“All women of intellect must,” she said, “or at least be conversant in it. That’s how I’ve managed to learn of their world what I’ve learned so far. Reading, experimenting, vigorous note-keeping. Learning as much as I can from the Paras I’ve met here.”

“Have you met many?”

“Quite a few. Most of them are lovely people; some of them are not. Not unlike humans, in my experience. Now, keep your hand there, if you would. Liam, will you please bring me my notebook?”

Liam walked back to the bureau, pulled open a door on the buffet, and slipped out a red leather book, its pages held together with brass posts. He extended it toward Eleanor, who felt the air for it with seeking fingertips before settling it into her lap.

She opened it, revealing what looked like a ledger of color. One half of the page held small painted squares of translucent color, each only slightly different from the last. It looked a little like one of the antique watercolor swatch books I’d seen in the store. The other half was a list in small and tidy handwriting too small for me to read.

Eleanor flipped through the pages quickly, the colors blurring into a rainbow from red to orange to something akin to the pumpkin I matched. She slowed, stopped on a square that looked remarkably like the light that still slitted through the prism, and lifted the small pencil attached to a chain around her neck.

She scribbled, paused. “What’s your middle name, dear?”

“Bridget,” I said. “It was my grandmother’s name.”

“And a lovely one. Claire Bridget Connolly.” She wrote my name, then let the pencil fall again. “And I’ve marked you down. Not your actual name, of course. I use my own code for your protection.”

“Sure. Are those all Sensitives? Each color?”

“Sensitives and Paras both. It’s a collection of colors, and their magical echoes in the Beyond. I fill in the names when I find them. And over seven years, there’ve been a few.”

Satisfied I’d been recorded in her journal, she moved through the pages until green turned to blue, which faded to deep indigo. Finally, she paused, touched her fingertips to the page as, brow furrowed, she seemed to gaze into middle distance. “This, I think. The names, Liam?”

She gestured to the scripts beside each square.

Liam leaned over, read the first name. “Michael Temperly.”

“Dead, unfortunately, rest his soul,” Eleanor said, and crossed herself.

“Elizabeth Conyers Proctor.”

“Quite dead,” Eleanor said. “But not unfortunately. She was a horrible person. Wife of Senator Ellis Proctor. We invited her to a party—this was before the war—and she had the gumption to decline because we were ‘too Creole for her.’” Eleanor made a sound that hovered between disbelief and disgust, but managed to be ladylike. “As if that’s possible. Well, too late for her at any rate. Who else?”

Eleanor frowned, ran her fingers over the book. She hovered over another square, brow furrowed again, before moving back a row. “I’m afraid this as close as we’re going to get. Liam?”

As he read the words, Liam’s smile faded quickly. “Nix.”

Quiet descended over the room at the bombshell of the name, whatever it meant.

“Gavin is not going to like that,” Liam said into the lingering quiet.

Eleanor made a sound of disapproval. “Whether he likes it is no matter. She’s the right choice. It is what it is. There’s no point arguing with complementary magic.”

Liam grunted. “Like magic’s ever stopped him. I don’t disagree Nix’s a good choice, but he’s going to take some convincing.” He scratched absently at the back of his neck. “I’d be happy to let you handle that, Eleanor.”