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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.
    “Armand. Mandy. I’m unharmed.”
    He rolled his shoulders to shuck me off, then threw me an unreadable glance.
    “My lord,” pleaded Westcliffe, her words trembling. “Lord Sherborne. He meant no ill.”
    “No,” the duke was muttering. “No, no, no …”
    Armand dropped to his knees before his father, bracing both hands against the arms of the chair to pin him in.
    “Reg. Listen to me. Are you listening?”
    “Yes …”
    “I’ve received news. A wire from the prime minister. I drove straight here as soon as I got it. It’s—it’s tremendous, wonderful news.” Armand’s voice was rough with emotion; he let out a shaky breath. “Aubrey is alive. He didn’t die. Dad, he’s alive .”
    The duke lifted his head. His hair had fallen forward and his cheeks were mottled. He flicked back the hair, scowled at his son, and brushed both hands down his crushed lapels.
    “That is precisely what I’ve been saying ,” he announced peevishly. “Aubrey is alive and captured. And this thing here, this beast named Eleanore, is going to be the one who flies there and brings him home.”
    Like a puppet yanked upright by a single jerk of its strings, Armand was standing, staggering a few steps toward me. Our eyes locked. I didn’t know if my expression mirrored his, but I knew my insides did: disbelief, smothered guilt.
    That cold, budding fear.
    He looked from me to his father to Westcliffe, who had both hands knuckled against her mouth and really, truly appeared as if she might keel over.
    Armand tipped back his head and pinched his fingers over his eyes—just like his father had done. “Where the deuce is that wretched doctor,