The air outside was so cold it seemed to shimmer as Cordelia, tipsy and giggling, clambered down from the Institute carriage and waved a vigorous goodbye to Lucie. Behind her, Cornwall Gardens was dark and shuttered. “Thank you for the party surprise,” she called, closing the carriage door. “I never expected to spend the night before my wedding playing tiddlywinks with werewolves.”
“Did you think they were cheating? I thought they were cheating. But it was terribly amusing regardless.” Lucie leaned out the open window and blew Cordelia a dramatic kiss. “Good night, my dear! Tomorrow I will be your suggenes! We will be sisters.”
Cordelia looked momentarily anxious. “Only for a year.”
“No,” Lucie said firmly. “Whatever happens, we will always be sisters.”
Cordelia smiled and turned to go into the house. The front door had opened, and Lucie could see Alastair in the doorway, holding an upraised lamp, like Diogenes looking for an honest man. He nodded at Lucie before pulling the door shut behind his sister; Lucie tapped the side of the carriage, and Balios started up again, the sound of his hooves like muffled rain against the snowy ground.
She sank back with a sigh against the blue silk seat, suddenly tired. It had been a long night. Anna had slipped away an hour or so after midnight with Lily, a vampire from Peking. Lucie had stood firm—she’d wanted to remain at the Ruelle as long as Cordelia was amused; she knew her friend was half dreading the next day. She couldn’t blame her. Not that people didn’t get married for all sorts of reasons of expediency rather than love, but even if it was temporary, it was very dramatic. Cordelia would have to put on quite a performance tomorrow, as would James.
“Penny for your thoughts,” said a low voice. Lucie looked up, her mouth curling into a smile.
Jesse. Sitting opposite her, his face illuminated by the rosy glow of the carriage lamp that filtered through the window. She had trained herself not to jump when he suddenly appeared between one moment and another; in the four months since they had become reacquainted, she had seen him nearly every night.
He always looked the same. He never gained an inch in height, or his hair an inch in length. He was always reassuringly dressed in the same black trousers and white shirt. His eyes were always deep and green, like verdigris on a tarnished coin.
And his presence always made her feel as if delicate fingers were walking up her spine. Shivery and warm, all at the same time.
“A penny is very little,” she said, keeping her voice light with an effort. “My thoughts are most interesting and should require a greater outlay of cash.”
“Pity I’m stony broke,” he said, indicating his empty pockets. “Did you have a good time at the Ruelle? Anna’s outfits are truly spectacular; I do wish that she could advise me on waistcoats and spats, but, you know…” He raised his arms, gesturing at his never-changing attire.
Lucie smiled at him. “Were you lurking about? I didn’t see you.”
It was rare that she didn’t see Jesse if he was present in a room. Four months ago, he had given his last breath—once imprisoned in the golden locket she now wore around her neck—to save James’s life. Lucie had been worried afterward that the loss would mean Jesse might fade away or disappear; while he remained bothersomely insubstantial, he was still very visible, if only to her.
He leaned his dark head back against the blue-and-gold upholstery. “I may have popped by to make sure you got into the Ruelle safely. There are a lot of suspicious types around Berwick Street at night: thieves, cutpurses, rapscallions.…”
“Rapscallions?” Lucie was delighted. “That sounds like something from The Beautiful Cordelia.”
“Speaking of which.” He pointed an accusing finger at her. “When are you going to let me read it?”
Lucie hesitated. She had allowed him to read some of her earlier novels, like Secret Princess Lucie Is Rescued from Her Terrible Family, which he had enjoyed very much, especially the character of Cruel Prince James. But The Beautiful Cordelia was different. “I’m polishing the book,” she said. “It requires polishing. All novels must be polished, like diamonds.”
“Or shoes,” he said dryly. “I’ve been thinking of writing a novel myself. It is about a ghost who is very, very bored.”
“Perhaps,” Lucie suggested, “you should write a novel about a ghost who has a very devoted sister and a very devoted… friend who spend a great deal of their time trying to figure out how to make him not a ghost anymore.”