Anna’s delicate eyebrows went up. “Did I?”
And Ariadne knew: Anna remembered. She herself had relived the moment a dozen times since it had happened. Anna had been unguarded in that instant, the fear on her face real as she thrust Ariadne out of the way and turned to face Leviathan, whip in hand.
“You know you did,” Ariadne said. “You would protect me with your life, then, but you will not forgive me. I know I asked you earlier—”
Anna sighed. “I am not angry at you, nor trying to punish you. But I am happy with who I am. I do not desire a change.”
“Maybe you are not angry with me,” Ariadne said. Dampness had gathered on her eyelashes; she blinked it away. “But I am angry with myself. I cannot forgive myself. I had you—I had love—and I turned from it out of fear. And perhaps it was foolish of me to think I could pick it up again, that it would be waiting for me, but you—” Her voice shook. “I fear it is because of me that you have become what you are. Hard and bright as a diamond. Untouchable.”
The cheroot burned, disregarded, in Anna’s hand. “What an unkind characterization,” she said lightly. “I cannot say I agree.”
“I could have managed with you not loving me, but you do not even want me to love you. And that I cannot bear.” Ariadne laced her cold hands together. “Do not ask me to come to the Whispering Room again.”
Anna shrugged. “As you wish,” she said. “I had better go—as you know, I do not like to keep a lady waiting.”
Ariadne did not stay to watch Anna leave; she did not think she could endure it, so she did not see Anna walk only a short distance before sinking down onto the front steps of a neighboring house. Flicking the half-burned cheroot into the snow, Anna put her head into her hands and shook violently, dry-eyed and silent, unable to catch her breath.
* * *
Lucie had waited what felt like hours upon hours for the household to fall into silence. With Gabriel injured and in the infirmary, Cecily and Alexander had remained at the Institute. Lucie had spent much of dinner playing with Alexander, letting him walk on the table and feeding him biscuits. In times of crisis, she had found, busying oneself with the care of children meant no one troubled you with questions.
Eventually she had retired to her room. She had heard Christopher come home, and voices in the library, but she had already wedged a chair against her door and was busy packing. She wasn’t at all sure what one was supposed to wear to visit a warlock’s house in Cornwall and engage in necromantic rituals. Eventually she decided on a few warm wool dresses, her axe, five seraph blades, a gear jacket, and a bathing costume. One never knew, and Cornwall was the seaside.
She left a note propped against her vanity table, took her packed valise, and crept out of her bedroom. Making her way through the halls of the Institute, she found them dark and silent. Good—everyone was asleep. She slipped downstairs and into the Sanctuary without a sound.
The room was a blaze of light. Every taper had been lit, filling the space with wavering illumination. In its center Jesse’s body had been laid on a muslin-covered bier, surrounded by a circle of white candles, each in a single long holder. Around the bier were scattered squares of parchment, each inscribed with a rune: most were of mourning, though a few represented honor and courage in combat.
The Silent Brothers had done their work well. Lucie was glad the Sanctuary had been kept sealed, save for them. She did not like the idea of strangers gawking at Jesse’s body. He would be a curiosity to them, and she could not bear that.
Lucie set her valise down and approached Jesse slowly. He had been arranged with the Blackthorn sword on his chest, his hands folded atop the cross guard. A white silk blindfold was bound over his eyes. The sight made her stomach turn cold; he looked dead, as he never had to her before in his coffin at Chiswick House. His skin was the shade of porcelain; his lashes lay long and dark against his colorless cheeks. A beautiful faerie prince, she thought, felled like Snow White, neither alive nor dead.…
Lucie took a deep breath. Before Malcolm came, she wanted to be sure. She believed—she had told herself it had to be true—that Jesse had cast out Belial entirely. Surely there was not still a piece of the Prince of Hell in him. Malcolm had not asked—perhaps it had not occurred to him—but she could not imagine he would countenance trying to bring Jesse back if doing so would offer Belial a foothold in the world.
She laid her hand on Jesse’s chest. It was cold and stiff beneath her touch. If he were to touch me, I would feel so warm to him—scalding, even.