Chapter 19: Marks of Woe

19MARKS OF WOE

I wander thro’ each charter’d street,

Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.

And mark in every face I meet

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

—William Blake, “London”

Grace suspected it was evening. She had no real way of telling, save by the changing nature of the meals she was brought—oatmeal for breakfast, sandwiches for luncheon, and supper, which tonight had been mutton with currant jelly. It was all rather better than her mother’s usual fare.

She had also been provided with two plain linen dresses, in a sort of bone color, not unlike the robes the Brothers wore. She supposed she could sit about the cell stark naked for all they really cared, but she dressed carefully each day and plaited her hair anyway. It seemed like giving up something not to do it, and this evening she was glad she had, as soft footsteps heralded a visitor.

She sat up on her bed, heart pounding. Jesse? Had he forgiven her? Returned? There was so much she wanted to say, to explain to him—

“Grace.” It was Christopher. Gentle Christopher. The torches burning in the corridor—Brother Zachariah had put them there for her, since the Brothers did not need light—showed her that he was alone, coatless, and carried a leather satchel over his shoulder.

“Christopher!” she whispered loudly. “Did you sneak in?”

He looked puzzled. “No, of course not. Brother Zachariah asked me if I knew the way and I said yes, so he went to attend to other business.” He held up something that glittered. A key. “He said I could come into the cell and visit with you. He says he trusts you not to try to escape, which is rather nice.”

Into the cell?Grace hadn’t been near another human being without bars between them for what felt like forever. It was kind of Zachariah to let a friend come into her cell, she thought, as Christopher unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking. Kindness still knocked her off guard, leaving her feeling confused and almost uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid that there’s only the one chair,” Grace said. “So I’ll remain sitting on the bed, if that’s all right. I know it isn’t proper.”

“I don’t think the usual rules of British etiquette hold here,” Christopher said, sitting down with his satchel in his lap. “The Silent City isn’t in London—it’s everywhere, isn’t it? We could walk out the doors and be in Texas or Malacca. So we can cobble together any rules of politeness we like.”

Grace couldn’t help but smile. “That makes a surprising amount of sense. But then, you often do. Have you come to discuss the notes you left? I’ve had some thoughts—ways the process might be refined, or experiments that could be tried—”

“We needn’t talk about the notes,” said Christopher. “It’s the Institute’s Christmas party tonight, you see.” He began rooting around in his satchel. “And I thought, since you couldn’t go, I might try to bring some of the party to you. To remind you that even though you are here, it is not forever, and soon enough you will again be someone who goes to parties.” As though performing a magic track, he drew out a green glass bottle. “Champagne,” he said. “And glasses for champagne.” These too he drew out of the bag and set on the small wooden table next to Grace’s bed.

There was a feeling in Grace’s stomach that she didn’t recognize, a sort of fizziness like champagne itself. “You are a very strange boy.”

“Am I?” said Christopher, sounding legitimately surprised.

“You are,” said Grace. “You turn out to be very sensitive, for a scientist.”

“One can be both,” Christopher said mildly. His kindness, like Zachariah’s, left her almost worried. She would never have expected it, not from one of James’s friends, who had every reason to dislike her, but he seemed steadfast in his desire to make sure she did not feel utterly abandoned or forgotten.

And yet it was all built on deceit. She knew that now, from Jesse’s reaction to what she had told him. He would have found out on his own, anyway, she was sure; but if she had not told him, every part of their relationship would have been a lie. Now at least, if he forgave her…

With a loud pop, Christopher removed the cork from the top of the bottle. He poured two glasses, set the bottle on a shelf, and held a glass out to her: it was an oddly pretty thing in the dreary cell, the gold-colored liquid shining.

“Christopher,” she said, taking the glass. “There is something I must tell you.”

His lavender eyes—so beautifully odd, the color—widened. “What’s happened?”

