“Limehouse isn’t in the least bit on the way to Marylebone,” Matthew said, but he was smiling a little. “By the Angel, you’re a schemer, Luce. When did you make this plan?”
“Oh, sometime.” Lucie gestured vaguely. The truth was that she hadn’t been sure when they were meant to meet Hypatia until earlier at the Devil Tavern when Anna, under the pretense of patting her hand, had slipped her a folded note with instructions. “I suppose you don’t have to drive me, Math, but if you let me walk to Limehouse on my own and I am murdered, James will be very annoyed with you.”
Lucie had meant it as a joke, but Matthew’s face fell. “James is already very annoyed with me.”
“Why is that?”
Matthew leaned his head back against the seat, eyeing her speculatively. “Are you going to tell me what this magic shop business is about?”
“No,” Lucie said pleasantly.
“Then I suppose we both have our secrets.” Matthew turned and opened the window to tell the driver to head toward Limehouse. By the time he popped back into the carriage proper, he had a curious gleam in his eye. “Don’t you think it’s odd, Luce, that James is constantly tormented by Belial, and yet Belial doesn’t seem to have any interest in you?”
“I do not believe that Belial has read and understood Mrs. Wollstonecraft’s Vindication of the Rights of Woman. He is interested in James because James is a boy, and not interested in me because I am a girl. I suspect that Belial would rather possess a tortoise than a woman.”
“In that case, you should count yourself fortunate to be a member of the fairer sex.”
“But I am not fortunate,” Lucie said, her joking tone gone. “I would rather have Belial’s attention focused on me, for James always tends to blame himself for things, and I hate to see him in pain.”
Matthew smiled at her tiredly. “You and your brother are lucky, Lucie. I fear that if Charles had to choose between me or him for possession, I’d be a very well-dressed demon.”
The carriage was crossing the Thames, and the cold air outside brought with it the smell of river water. Lucie could not help but remember when Cordelia had been knocked into the river after wounding the Mandikhor demon. How Lucie, terrified for Cordelia’s life, had summoned ghosts to rescue her friend from the Thames, without even knowing what she was doing. She recalled the terrible weakness that had swept over her after, the way her vision had darkened before she lost consciousness in Jesse’s arms. Malcolm’s words came to her, unbidden. Necromancy carries too heavy a price.
Lucie looked away from the window. She still hadn’t told any of her friends what had truly saved Cordelia that night beneath Tower Bridge. Matthew was right, it seemed—she was keeping secrets, perhaps too many. James and Matthew were parabatai, and Cordelia and Lucie were meant to become parabatai as well. Yet it seemed to Lucie that none of them were being honest with each other. Was that what Matthew meant by “undeserving”？
* * *
By the time they returned to Curzon Street, Cordelia’s ebullient mood had faded. Though Christopher and James kept up a steady stream of conversation in the carriage, she could not help but let her mind stray to thoughts of the night ahead, and the danger of what was being asked of James.
The windows of the house were dark; Effie must long ago have gone to bed. As they entered the hallway, cold and weary, Cordelia’s hands slipped and fumbled at the buttons on her coat. “Here,” said James, “let me do that.”
When he leaned over her, she let herself breathe him in: the warmth, the smell of wet wool, a little salt, the fading sweetness of cologne. She studied the curve of his jaw where it met his throat, the steady beat of the pulse there. She felt her cheeks redden. Only the night before, she had kissed that spot.
James slid her coat from her shoulders and hung it on the rack by the door, along with her damp scarf. “Well, Magnus isn’t getting here until midnight,” he said lightly, “and I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Meet you in the study?”
A quarter of an hour later, Cordelia—in a new dress and dry slippers—entered the study with Cortana in one hand and a book in the other. She found James already on the sofa, a low fire burning in the grate, and a simple meal set out on the games table. She leaned Cortana against the hearth and came over to inspect the food. James had clearly raided the kitchen—arranged on a wooden platter was sliced cheese and bread, along with apples, cold chicken, and two steaming cups of tea.