Grace sat down on the sofa, folding her hands in her lap like a child. For a moment, James remembered the little girl who had passed him the briar cutters through the gaps in the fence around Blackthorn Manor, and felt a wash of sadness. “I don’t want to look at you,” he said. “I am going to summon the Silent Brothers. Do not think of going anywhere. They will hunt you down.”
“You needn’t worry about that,” Grace said. She was staring fixedly at the broken halves of the silver bracelet, where they had fallen on the floor. “I have nowhere to go.”
James felt sick to his stomach as he left the drawing room—shutting and locking the door behind him—and headed upstairs. How could he ever have thought he loved Grace? Even in the throes of enchantment, he had never felt for her what he felt for Cordelia. She had never made him happy. He had only felt agony when she was not there, and assumed that that was love. We suffer for love because love is worth it, his father had told him once: James had thought that meant that to love was to endure anguish. He had not realized his father had meant there should be joy to balance the pain.
The sort of joy that Daisy brought him—the quiet happiness of playing chess together, or reading, or talking in the study. Reaching the door of her bedroom, he threw it open, suddenly unable to wait to see her.
But the bedroom was empty. The bed was made, corners neatly tucked. Cortana was gone from its place on the wall. There was no fire in the grate. The air felt cold, the space very quiet. Desolate. He raced to his room; perhaps she was waiting for him there.
His room was empty too.
He hurried downstairs. A quick search of the ground floor yielded no Cordelia. A cold pebble of dread was now lodged in his stomach. Where was she? He started back up the stairs, only to hear footsteps. He spun around, his heart lifting—then falling again.
It was Effie, in a billowing gray dressing gown, covered in frills. Her hair was up in paper curlers. She sighed mightily at the sight of him. “I tell you,” she said. “A body can’t get a night’s rest around this bloomin’ place.”
James decided not to comment on the impropriety of a parlormaid appearing before the master of the house in her night attire. He didn’t care. “Have you seen Cordelia? Mrs. Herondale?”
“Oh, yes,” Effie said. “She was coming down the steps, like, and she saw you all cuddled up with that blond popsy. She tore out the back door like a scalded cat.”
“What?” James seized the newel post to steady himself. “Didn’t you think of going after her?”
“Not a bit,” said Effie. “I don’t get paid enough to run about the snow in me nightie.” She sniffed. “And you should know that decent men don’t embrace women other than their wives in their vestibules. They rent a nice house in St. John’s Wood and do it there.”
James felt dizzy. He had been angry when he’d opened the door to see Grace, angry that she’d thrown her arms around his neck, but he’d let her hold on to him, wanting to keep her in the house. It had never occurred to him that Cordelia might have seen him embrace Grace, heard what she’d said. I had to tell you, darling, I am going to end it with Charles. There never was anyone for me but you.
And what had he said back? Thank God.
Three steps took him to the entryway. A pair of Cordelia’s gloves was on the side table; he stuffed them into his pocket, not wanting her to be cold—the night was freezing—he would give her his coat when he found her, he thought. “Effie,” he said. “I want you to summon the Consul. Immediately. There’s a treacherous criminal in the drawing room.”
“Cor.” Effie looked intrigued. “The popsy? What’d she do, then? Nicked something?” Her eyes widened. “Is she dangerous?”
“Not to you. But get the Consul. Ask her to bring Brother Zachariah.” James yanked on his coat. “Grace will tell them what they need to know.”
“The criminal will tell them everything about the crimes she committed?” said Effie, looking baffled, but James didn’t answer. He had already bolted out the door into the night.
* * *
After what had seemed an interminably long day, Will was glad to retire to his bedroom, kick off his shoes, and watch his wife do what she did best: read. Tessa was curled up in a window seat, her hair hanging thick and lustrous around her shoulders, her nose buried in a copy of a book called The Jewel of Seven Stars. It always amused him that even though her life was filled with demons and vampires, warlocks and faeries, his wife made a beeline for fantastical fiction every time they entered Foyles bookshop.