“It’s not quite that.” Solemnly Christopher clinked his glass against hers. She took a long drink from the glass, and it tickled her nose; she had to hold back a sneeze. It was better than she remembered. “It’s something I’ve done… to someone. Something terrible, in secret.”

His brow furrowed. “Is this something you did to me?”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “Not at all. Nothing to do with you.”

“Then probably,” he said, “it’s not me you need to confess to, but rather the person you did it to.”

His voice was solemn. Grace looked at him, at his gentle serious face, and thought, He suspects. I don’t know how, and perhaps he only speculates, but—he guesses something very close to the truth.

“Grace,” he said. “I’m sure whomever you have wronged, he will forgive you. If you explain how it happened, and why.”

“I have confessed already,” she said slowly. “To the one I wronged. I cannot say that he has forgiven me, nor that I deserve his forgiveness.” She bit her lip. “I have no right to ask,” she said slowly. “But if you could help me…”

Christopher looked at her, with his steady scientist’s gaze. “Help you with what?”

“There is someone else,” she said, “who has been harmed greatly by my actions, through no fault of their own. Someone who deserves to know the truth.” She took a deep breath. “Cordelia. Cordelia Carstairs.”

---

Lucie would never have admitted it out loud, but she was pleased that the Christmas party was going forward. She had become reacquainted with Jesse at a ball at the Institute, but he had been a ghost and she the only one who could see him: it had been startling, but not, perhaps, romantic. This was her first chance to dance with him as a breathing, living man, and she was filled with nervous excitement.

The weather outside had been electric all day, heavy with the promise of a storm that had not yet broken. Lucie sat at her vanity table as the sun dipped low outside her window, firing the horizon with scarlet while her mother put the finishing touches on Lucie’s hair. (Tessa had grown up without a maid and had learned early on to do her own hair; she was excellent at helping Lucie with hers, and some of Lucie’s best memories were of her mother plaiting her hair while reciting to her the plot of a bad novel she’d just read.)

“Could you pin my hair with this, Mama?” Lucie asked, holding up her gold comb. Jesse had given it to her earlier that day, saying only that he would like to see her wear it again.

“Of course.” Tessa deftly smoothed a coil of Lucie’s French pompadour into place. “Are you nervous, kitten?”

Lucie tried to convey a negative response without moving her head. “About Jesse? I think he’ll be fine being Jeremy. He’s had to pretend a great deal in his life. And he’ll still be a Blackthorn.”

“Luckily,” Tessa said, “the Blackthorns have a long-standing reputation for all looking alike. Dark hair, green or blue eyes. Honestly, I imagine everyone will simply be delighted to have someone new to bother and gossip about.” She slid a few gold-and-ivory pins into Lucie’s hair. “He’s a lovely boy, Lucie. Constantly asking what he can do to help. I think he’s not used to kindness. He’s downstairs in the ballroom now with your father, assisting with the tree.” She winked. “He looks very handsome.”

Lucie giggled. “I hope you mean Jesse, and not Papa.”

“Your father also looks very handsome.”

“You are allowed to think so,” said Lucie. “I am allowed to find the idea horrifying.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Jesse? Before, I mean?” Tessa picked up a pair of Lucie’s earbobs—ice-gray drops set in gold—and passed them over to her. Lucie’s only other jewelry was the gold Blackthorn locket around her neck.

“You mean when he was a ghost? Because he was a ghost,” Lucie said with a smile. “I thought you would have disapproved.”

Tessa gave a small chuckle. “Lucie, my love, I know that to you I am your boring old mother, but I had my share of adventures when I was younger. And,” she added, in a more serious voice, “I know that there is no way for me to wrap you in cotton wool and protect you from all danger, much as I wish I could. You are a Shadowhunter. And I am proud of you for that.” She pinned the final shining coil of Lucie’s hair with the gold comb and stood back to admire her handiwork. “There. All done.”

