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with thick claws and razor-sharp beaks? Have we been sent by the queen to make them stand trial for their crimes?”
    “Yes!” Harry agreed happily. “These are—” He stopped. “Oh, no. I can’t. That’s…that’s pretending, isn’t it? Father said I’m too old for that now.”
    Another time, Sebastian would have pooh-poohed that concept. He would, in point of fact, have mentioned that he had an extra stick of candy in his coat pocket, and that only the finest owl hunters in the land received the Sweet Wand of Horehound as a reward when they vanquished a nest of the Poisonous Owls of Feathergloop.
    But Benedict wouldn’t like it.
    “Yes,” he said glumly, “it’s pretend. And if you say you’re too old for it…”
    He looked down at his nephew’s head—at that dark cowlick that didn’t quite sit properly, leaving Harry’s hair sticking up no matter how much he swiped it down. Sebastian mussed it fiercely, until the brown strands stood out from his nephew’s head like a halo.
    “Let’s just go look at the owls.”

    I T HAD BEEN TWO WEEKS since Violet had last seen Sebastian—two weeks that she had hoped would lessen the sting of his words. Somehow, she managed to pretend nothing was amiss—going about her daily tasks as if a gaping hole had not opened in her life. But routine didn’t help; it only reminded her of everything that she’d lost.
    It was proof of Violet’s disquiet that she had eventually given up pretending and come to this comfortable Mayfair home. From the outside, it looked like any genteel residence: white paint, black trim, flowers in boxes at the front windows. When Violet was let inside, there was the usual marble entryway, the normal formal sideboard. But there was also a small army of tin soldiers encamped on the wide steps leading up to the first floor, abandoned by their generals in the midst of battle preparations.
    Some families believed that children should be seen and not heard. But Violet’s sister had too many children to do anything more than cast haggard glances at that particular rule. The entry to Lily’s house echoed with the shrieks of children at play.
    Lots of children.
    Violet handed her things to the footman and waited. Lily always made time to see her sister, no matter what wreckage her children were making of the house.
    Violet wasn’t sure if Lily loved her—their family was not the sort to talk of such things, and Violet was difficult to care for. But Violet loved her sister, and Lily needed Violet. In the end, for someone like her, it all came out to approximately the same thing: When Violet was in need, she went to her sister.
    After weeks of trying to forget Sebastian’s words—weeks of staring at plants that she’d sprouted with Sebastian at her side—she needed to comfort someone.
    Thinking of Sebastian still felt like pouring boiling water over her chest. Two weeks, and it still burned to remember what he’d said to her.
I have standards. You don’t meet them.
    She sniffed and looked away, waiting for the pain to dissipate. It didn’t, so she simply handed her things to the footman who’d met her.
    “Tell the marchioness that I am here, if you please,” she said.
    “Of course, my lady.” The man gave her a bow. “If you’ll allow me to show you to the—”
    “Wait!” The call came from up the staircase.
    Violet looked up to see her eldest niece waving madly at her. Amanda spilled down the staircase, darting around the tin-soldier fortifications with a coltish awkwardness that made her seem even prettier. A young lady seventeen years of age couldn’t help but be pretty. Amanda was fresh and smiling and exuberant, unwilling to believe that life would bring anything other than the best things to her.
    Violet hoped she was right.
    “Aunt Violet,” her niece said breathlessly, grabbing hold of Violet’s arm. “Thank
God
you are here. I must talk to you.”
    Violet looked down at her niece’s fingers overlapping her sleeve.