conduct my affairs. The more publicly I go about my business, the less room there is for speculation.”
Lorelei paced over to the window and drew the curtains. “It isn’t just the reporters. You’ve involved that sorcerer, Thorn. I don’t like it. His servant has a reputation.”
“Don’t we all?”
“You don’t understand. I grew up hearing stories about Silas in the Otherworld. Can you imagine what it takes for a being to become notorious in our realm?” She wrapped her arms around herself and smoothed her hands over her bare skin. She stood staring at the curtains, as though she could still see out into the night, far across the city. “You shouldn’t court the attention of one such as him.”
“He might be fearsome, but he isn’t omniscient. I made sure our helpers remained out of sight.”
Lorelei didn’t reply. Ashcroft crossed to the study’s cabinet and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter. He sat down on an armchair across from Elisabeth and thoughtfully swirled his glass. He studied her face for a moment, then took a sip.
Elisabeth knew she wasn’t supposed to be hearing any of this as she lay glassy-eyed and compliant on the divan. They spoke as though she weren’t even in the room. And something, she was beginning to realize, was terribly wrong.
Ashcroft leaned back and crossed one ankle over the opposite knee, his glass loose in one hand. “Better Nathaniel than someone else from the Magisterium,” he went on finally. “If the girl saw something she shouldn’t, don’t you imagine that a different sorcerer might have spelled the evidence from her long before she reached Brassbridge? But Nathaniel—I knew he wouldn’t harm her. I must say, I was quite relieved when he stepped forward with a solution to that particular challenge.” He took a sip. “Otherwise, I would have had to resort to more drastic measures. And you know how much I hate getting my hands dirty.”
Elisabeth’s mind spun sickeningly. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to fight, but she couldn’t so much as twitch her little finger.
“You should have sent more fiends, master. You should have ended this instead of drawing it out. Now you can no longer kill her. There are too many humans involved.”
“The intention,” said Ashcroft, “was never to kill her. I merely required an excuse to bring her here. We have only just begun, Lorelei. Whatever mistake occurred in Summershall, I can’t afford to make it again. There must be no more surviving witnesses.”
“Then what are we to do with her?” Lorelei spat.
“Who’s to say she’s a witness? She may have seen nothing.”
“Even if that is true, she will prove a liability.”
Ashcroft stood. “I know how to deal with her. Lay her out on the floor, please, Lorelei. As if she’s taken a fall. Make it look convincing. Then leave us and fetch Hannah.”
The demon’s cold hands curled under Elisabeth’s armpits. “You are infuriating, master,” she murmured.
“Ah, but that is precisely why my life tastes so exceptional to you demons.” He raised the crystal glass, reflecting prisms across his handsome face, and winked. “The bolder and brighter the spirit, the finer the vintage.”
Elisabeth’s cheek pressed against the wool carpet. Now she could only see an expanse of patterned fibers awash in the ruddy glow of the hearth. Thoughts circled in her head like vultures, bleak and inescapable, as Lorelei arranged her boneless limbs: Ashcroft was the saboteur. He had killed the Director. He had sent the fiends. He was responsible for it all. Nothing seemed real—not the roughness of the carpet against her cheek, nor the warmth of the fireplace soaking her gown. A chill settled deep inside her. Earlier that day, she had come within seconds of sealing her own fate by telling Ashcroft what she knew.
Lorelei’s steps receded. A moment later, a gentle touch alit on Elisabeth’s shoulder. She flinched—a real flinch, a physical reaction. The glamour was wearing off.
“Miss Scrivener?” Ashcroft asked softly. “Miss Scrivener, can you hear me?”
She wanted nothing more than to fly upright, to defend herself, to scream loud enough to rouse the entire manor, but her only hope of survival was to play along. She raised herself on her elbows, her hair hanging in a curtain around her face. The sour burn of champagne crept up her throat, and her stomach roiled.
“Do you remember anything? Are you hurt? Allow me to help you.”
“I don’t . . .” Elisabeth shook her head, keeping her face downcast as Ashcroft assisted her upright. She stumbled over