There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?” —Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Palace of Art” “Jessamine,” Henry said again, for what must have been the fifth or sixth time. “I still can’t believe it. Our Jessamine?” Every time he said it, Tessa noticed, Charlotte’s mouth grew a little tighter. “Yes,” she said again. “Jessamine. She has been spying on us and reporting our every move to Nate, who has been passing the information to Mortmain. Must I say it again?” Henry blinked at her. “I’m sorry, darling. I have been listening. It is only that—” He sighed. “I knew she was unhappy here. But I did not think Jessamine hated us.” “I don’t think she did—or does.” This was Jem, who was standing near the fire in the drawing room, one arm upon the mantel. They had not gathered for breakfast as they usually did; there had been no formal announcement as to why, but Tessa guessed that the idea of going on with breakfast, with Jessamine’s place empty, as if nothing had happened, had been too dreadful for Charlotte to bear.