Lucie looked at herself in the mirror. Her mother had left the pompadour loose, with curls falling on either side of Lucie’s face. Near-invisible ivory pins held the whole structure in place and matched the ivory lace trim on Lucie’s lavender silk dress. Her Marks stood out black and stark against her skin: Agility against her collarbone, her Voyance rune on her hand.

Lucie got to her feet. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the Christmas party, you know,” she said.

“What is?” asked Tessa.

“The part when you do my hair beforehand,” Lucie said, and kissed her mother on the cheek.

---

Thomas glared at the fruit basket, and the fruit basket glared back.

He had been standing on the pavement in front of Cornwall Gardens for nearly ten minutes and had long ago run out of excuses for his failure to knock on the front door. Also, he had stepped in a cold puddle while exiting the carriage and his socks were wet.

The fruit basket was for Alastair’s mother, Sona. Eugenia had been meant to deliver it, but some kind of emergency had occurred in which hair had been burnt in an attempt to curl it, and chaos had taken the reins at his house. Somehow, Thomas—only half-dressed for the party himself—had found himself being shoehorned into a carriage by his father, with the basket following. Gideon Lightwood had leaned into the carriage and said solemnly, “It is a far, far better thing that you do, than you have ever done before,” which seemed to Thomas quite unfunny. After which his father had closed the carriage door.

Thomas looked down at the basket again, but it persisted in offering him no advice. It seemed to have some oranges in it, and a biscuit tin and some nicely wrapped holiday sweets. It really was a kind gesture from his family, he reminded himself, and nothing he should be worried about. And he’d checked already to make sure that the Carstairs carriage was gone, which meant Alastair and Cordelia had already left for the party. Telling himself that he was being ridiculous, he raised a hand and knocked firmly on the door.

Which was answered immediately by Alastair.

“What are you doing here?” said Thomas indignantly.

Alastair looked at him with his dark eyebrows peaked. “I live here,” he pointed out. “Thomas, have you brought me a fruit basket?”

“No,” Thomas said crossly. He knew it was unfair, but he could not help but feel Alastair had played a sort of trick on him by being home when Thomas had not expected it. “It’s for your mother.”

“Ah. Well, come in, then,” Alastair said, and swung the door wide. Thomas staggered inside and set the basket down on the entryway table. He turned back to Alastair, and immediately launched into the speech he’d prepared on his way over:

“The basket is from my mother and my aunt Cecily. They were concerned that your mother would feel forgotten, since everyone will be at the party tonight. They wanted her to know they were thinking of her. Speaking of which,” he added before he could stop himself, “why aren’t you at the Institute?”

He looked Alastair up and down: Alastair was certainly not dressed like someone planning to attend a party. He was in shirtsleeves, his braces hanging down around his hips, his feet in slippers. He looked sulky and bitten-lipped and ferocious, like a Persian prince from a fairy tale.

A Persian prince from a fairy tale? SHUT UP, THOMAS.

Alastair shrugged. “If I’m leaving for Tehran soon, it hardly seems worth socializing with the Enclave. I thought I’d spend a productive evening at home. Go through some of Cordelia’s books about paladins. See if I could find anything helpful.”

“So Cordelia went to the party on her own?”

“With Anna and Ari. She left a bit early to pick them up.”

An awkward pause fell over the foyer. Thomas knew that the correct thing to say was something along the lines of, Well, I should be off. Instead he said, “So your plan is to brood at home by yourself all night? Rather than going to a party with your friends?”

Alastair gave him a sour look. “They’re not my friends.”

“You say that kind of thing often,” Thomas said. “Almost as though if you repeat it enough, it will become true.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. He was wearing his best black jacket, which strained at the seams over his shoulders. “If you don’t go, I won’t go either. I will stay home, and mice will nibble on me in my despair.”

Alastair blinked. “There’s no reason for that,” he said. “You’ve got every reason to go—”

“But I won’t,” Thomas said. “I will remain at home, despairing, being nibbled upon by mice. It’s your choice.”

