Atwater paled and flushed by turns. “What are you saying, August? Surely you aren’t accusing me of—” His hands clenched and Trey’s hands twitched for Sorrow. Let the man make even one threatening move—
Winter gave his friend a look devoid of pity—or any other emotion. “Why did you do it, Reggie? You, of all people?”
All the fight went out of the other man. He sank into his chair, deflating like a punctured balloon, and put his head into his hands.
“It wasn’t supposed to go this far,” he said, voice muffled. “I only meant to shake things up a bit, scare people, turn them against Internal Affairs.”
Winter’s eyebrows shot up. “Turn them against Internal Affairs?” he repeated. “You, who have been a staunch supporter your entire political career? In the name of the Twelve Saints, why?”
Atwater lifted a face old and lined and bitter. “And much good it’s done me! There’s no money in it, is there? All the new financiers, industrialists, and mercantile companies are agitating to relax the regulations the government imposes on magic use…”
“Like, perhaps, bringing miasma from the Shadow Lands?” interrupted Trey. He glared at Atwater, who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Or Winter’s.
“Which groups financed you?” demanded Winter, leaning forward, his knuckles white on the chair back. “Who supplied you with the miasma?”
Atwater pressed his lips together and shook his head. A crafty look had come into his eyes. “I won’t say any more. This is not a trial; I’m not required to speak.”
“Don’t make this worse for yourself, Reggie,” Winter warned.
“Oh, it can’t get much worse than it already is,” Atwater answered. “But I won’t just give myself to the hangman’s noose. You want names, you’re going to have to pay for them.”
They stared at each other, Winter pale and contemptuous, Atwater flushed and belligerent.
“Very well,” said Winter, “if that’s the game you want to play. But you will understandably be detained.” He nodded to the Home Office constables waiting against the wall. They came forward with magic-sealing manacles.
Atwater held out his wrists with no further complaints. His eyes were on Winter as they yanked him to his feet. “Well, you did advise me to give up politics, August.”
And with a bitter chuckle, he let himself be led away.
Arabella Trent opened her eyes and stared up at a familiar ceiling covered in painted pink roses and yellow tulips.
She felt oddly heavy. Weights seemed to be attached to her lids, so that it took great effort to keep them open. Her eyes felt gummy, her head weighed as much as a cannonball, and as for the rest of her…
And then she remembered.
Arabella gasped and jumped up.
Or at least, she tried to. But what emerged from her stiff lips was a low moan, and all her body did was twitch a bit.
Her body, that she now inhabited.
Arabella’s hands were still crossed on her chest. Her fingers tightened around each other, seeking her ring. The sapphire pressed into her hand, and a small smile curved her dry lips.
Hurrah, she thought, too tired to do much more. After being lighter than air, she’d have to get used to her corporeal form again.
She lay for a few minutes, reveling in the sound and feel of her body. The rhythm of her own breathing, the pounding of her heart, the gurgle of her insides…
Oh. She was hungry.
Arabella levered herself up onto an elbow and eased herself up the pillows. The movement took far longer than it should’ve, and she was panting with exhaustion after.
Clearly, she needed nourishment.
Arabella lay back against the pillows for a while, then reached out for the bell pull. Her hand was loose around it, but she managed to tug it down. Once, twice, thrice.
She didn’t have long to wait. Voices called and footsteps sounded, the door crashed open, and suddenly the room was full of people.
Aunt Cecilia, still in her night dress and wrapper, just kept herself from throwing herself at Arabella, instead clinging to her hand, saying over and over again, “He was right! He was right! Just leave her be to come back to herself, he said. He was right!”
The maids crying and dabbing their eyes behind her. A ghastly-looking Harry leaning against the doorjamb in weak-kneed relief; Uncle Henry misty-eyed and polishing his spectacles furiously next to him.
“Well,” he said, frowning at his work and blinking rapidly. “Well, well.”
Arabella looked at them all, loving them, smiling so hard it was a wonder her face didn’t crack. “Well,” she said, her voice cracking instead. “I’m back.”
Chapter Fifteen
Several days later, Arabella alighted from a hackney, too impatient to let Jonathan Blake open the door for her.
“Be careful, Arabella,” Charlotte called after her. “Remember, you’re still recovering!”
Arabella swung around and turned a laughing face up at Charlotte’s anxious one. “I am miles better,” she declared. “I could’ve walked here perfectly easily, I’m sure.”
“I’m glad you didn’t try,” said Charlotte tartly, as her brother helped her out. It was hard to tell who was supporting whom, since Blake had also been injured on the day of the Viewing. “I’d have hated to have you fainting halfway here. What a bore that would be!”
That was more like the Charlotte she knew. Arabella wasn’t used to the other girl being solicitous.
The air was mild, the sunshine young that morning. The characteristic soot and sewage smell of the City had retreated. Arabella looked around at the brick townhouses and iron lamps, marveling at how commonplace and unthreatening they looked.
It was hard to believe she’d taken an unnerving walk through these streets as a ghost, the Shadow Lands cold against her back.
Arabella shook out the folds of her pelisse and tried not to skip with impatience. “Are you sure he’ll be there?” she queried Blake.
The young man flashed her a smile. He was still pale and quiet, but his expression was warm enough. “Aye. I had Sutton send me a message when he left the Quadrangle.”
Blake turned to the hackney driver, telling him to wait for them. Arabella
