“We have hardly done anything that serious. Why don’t you speak to Grace about this? Why am I the only one scolded?”
“Because I can say to you what I cannot say to her.” He hesitated. “Remember, I have witnessed this journey before. I cannot bear the thought of you—either of you—drawn into dark magic as my mother was.”
She stiffened. “Tatiana and I are nothing alike.”
Jesse flashed a bitter smile. “Certainly you are not alike now. But I think my mother might have been a whole person once, a—an ordinary person, maybe even a happy person—and I do not know how much of that life was taken away from her by bitterness, and how much was because she lost herself to this sort of shadowy magic and necromancy—all the forces that you and Grace are dabbling in.”
The hollowness in his eyes when he spoke of Tatiana broke her heart. How deep were the scars his mother had given him?
“Do you—hate her now? Your mother?”
Jesse hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the street beyond. A second later Lucie heard the sound of wheels, and turned to see the delicate faerie wings of the Fairchild family crest painted on the side of a carriage. Grace had finally arrived.
She knew without looking that Jesse was already gone by the time Grace joined her under the awning. His voice still rang in her head: I can say to you what I cannot say to her.
He had disappeared into the night as if he were part of it. And maybe he was, she thought. It was almost a comfort to imagine Jesse as a part of the stars and shadows, always around her, ever-present even if he could not be seen.
“Lucie,” Grace said, and it was clear she was repeating herself. “Goodness, you’re in a brown study. What were you thinking about?”
“Jesse,” Lucie said, and saw Grace’s expression change. Was there anything in the world Grace cared about as much as she cared about her brother? In fact, was there anything else in the world she cared about at all? “I—saw him a bit earlier. He said you’d been experimenting in the shed. Do be careful. Blood necromancy is nasty stuff.”
Something flickered in Grace’s eyes. “It’s rabbit’s blood,” she said. “I didn’t tell you. I knew you’d want nothing to do with it.” She headed for the entrance of the Hell Ruelle, forcing Lucie to scramble after her. Grace’s heels clicked on the pavement; she wore delicate boots under a narrow blue-and-ivory skirt frothed with lace. “You’ll be pleased to know it seemed to have no effect. The rabbit population of Chiswick House is safe from my further depredations.”
Lucie was mildly horrified; she was quite sure she could never have harmed a rabbit. “Did you get the information about Annabel that we promised to Malcolm?”
Grace’s shoulders seemed to tighten. “Yes, but I’m not going to tell you. I’m only going to tell him.”
Humph, Lucie thought, but there was no point arguing. At least getting into the Hell Ruelle was easier this time; the door guardian recognized them and, with a sideways smile, sent them on their way.
Inside the large central chamber, a relaxed crowd of Downworlders chatted at small tables scattered throughout the room. Lucie searched for Hypatia but did not see her, though she saw a number of other familiar faces, including Kellington, who was playing violin among a string quartet onstage. The women were dressed in the height of fashion—narrow skirts and pagoda sleeves, the sort of thing one might see in Paris—which was only fitting, since the walls had been painted with scenes of Parisian life. The theme had been extended to the waiters serving moules frites and ham sandwiches with tiny cornichons. Bottles of French wine and absinthe lined the bar. The guests seemed to be thoroughly enjoying themselves, gossiping and laughing. The liveliest were attempting to learn the beguine on a makeshift dance floor in the corner.
Grace looked astonished. “What is she doing here?”
Lucie followed her gaze and saw—to her surprise—Ariadne Bridgestock, sitting at one of the tables by herself. She looked very pretty in a dark green gown, her black hair held back by a yellow silk bandeau. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “Has she ever mentioned the Ruelle before?”
“No. We hardly talk,” said Grace. “I am keeping rather too many secrets to be anyone’s confidante right now.”
“We ought to go speak to her, don’t you think?”
“We ought to go find Malcolm,” said Grace. “We can’t keep him waiting—Lucie!”
For Lucie was already halfway across the room. She slid into a chair across from Ariadne, who looked up in surprise as she recognized her visitor. “Lucie, dear. I heard you frequented this place.”