Alastair held up one finger for a moment as though to speak, and then let it drop. “Well. Damn you, Lightwood.”

“Alastair?” came a light voice from the parlor. Sona; of course they would have brought her down here, to keep her from having to climb the stairs every day. “Che khabare? Che kesi dame dar ast?” What’s going on? Who was at the door?

Alastair looked darkly at Thomas. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go to your stupid party. But you have to amuse my mother while I get dressed.”

And with that, he turned and stalked upstairs.

Thomas had never been alone with Alastair’s mother. Before he could lose his nerve entirely, he snatched up the fruit basket and brought it into the parlor.

Sona was sitting up, propped on a chaise longue by about a thousand pillows of various rich colors. She was wearing a brocade dressing gown and wrapped in a thick blanket, which rose like a mountain over the hill of her stomach. Not knowing where to look, Thomas carefully put the basket on the table next to her. He explained the nature of the gift while Sona smiled delightedly.

“Oh my,” she said. “That’s so very thoughtful of them. I do feel thought of, and that is a lovely gift in itself.”

“Ghabel nadare,”said Thomas. Don’t mention it. It was a gamble—he’d studied Persian on his own, and helped James with the language as well. He knew the phrase meant, It’s not worthy of you, and was a common thing to say when giving a gift. He also wasn’t sure he was pronouncing it properly, and he was fairly sure the tops of his ears were turning red.

Sona’s eyes sparkled. “So many young people learning Persian these days,” she said, as if highly entertained. She leaned forward. “Tell me, where is my son? I do hope he didn’t abandon you at the front door.”

“Not at all,” Thomas said. “I managed to talk him into coming to the Christmas party. He went to change clothes.”

“You managed to talk him into it,” Sona repeated, as if Thomas had claimed that he had sailed around the world in a canoe. “Well, I”—she looked at Thomas closely—“I am delighted that Alastair has a friend who will look out for his best interests, even when he does not. Not like that ahmag Charles,” Sona added, as if to herself. But she was looking at Thomas even more closely than before.

“Charles?” Thomas echoed. Surely Sona had no idea—

“Charles never cared for Alastair,” Sona said. “Not the way he deserves to be cared for. Alastair deserves to have someone in his life who understands how truly wonderful he is. Who suffers when he suffers, and is happy when he is happy.”

“Yes,” Thomas said, “he does,” and his mind raced. Did Sona know he wanted to be that person for Alastair? Did she know that Alastair and Charles had been romantically entangled? Was she giving Alastair and Thomas her blessing? Was he inventing things in his fevered mind? “I think,” he said at last, hardly realizing he was saying it, “that the person most standing between Alastair and happiness is Alastair himself. He is brave, and loyal, and his heart—” He found himself blushing. “I suppose I wish Alastair would treat himself as he deserves to be treated.”

Sona was smiling down into the fruit basket. “I do agree. As a child, Alastair was always gentle. It was only when he went away to school—”

She broke off as Alastair stalked into the room. No one would have guessed he had gotten dressed in a hurry: he was starkly elegant in black and white, his eyes luminous and deep. The curve of his throat was as graceful as a bird’s wing. “All right, Thomas,” he said. “If you’re quite done assaulting my mother with fruit, we might as well be on our way.”

Thomas said nothing as Alastair went across the room to kiss his mother on the cheek; they spoke together in Persian too rapid for Thomas to understand. He only watched Alastair: Alastair being gentle, Alastair being loving, the Alastair Sona had known, but Thomas so rarely ever saw. As Alastair bid goodbye to his mother, Thomas could not help but wonder: If Alastair was so utterly determined to hide that part of himself from Thomas, did it matter that Thomas knew it existed at all?

---

The ballroom had become a forest of fairy-tale winter, of garlands of holly and ivy, red berries against dark green, and white mistletoe hanging above every doorway.

