But it seemed to Elisabeth that evil could not exist right now, in this place, not with all those people making their pilgrimage by lamplight to the river; there was too much beauty in the world for evil to possess any hope of victory.

“I would like that,” she said.

“Are you sure? I’m already having second thoughts. I just had an image of you speeding around with knives attached to your feet.”

She frowned at him. He was grinning. She realized, with a pang, that she had missed his smile: the wicked look it gave him, the amusement that sparkled in his eyes like sunlight dancing across water. As they gazed at each other, and seconds passed, his grin began to fade.

“Don’t stop,” she said, but it was no use. He looked serious again.

Yet it was not the same seriousness as before. The air had changed between them. She grew keenly aware of every place their bodies touched, which now felt hot instead of merely warm, a heat that spread to her cheeks and tightened her stomach—a sweet, almost painful anticipation.

She swallowed. “I wanted to ask,” she said, “about when we were on the pavilion—when we . . .” Nathaniel was looking at her in such a way that she nearly couldn’t finish. “Was that you?” she asked. “Or was it Ashcroft’s spell controlling you?”

He didn’t answer with words. Instead he leaned forward and kissed her, his lips as soft as crushed velvet, his fingers tangling in her hair.

Afterward, he drew away. Disappointment flooded her, but he only moved far enough to rest his forehead against hers. “God, Elisabeth, I’ve been doomed since the moment I watched you smack a fiend off my carriage with a crowbar. How could you not tell? Silas has been rolling his eyes at me for weeks.”

She laughed. In a dizzying rush, a great many of the things he had said and done suddenly made perfect sense. She felt transformed by the revelation. Nothing else existed but their mingled breath, the chill of the window against her side, the memory of the softness of Nathaniel’s lips lingering on her own. It was her turn to lean forward.

“Wait,” he said, forcing out the word with an effort. “This is—we shouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“It wouldn’t be fair to you. I can’t offer you a decent future. Even as a child I gave up any hope of leading a good or normal life. To subject you to that, to drag you into the shadows with me—”

Tenderness swelled in her chest. Everything was always so complicated with him. She found his hand, resting on her cheek, and laced their fingers together.

“I’m already with you, and it suits me perfectly well,” she said. “You’re enough for me the way you are, Nathaniel Thorn. I want nothing more.”

Then they were kissing again, with urgency. Back on the pavilion, she had been right; this did feel like drowning, a desperate, gasping, weightless plunge, Nathaniel’s mouth as vital as air, the world receding far away as they sank together into a fathomless depth of sensation. She reached for him, wanting to feel him close against her, only to hear his breath catch. Too late, she remembered his bandaged chest. Before she could apologize, he pressed her down against the cushions.

Raised above her with his hands braced on either side, he took her in, his eyes dark and his lips flushed. His loose, rumpled hair cast blue shadows over the angular planes of his face; she thought distantly that he would need to have it cut soon, or start tying it back like Silas.

He leaned his weight onto one arm and reached for the belt of her dressing gown. With her heart in her throat, she nodded. She watched him slip the knot deftly, using just one hand, and part the garment with infinite care. Candlelight shimmered over the pale cream satin of her nightgown. She was aware of her quickened breath, her chest rising and falling, the tickle of the garment’s lace edge and the cling of its sleek fabric.

“I fought the Book of Eyes in a nightgown,” she told him, barely a whisper.

“In that case,” he replied, “I expect I don’t stand a chance.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was joking. His expression was almost one of agony. She took pity on him and placed her hands on his shoulders, nervousness quivering through her like a note of music as she pulled him down.

They kissed gently this time, shyly, now that the first heady rush was spent. Nathaniel cupped her face, caressing her hair, and then ran his hand down her side until he found her waist, his calloused fingers catching on the satin. Her skin had grown so sensitive to his touch that she surprised herself by shuddering in pleasure; the nightgown’s slippery fabric melded with her body, and she barely felt as though she were wearing anything at all. Her focus narrowed to the heat of their lips and breath, the lush squeeze of his hand on her hip, the shifting muscles of his back as she skimmed her fingertips across his shoulders, marveling at how strong he felt, the way their bodies molded as though made to fit together. When she turned her head to let him press kisses to her neck, the chill air beside the window tasted of snow and starlight. The city’s lights shimmered through patterns of frost.

Time seemed to slow. Reflected in the glass, the wavering flames of the candles stood still. Snowflakes hung sparkling in the air. She didn’t know if it was Nathaniel’s doing, or a different kind of magic entirely.

A fierce, urgent joy thrummed through her body. She felt as though she could leap out the window and take flight, soaring high above the rooftops, impervious to the cold. She closed her eyes and gripped Nathaniel’s back, lost in the overwhelming sensation of his mouth against her skin.

A knock came on the door.

Heat scalded Elisabeth’s cheeks as they both jerked upright. Minutes ago, the door had been open. Silas must have closed it at some point, and she could only imagine what he’d seen. “We’re decent,” she said, tugging the edges of her dressing gown into place.

The door creaked open. As usual, Silas’s expression gave no indication of his thoughts. She instantly felt foolish for imagining that, after centuries of living among humans, he might have the capacity to be shocked by her and Nathaniel’s behavior.

“Master,” he said. “Miss Scrivener. I am sorry to disturb you, but you must come at once. Something is happening to the Codex Daemonicus.”

For a split second, Elisabeth sat frozen, her ears ringing with Silas’s words. Then she burst upright, almost bowling the armchair over in her haste to seize Demonslayer from the corner. Without a second thought, she charged outside.

Her eyes watered. She coughed. A haze hung over the hallway, and when she reached the stairwell, smoke billowed up from the foyer in oily clouds. The sour, unmistakable stench of burning leather choked her nostrils. Dimly, she was aware of Nathaniel and Silas following her as she flew down the stairs.

“Did anything spill on the Codex?” she shouted over her shoulder, mentally going over the precautions they had taken. Following the night that it had transformed into a Malefict, she had been careful not to set any candles nearby. But perhaps one of the potions in the study had exploded, or a magical artifact had acted up—

“No, miss,” Silas replied. “Until a moment ago, all was well.”

Elisabeth’s stomach twisted. If the damage to the Codex hadn’t happened on their end, that could only mean one thing.

Ashcroft had found a way inside.