“A good man,” Westcliffe repeated to herself, very softly, as the train rocked along the tracks.

I couldn’t help but feel for her. She loved the duke, I knew she did. And both of us knew that him loving her back was as impossible as a slum girl turning into a duchess.


Richardson Home. That was the name of the duke’s madhouse. My own had had an equally oblique title, but names are dismal hiding places, really, and there was no getting around what either building actually was.

Richardson turned out to be a peachy-stoned, Georgian sort of prison, with a good long lawn opening up behind its iron gates and a few spindly trees peppering the grounds, but no hedges or ditches or anything but flat grass from here to there.

Again: no place to hide.

We were escorted inside by a burly, broken-nosed man who was obviously not a butler, although he was dressed as one. I noticed Mrs. Westcliffe delivering him a sidelong glance as he accepted our wraps, but all he did was ask our names and then disappear behind a door—also burly, composed of wide oaken planks and steel studs—leaving us standing alone like almswomen in the foyer.

“My!” said Mrs. Westcliffe, but not too loudly.

The foyer was plain stone, unfurnished and chilly; I’d bet those walls were ruddy thick. I hugged my arms over my chest, then rubbed at my cold nose. Westcliffe drew her spine straighter and stared fixedly at the oaken door.

If she was willing it to open, it worked. The man who came out now was nothing at all like the make-believe butler who’d gone in.

“Ladies,” the new man greeted us. He was short and pudgy and nervously blinking, rather like a mouse spotting a pair of cats before him at the last second. But he kept coming forward, and with his very next step the stench of rancid grease from his hair pomade nearly flattened me.

Westcliffe was shaking his hand, introducing us both. I nodded at the right moment, then eased behind the headmistress and tried to breathe shallow breaths.

This, then, was the duke’s personal physician. This fidgety, fat, smelly man.

For the first time ever, I think, I felt a thread of sympathy for His Grace.

The doctor led us through the doorway, talking all the while.

“ … that you made it here in all haste. It will please the duke mightily. He’s been adamant that he speak with you—that is, with the young lady—as soon as possible. We’ve been utterly unable to reason with him about it.”

“I see,” said Westcliffe faintly.

Richardson Home on the inside was nothing whatsoever like a real home. We were walking down a corridor lined with sulphur-glass sconces, passing no parlors, no drawing rooms, only closed doors, most inset with small, barred windows. The reek of pomade had become overwhelmed with that of bleach and morphine and sour human waste.

Faces popped into view from behind the bars. Hands reaching up, fingers clawing, palms slapping at the doors. Voices keening, moaning—one man actually barking—all the prisoners feeding on the noise, an awful chorus of desperation bouncing against the barren walls.

Westcliffe’s feet began to drag. Her skin had blanched, but I …

Oh, I had seen all this before. I had lived this before.

I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood. There was a sound building up inside me, a hot hopeless pressure inside my throat, but I wasn’t going to moan back to these people. I wasn’t.

A woman’s hand with dirty, chipped fingernails poked out from a window as my head went by. I ducked out of the way just in time, leaving her fingers to scratch at empty air.

“Jeannie,” the woman shrieked, now her cheek pressed against the bars, one rolling eye. “At last! Come visit! Jeannie, Jeannie, where have you been all this while? Come visit your mother!”

“Pay them no mind,” the doctor called from over his shoulder. “Pitiable, of course, but one does grow accustomed to the everyday sights and sounds of their sickness. They’ll quiet after we pass. Er—avoid the cell windows, please. Some of the younger children have a fair reach.”

“Children,” repeated Westcliffe, still faint, but the good doctor had heard her.

“Oh, yes,” he enthused. “At Richardson we utilize the most modern medicines and methods for every manner of patient. Weakness of the mind acknowledges no boundaries of age, and I’m pleased to say that neither do we. All who are in need are welcome here.”

For the right price, I finished silently for him.

Moor Gate, asylum of the indigent, hadn’t used nearly this much bleach.

And that wasn’t the only difference, I soon saw. When the doctor unlocked the door to the duke’s cell, I had to stop in place and stare.

Here, then, was the home part of Richardson Home. Here was the gracious space, the luxurious surroundings, a peer of the realm would expect. There were rugs and tables and chairs, a writing desk, a silk folding screen, and a hulking canopied bed done up in royal blue damask. There were even windows set up high along two walls, letting in the sun past the bars, something I’d never glimpsed once in my year spent in the bowels of Moor Gate.

A fireplace held a crackling fire—no chill in here—and Reginald, Armand’s father, was seated before it in a smoking jacket with a blanket over his lap and a cup of something in his hands.

His Grace took in the three of us at his door with an air of mild astonishment. Then he set the cup aside and rose to his feet.

“Look, my lord,” said the doctor in a chipper tone. “Only look and see who has come to call on you.”

“Yes,” said the duke. “How kind.”

Mrs. Westcliffe slid an uncertain step toward him. “Your Grace.”

“Irene.” A brief smile lifted his lips. For a heartbreaking instant he looked so like his handsome son. “Lovely to see you.”

She sank into her curtsy, and I copied it. Reginald’s gaze jumped to mine.

“Miss Jones. I am glad you’ve come.”

I couldn’t think of a polite response to that—Blimey, I’m not!—so I only nodded.

“Timothy,” said the duke, sounding abruptly like his old, imperious self, “we’ll need tea. Some of those scones with the currants in them, fresh ones. See to it, old boy.”

“My lord, I don’t think—”

“The ladies shall be perfectly fine in my care,” Reginald interrupted. “I can assure you of that.”