To Lucie this seemed only fitting. After all, she and Jesse had met in a forest—the forest of Brocelind, in Idris, where faeries laid clever traps, and white flowers that shone at night grew among the moss and the bark of the trees.

The party had not yet started, officially; the rush to get everything ready before guests arrived was ongoing. The problem of the missing Christmas tree had been solved by Tessa, who had talked Magnus into creating a tree-shaped sculpture out of a variety of weapons before he left for Paris. The trunk of the tree was made of swords: hook swords and falchions, longswords and katanas, all held together by demon wire. At the top of the tree was a golden starburst, from which dangled smaller blades: daggers and zafar takieh, bagh nakh and cinquedeas, jambiyas and belawas and jeweled stilettos.

Bridget and a smaller crew of maids and servants were rushing to and fro, setting up the refreshment tables with their silver bowls of punch and mulled wine, dishes of gooseberry and bread sauces next to plum puddings and roast goose stuffed with apples and chestnuts. Candles glowed from every alcove, illuminating the room with soft light; gold ribbons and paper chains hung from hooks in the walls. Lucie could see her parents over by the ballroom doors, deep in conversation: Will’s hair was full of pine needles, and as Lucie watched, her mother reached up and drew one out with an impish smile. Will rewarded her with a gaze so adoring Lucie looked swiftly away.

Next to the weapon tree was a tall ladder upon which Jesse was perched, trying to put a figurine of Raziel atop the gold starburst. When he caught sight of her, he smiled—his deep, slow smile that made her think of dark chocolate, rich and sweet. “Wait,” he said. “I’m coming down, but it’s going to take me a moment—this ladder is held together with old runes and a spirit of optimism.”

He descended and turned to Lucie. He was not smiling now, though her mother had not been wrong. He did look handsome in his new, Anna-and-James-provided clothes. They actually fit him, following the lines of his slender body, the emerald velvet collar of his frock coat darkening the green of his eyes and framing the elegant shape of his face.

“Lucie,” he said, drawing her a little bit behind the weapons tree. He was looking at her in a way that made her feel hot all over, as if her whole body was blushing. A way that said he knew he shouldn’t be looking at her like that, but that he could not prevent himself. “You look…” He raised a hand as if to touch her face, then dropped it quickly, his fingers clenching in frustration. “I want to make a romantic speech—”

“Well, you should,” said Lucie. “I firmly encourage it.”

“I can’t.” He leaned in close; she could smell Christmas on him, the scent of pine and snow. “There is something I must tell you,” he said. “You reached out to Malcolm, didn’t you? About what was happening when—with us?”

She nodded, puzzled. “How did you know?”

“Because he sent me a message,” Jesse said, glancing at Will and Tessa as if—though they were a good distance away—they might overhear. “He’s in the Sanctuary, and he wants to see you.”

---

Going into the Sanctuary had not been part of Lucie’s plan for the evening, and she was even more unhappy to be there when she realized that it was still arranged for Jesse’s funerary rites. There was the bier his body had been laid upon, with its muslin shroud and the ring of candles. There too was the white silk blindfold that had been tied around his eyes, discarded on the floor next to the bier. She was sure nobody in the Institute, staff or resident, knew what to do with the blindfold. She had never before heard of one that had been used on a body, but not cremated along with it.

Malcolm, dressed all in white, was perched on a chair near an unlit candelabra. His suit seemed to glow in the sparse light from the high windows. “Nephilim never clean up after themselves, it seems,” he said. “Very fitting, I think.”

“I take it you got my message.” Lucie cocked her head to the side. “Though there’s no need for this kind of subterfuge. You could simply drop by. You’re the High Warlock of London.”

“But then I would have had to pay my respects, chat with your parents. Pretend I had other business that needed attending to. In this case, I only came to speak with you.” Malcolm rose to his feet and made his way over to the bier. He laid a long hand on the muslin shroud crumpled atop it. “What you did here,” he said, his voice low. “Truly marvelous. A miracle.”

