Numb with shock, James stared at his father. Along the platform, the porters were walking the length of the Southampton train, making sure everything was buttoned up tight.
“You had better run to tell them you’ll be staying back,” Will said quietly. James knew he meant Matthew and Cordelia. “Though I must ask you to tell neither of them about Lucie. The fewer people who hear of this, the better, for her sake.”
Still numb, James started down the platform. Steam was beginning to rise from the train’s wheels; he could see the passengers through the windows, taking their seats, readying themselves for the journey.
He turned to glance back at his father. Will stood by himself on the platform, his broad shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the middle distance. James thought he had never seen Will look so alone.
“All aboard!” a porter shouted, passing James as he strode toward the front of the train. “All aboard for Southampton and Paris!”
Paris. James thought of Cordelia, on the train. Daisy would be settling into a plush velvet seat, maybe drawing off her scarf and coat, looking across the carriage at Matthew, full of excitement for the journey to come.…
He tried to imagine himself bursting into that carriage, spoiling the cozy scene with frantic demands. But what could he possibly say? He could not beg Cordelia—or Matthew, for that matter—to abandon their plans, to come back, only to then immediately depart London himself, with no explanation as to why he was leaving, or where he was going.
It would be impossible. And worse, it would be cruel.
The train whistle sounded. James had never imagined that the hardest thing he would ever do in his life was nothing at all. He stood motionless as the screech of releasing brakes filled his ears. There was one last second during which he thought, I could still run, I could catch up to her, call to her through the window—and then came the plume of smoke and the thump-thump of wheels on tracks, speeding up as the train rolled smoothly out of the station.
The world blurred around James, a rain-spoiled watercolor in browns and grays. He made his way back to Will through the acrid smoke of the departed train. He heard himself say something to his father, something about how Matthew and Cordelia had agreed to journey on to Paris without him, that he would join them after his family business had been concluded. It was all nonsense, he thought dully, and at another time his father would have known it. But Will was too distracted now to examine the situation closely: he was already leading James back through the station, dodging the crowds as he reassured James that he’d done the right thing. After all, they had dozens of friends in Paris, and Matthew would look after Daisy—no one else could do better—and surely Paris would lift her spirits after the loss of her father?
James nodded blankly as they passed back through the arched entrance. Will glanced around, tapping his walking stick impatiently on the pavement. His expression lightened, and he herded James forward. An unfamiliar carriage waited at the side of the curb: it was shiny, black, and drawn by two matched gray horses. Leaning against the side of the carriage, resplendently attired in a pure white wool coat with a mink collar, was Magnus Bane.
“I managed to catch him just before the train left,” Will said, releasing James, who felt a bit like a cocker spaniel that had bolted in Kensington Gardens and was now being returned to its owner.
“What’s Magnus doing here?” James said.
Magnus tipped back his white trilby hat and eyed James. “Your father summoned me as soon as he read your sister’s note,” he said. “If you know someone who’s run off with a warlock, it’s best to engage another warlock to help you find them.”
“Speaking of finding people, have you had any luck?” Will asked.
Magnus shook his head. “I can’t track them. Malcolm’s blocking any attempt. I’d do the same.”
“Do you have any idea at all where she might have gone?” said James. “A direction? Anything?”
“She mentioned Cornwall,” said Will. “We’ll head to the Institute there. Get a list of local warlocks, Downworlders. Magnus can ask them some judicious questions. They’ll trust him more.”
“And you must let me approach Malcolm, when we find him,” said Magnus.
Will’s expression darkened. “Like hell,” he said. “He ran off with my daughter. Who is sixteen years old.”
“I would urge you not to think of it in those terms,” said Magnus. “Malcolm didn’t kidnap Lucie. According to her note, it’s her goal to help Jesse. That’s what they both think they’re doing.” He sighed. “Malcolm has something of a focus on the Blackthorns.”