“Yes,” agreed Westcliffe, forceful. “We shall be.”

“Indubitably true, my dear woman! The Duke of Idylling is a model patient, a paragon of a patient. But I cannot—”

“Do go,” I said, stepping in front of him, drawing his eyes to me. My voice slipped soft and smooth. “Go and see to the tea in the kitchens yourself.”

There is another drákon Gift I’ve not mentioned yet, and like all the others, it’s one I hadn’t mastered in the least. Occasionally—rarely—I was able to induce people to do what I wanted simply by darkening the tenor of my voice. There were times I tried it and failed miserably; I ended up sounding like nothing more than a cheap fortune-teller at a carnival sideshow.

But this time it worked. I hadn’t even meant to attempt it, but it had happened, and it worked.

The duke’s physician offered me a few more squinty blinks, but they were slower now. Baffled.

“Yes. I’ll … go to the kitchens.…”

“Splendid,” said His Grace.


I let them reunite with my back to them, hands clasped before me, studying the curtains that draped so stylishly from the canopy of the bed.

I pretended I didn’t hear them at all.

I pretended I didn’t hear the moans that still ricocheted down the hallway past the open door, and the woman weeping, “Jeannie, my Jeannie,” from behind the walls of her cell.


“And now, Irene, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Miss Jones.”

I turned around. They were seated a nice proper distance from each other, the fire glowing between them.

Westcliffe pursed her mouth.

“Privately,” added the duke.

“Well … I …”

I looked at her. I said nothing.

“Certainly.” She stood and went to the door. “I’ll wait here for the doctor to return, shall I?”

I approached the empty chair. The duke lifted a hand to it—and there was Armand in him again, sweeping a hand at me in the forest to inspect the hole he’d dug.

I settled gingerly against the cushions. The heat from the fire caressed the left side of my face and lit the right side of his, highlighting the deep hollow of his cheek, the sallow skin. Reddish glints danced in his lank brown hair.

“I know what you are,” Reginald said quietly.

I froze, then made myself relax back and cross my ankles.

His Grace had never seen me as a dragon. Not only that, but Armand’s drákon blood had come from his mother’s side, and even she hadn’t known what she was. She’d died not knowing, so I didn’t see how Reginald suddenly could.

“Oh?” I murmured.

“Yes, Miss Jones. I do.”

“If you mean that I am the very grateful recipient of your scholarship to Iverson, Your Grace, you are absolutely correct.”

“Oh, you’re that as well. Indeed you are. But you’re far more than meets the eye, Miss Jones. Armand sees it, too, though he won’t speak of it. You are something … dangerous.”

“Hardly.” I forced a stiff smile. “Just an ordinary girl.”

“No, Eleanore. No. You’ve been sent here. Sent to me, sent to Armand. And now I am going to send you to Aubrey.”

I let out a huff of surprise, but he wasn’t smiling back or even looking especially barmy. The lines of his face were drawn serious, his brown eyes glittering.

I leaned in close so Westcliffe wouldn’t overhear.

“Reginald, Aubrey is dead. Your eldest son is dead. His plane was shot down by the Germans this spring. Remember?”

“That’s what we were told. That’s what the telegrams said.”

“Yes.”

“But the telegrams were wrong. They were all wrong, because Aubrey is alive. And you’re the beast that’s going to bring him back to me.”

The beast.

A chill prickled my skin, creeping over me despite the fire. Reginald never released me from his dreadful gaze.

“That’s what he told me. That it will be up to you. Smoke-thing, winged-thing. Monster within.”

“What?” I managed.

“The boy in the stars. He speaks to me in my dreams, you know. Tells me things. You will be the one to find Aubrey. You must find him!”

I’d risen from the chair. I hadn’t meant to, but like my voice changing, it had just happened, and now Westcliffe was watching us and the duke’s fragile grip on his composure was beginning to crumble.

“Tell me you will!”

I licked my dry lips. “Your Grace, I’m sorry, but I have no notion what—”

“Do not lie to me, miss!” he thundered, leaping to his feet to tower over me, because all at once he was very tall, and I was very much not. He clapped his hands on my upper arms and gave me a wicked shake. “Do not lie, thing! I’ll not have it!”

“Reginald!” Westcliffe was moving toward us, her skirts black wings flapping. “Reginald!”

Everything seemed to slow. Westcliffe was slow, and the duke was slow, but one of his hands was clamped right on my injury and it hurt, so I cried out with my knees buckling and my own hand coming up to pry apart his fingers—

And then Armand was there. Right there behind Westcliffe. Past her, and Reginald was pushed off me and Armand stood between us nearly as tall as his father, his fists knotted into the duke’s satin lapels.

I stumbled back, knocked into the chair. Westcliffe caught me up and released me at once, both of us panting.

“Don’t you hurt her!” Armand snarled. “Ever! Do you hear me?”

“I—I had to tell her—”

“You never hurt her, never again!” He shoved his father back, and Reginald didn’t fight it, didn’t do anything but sort of deflate, all the heat and anger and glittery conviction vanished, leaving him empty as a sack. He sagged back into his chair.

“Good God.” He lifted a hand to his face, hiding his eyes. “Good God, no. I—I—I’m …”

None of us moved. Beside me, Westcliffe stood brittle as glass. Armand had his back to us both, broad and tensed, his fists still clenched. He radiated menace.

A random wild thought came to me, burrowed in: Here is the beast. Here he is.

My arm lifted. I touched my palm to his shoulder blade, and even with his shirt and jacket between us, I felt an electric, snapping shock.