And suddenly Lucie saw it as if it were happening again: Jesse sitting up, his chest hitching as he took his first breaths in seven years, his eyes rolling to look at her in shock and confusion. She could sense the gasp of his desperate, hungry breaths; she could smell the cold stone and candle flames; she could hear the clatter on the floor as—

“There’s something wrong,” she said. “When I am close to Jesse, when we kiss or touch—”

Malcolm looked alarmed. “Perhaps this would be a conversation better had with your mother,” he said. “Surely she has, ah, told you how these things work—”

“I know about kissing,” Lucie said crossly. “And this is not at all normal. Unless normal is touching your lips to someone else’s and feeling as if you are falling… faster and faster toward an endless, yawning darkness. A darkness that is full of shining outlines like foreign constellations, signs that seem familiar, but are changed in odd ways. And voices crying out…” She took a sharp breath. “It only lasts until the contact with Jesse ceases. Then I am back on solid ground again.”

Malcolm bent down to pick up the silk blindfold. He drew it through his fingers, saying nothing. He probably imagined she was being ridiculous, Lucie thought, some silly girl who got the vapors when a boy came near her.

In a low voice, he said, “I don’t like the sound of this.”

Lucie felt her stomach swoop and fall. Perhaps she had hoped Malcolm would dismiss the issue as nothing.

“I suspect,” went on Malcolm, “that in raising Jesse, you drew on your power in a way you never have before. And that power is of the shadows in origin, you know that as well as I do. It is possible that in pushing it to its limit, you may have forged a channel between yourself and your demon grandfather.”

Lucie found she was breathless. “Would my—would Belial know that?”

Malcolm was still looking down at the blindfold in his hands. “I cannot say. Does it seem to you that he is trying to communicate?”

Lucie shook her head. “No.”

“Then I think we can assume he is not yet aware of it. But you should avoid attracting his attention. There may well be a way to sever this connection. I will set myself to finding out. In the meantime, not only should you avoid kissing Jesse, you should refrain even from touching him. And you should avoid any summoning or commanding of ghosts.” He looked up, his dark purple eyes nearly black in the dimness. “At least you need not worry that I won’t be motivated to help you. Only once it is safe for you to engage with the magic of life and death again can you call Annabel forth from the shadows.”

“Yes,” Lucie said slowly. It was better for him to be personally invested, surely. And yet she did not like the look in his eyes. “I will help you say goodbye to Annabel, Malcolm. I promised, and I intend to keep that promise.”

“Say goodbye,” Malcolm echoed quietly. There was a look on his face Lucie had not seen before; it vanished quickly, though, and he said calmly, “I will consult my sources and return the moment I have any answers. In the meantime…”

Lucie sighed. “Avoid touching Jesse. I know. I ought to get back,” she added. “If you’d like to come to the party, you’d be welcome.”

Malcolm cocked his head, as if he could hear the music through the walls; perhaps he could. “The Blackthorns had a yearly Christmas party, when I was a boy,” he said. “I was never invited. Annabel would creep out during the festivities, and we would sit together, overlooking the ocean, sharing the iced cakes she’d smuggled out in her coat pockets.” He closed his eyes. “Try not to collect any painful memories, Lucie,” he said. “Do not get too attached to anything, or anyone. For if you lose them, the memory will burn in your mind like a poison for which there will never be any cure.”

There seemed nothing to say to that. Lucie watched Malcolm wend his shadowy way out of the Sanctuary, and she composed herself to go upstairs. She felt cold all over. It was bad enough just knowing that touching the boy she loved might connect her more strongly to Belial, the demon who had once tortured him; how on earth would she explain it to Jesse?

