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Joan wasn’t worried about overlooking Aaron. Mask or not, she’d know him as soon as she saw him. ‘We need to get him alone and persuade him to talk,’ she said.

‘We could get him drunk,’ Ruth whispered back. ‘Bet he’s a talkative drunk.’

Joan almost smiled at the thought. He probably was. She doubted that he’d touch a drink offered by a stranger, though.

And how did she know that? As she’d said to Ruth, she’d only known him for a few days. But … it was like she’d seen right inside him last time; like he’d let her see. He’d opened himself up like a gift.

They reached the circular clearing at the centre of the garden. A dozen people were dancing, Regency style, in neat steps, dresses swirling. A stringed quartet sat to one side, the players in bright bird-inspired masks. The music was staccato, in a minor key, and it made the old-fashioned dance steps seem eerie.

As Joan watched, the raven-haired man from earlier joined the dance. He bent his head slightly to greet his dance partner, vulture-like, and Joan’s breath caught. Behind the eyeless filigree mask, she made out the long gloomy shape of Lucien Oliver’s face.

As the music played on, Joan saw it all again—the beginning of the massacre. Lucien’s sword coming toward her in a blur; the sharp slap as Nick caught the blow; Lucien’s last punched breath as Nick shoved the sword into his heart. Lucien hadn’t even known that he’d been killed by a figure from the myths.

‘You know him?’ Ruth whispered. She’d seen Joan looking.

Joan shook her head. She forced herself to keep walking. ‘Let’s go up to the conservatory.’ It was higher on the hill, and they’d have a better view of the garden from above.

A reflecting pool lay in front of the conservatory, a rippling mirror of the glowing dome before them. Up close, the building was vast: a two-storey glass structure with iron bones.

Tom led the way in, followed by Jamie and then Joan and Ruth. The space was as humid as a butterfly house, and it smelled sweetly of earth and leaves. Guests strolled down paths lined with leafy ferns and, above, on a mezzanine level, forced chrysanthemums and birds-of-paradise bloomed.

It was hard to focus on the beauty, though. Joan spotted Victor Oliver, in an ox-shaped mask, the familiar mermaid tattoo on his wrist. He’d castigated Aaron for slumming with a Hunt, and he’d died in the South Garden of Holland House. And there was Marie Oliver, dark-haired and beautiful, her face mostly visible in a silver-feathered mask that only covered her mouth. Joan had last seen her lying dead in a colonnade.

She stared at the people before her, in their elegant clothes and masks, drinking and chatting and laughing. How many more of them would she recognise from the massacre if they took off their masks?

‘What is it?’ Ruth whispered to Joan.

Joan swallowed hard. ‘I’ve seen some of these people dead,’ she admitted. And now they were alive again. Joan had brought them back to life. Ruth squeezed Joan’s gloved hand tighter. ‘Ruth—’ Joan started. And then she heard a familiar cruel voice from the mezzanine above.

‘—tired of the authority of humans. The masquerade.’

A chill seemed to permeate the whole room. Joan couldn’t suppress her shudder as she looked up to find Edmund Oliver—Aaron’s father and the head of the Oliver family. He wore a charcoal suit and waistcoat and a half mask in bone-white porcelain that seemed to emphasise his high cheekbones. He stood on the mezzanine, gripping the gilded banister, surveying his guests with cold regard.

Joan reached for her own mask again for reassurance. Edmund had a special hatred of humans. Half-human, half-monster, he’d said to her once. If your mother were an Oliver, you’d have been voided in the womb. But the Hunts have such tolerance for abominations. Her skin crawled at the memory.

Most monsters took human life in small increments—a few days from this person; a few days from that one. But Joan suspected that Edmund took all he could; that he killed people outright. And Joan had brought him back to life too.

Did you think there’d be no consequences? Astrid had said. ‘That’s why I prefer the early centuries,’ the man beside Edmund answered. He was grey-haired and stooped, with a plain black mask. ‘There’s a certain agreeable leeway in the unrecorded shadows of history.’

Edmund grunted in response.

‘What do you think?’ the grey-haired man asked.

It took Joan a second to realise that he wasn’t speaking to Edmund, but to a figure on Edmund’s other side. Joan drew a sharp breath. It was Aaron.

‘Aaron doesn’t have thoughts,’ Edmund said dismissively.

Aaron didn’t react. His angelic face was half-concealed by a delicate golden mask that skirted the bridge of his nose and covered his eyes. His blond hair was unmistakable—as rich as the mask. He usually wore grey, but he was all in black tonight: suit, waistcoat, and shirt. There was no hint of emotion in his posture, but to Joan’s eyes he looked like he was in a bubble, alone.

Joan had one of those flashes of overlaid memory; the first time she’d seen Aaron, he’d been standing alone in a window recess at Holland House.

Ruth followed Joan’s gaze. ‘I’ll grant him one thing,’ she murmured. ‘He always looks good.’ It was as grudging as when she’d admired the Oliver gardens.

‘He does,’ Tom said absently, and then to Joan’s surprise, he reddened.

Jamie bit back a smile. ‘I think we can all appreciate the aesthetic.’ He turned to Joan. ‘Don’t you think?’

Joan felt herself starting to redden just like Tom. To her relief, Ruth interrupted the moment. ‘I count five on the security team,’ she whispered.