and walnut.”