Grace hesitated.
“If what you need to tell me is that Annabel wishes to hear nothing from me, then say it,” said Malcolm. His voice was calm, but his face was strained, his fingertips pressed so hard together they had gone white. “You think I have not already thought of that, resigned myself to it? Hope is a prison, truth the key that unlocks it. Tell me.”
Grace was breathing very fast, as if she had been running up a hill. “You wanted to know what news I have from my mother, from the Adamant Citadel?” she said to Malcolm. “Well, here it is: she is dead. Annabel Blackthorn is dead. She was never an Iron Sister.”
Malcolm flinched back in his chair, as if he’d been shot. It was very clear he had been braced to hear one thing—that Annabel wanted nothing to do with him—and entirely unprepared for this. “What did you say?”
“She never became an Iron Sister,” Grace repeated. “That was a lie you were told, to let you believe she still lived, to make you think she didn’t want to be with you. Nearly a hundred years ago, the Clave tortured her until she was nearly mad—they planned to ship her to the Citadel to rave out her remaining days. But her family murdered her before she ever arrived there. They murdered her because she loved you.”
Malcolm didn’t move, but the blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving him a living statue with burning eyes. Lucie had never seen anyone look quite like that—as if they had been dealt a mortal blow but had not yet fallen. “I do not believe you,” he said, his hand closing tightly around his pipe. “They—they could not have lied to me about this. About her.” There was an intonation to Malcolm’s voice when he said “her” that Lucie knew: it was the way her own father spoke of her mother. As if there could be no other “her.” “And how could you know what happened? No one would tell you these things, or tell them to your mother.”
Grace reached into her handbag. She removed an object and held it up between her thumb and forefinger—a round, multifaceted crystal about the size of a cricket ball. “This is an aletheia crystal.”
“I know what it is,” Malcolm whispered. So did Lucie: she had read of them. Aletheia crystals were carved of adamas. In past years, the Clave had used them to contain information in the form of memories that could be viewed again if the viewer had the power to see them. As far as Lucie knew, only Silent Brothers could release the image contained in such a crystal—though it made sense that a warlock or magician might have that same ability.
Grace placed the crystal on the desk in front of Malcolm. He made no move to touch it. “It was stored in Chiswick House. It contains memories that will prove the truth of what I’m saying.”
Malcolm spoke in a low, guttural voice. “If any part of what you are telling me is true,” he said, “I will kill them. I will kill them all.”
Lucie surged to her feet. “Mr. Fade, please—”
“It does not matter to us,” said Grace, quite coldly, “what you do for revenge.” In the firelight, her silver-spun hair gleamed like ice. “We have done what you asked; we have provided you word of Annabel Blackthorn. I have told you the truth. No one else would tell it to you, but I did. That must matter. It must count for something.”
Malcolm looked at her blindly. Fury had made his expression a near blank; only his eyes moved, and they were like wounds in his face. “Get out,” he said.
“We had an agreement,” said Grace. “You must tell us—”
“Get out!” Malcolm roared.
Lucie caught at Grace’s arm. “No,” Lucie said through her teeth. “We are going.”
“But—” Grace clamped her mouth shut as Lucie dragged her out of the room and into the corridor. A second later, Malcolm’s door slammed shut; Lucie heard the lock click.
She stopped short and whirled on Grace. “Why on earth did you do that?”
“I told him the truth,” Grace said defiantly. “You said I should tell him the truth—”
“Not like that. Not told in a way that’s—that’s so cruel.”
“The truth is better than lies! However cruel it may be, it is crueler still for him not to know—everyone knew when it happened, and no one told him, and even now he’s been allowed to believe she’s still alive all this time—”
“Grace, there are ways of telling the truth,” Lucie protested, glancing back and forth to make sure no one was approaching. “You didn’t have to throw it in his face. You’ve made him hate the Blackthorns even more; how could you think he’ll still want to help Jesse?”