---

By the time James made his way to the ballroom, a good number of the guests had already arrived. There was family—his aunts and uncles, though he did not see his cousins yet, or Thomas. Eugenia was there, looking furious and wearing a yellow velvet cap over what seemed to be slightly charred hair. Esme Hardcastle was lecturing the Townsends about the difference between mundane and Shadowhunter Christmases, and the Pouncebys were admiring the weapons tree, along with Charlotte, Henry, and Charles. Thoby Baybrook and Rosamund Wentworth arrived together, wearing matching outfits in rose-colored velvet, which oddly suited Thoby better than Rosamund.

Those who were there were outnumbered by those—Cordelia, Anna, Ari, Matthew—who had not yet arrived; what was puzzling, though, was Lucie’s absence. Jesse was at the doorway with Will and Tessa, presumably being introduced to arriving partygoers as “Jeremy Blackthorn,” but Lucie was nowhere to be seen, and it was not like her to have left Jesse to face the party alone.

James wondered if he should get himself a glass of champagne. Under normal circumstances, he would have, but with everything that had happened with Matthew recently, the idea of taking the edge off his nerves with alcohol had lost its appeal. And he was nervous—each time the ballroom doors opened, he turned his head, hoping for a glimpse of scarlet hair, a flash of dark eyes. Cordelia. He had something he desperately needed to tell her, and though it was not quite the core of his secret, it was very close.

He knew perfectly well that he ought to be thinking about what had happened that afternoon. The mirror, the vision of Belial, the Chimera demons. The question of who Belial was possessing—mundanes? It would be a fool’s errand, though, to send even possessed mundanes against Shadowhunters. But the last time he’d seen Cordelia, she’d said, Tomorrow, at the party—we’ll talk then, and regardless of any number of Princes of Hell, it was nearly all he could think about.

Nearly. The ballroom doors swung open; this time it was Matthew, wearing a frock coat that put biblical Joseph’s to shame. There was brocade of violet, green, and silver, and a tasseled gold fringe. On anyone else it would have looked like a costume; on Matthew, it seemed avant-garde. There appeared to be shining leaves in his hair; he looked a bit as if he were about to appear as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

James started to smile, just as his aunt Cecily swept up to him. She had three-year-old Alex by one chubby hand; he wore a blue velvet sailor suit, with a matching hat complete with white ribbon.

“His debut, I see,” James said, eyeing Alexander, who was scowling. He did not seem to like the sailor suit, and James did not blame him.

Cecily swung Alex up into her arms with a smile. “Speaking of debuts, I do think that Blackthorn boy you’ve all adopted may need saving.”

This turned out to be true. The musicians had arrived, which had required that Will and Tessa show them where to put their instruments; in the resulting confusion, Jesse had been trapped in an alcove by Rosamund Wentworth. She had obviously been introduced to Jesse already, or at least, James hoped she had been, given how intently she was speaking to him. As James approached them, Jesse shot him a beseeching look.

“Jeremy, Rosamund,” said James. “Lovely to see you. Jeremy, I was wondering if you’d be interested in a hand of cards in the games room—”

“Oh, don’t be a stick, James,” said Rosamund. “It’s much too early for the gentlemen to retire to the games room. And I’ve only just met Jeremy.”

“Rosamund, he’s now part of the London Enclave. You’ll meet him again,” said James, as Jesse mimed what James thought was someone being saved from a sinking ship.

“But look at his eyes.” She sighed, as if Jesse were not, in fact, present. “Couldn’t you just die? Isn’t he divine?”

“Excruciatingly so,” said James. “Sometimes it pains me just to gaze upon him.”

Jesse shot him a dark look. Rosamund tugged at Jesse’s sleeve.

“I thought it was only going to be the same old soggies as always, so what a pleasant surprise you are!” Rosamund said. “Where did you say you grew up?”

“When my parents returned to England, they settled in Basingstoke,” said Jesse. “I lived there until I found out I was a Shadowhunter, and decided to rejoin the ranks.”

“A tragic backstory indeed,” said Matthew, who had appeared at James’s side.

“It isn’t tragic at all,” said Rosamund.

“Being from Basingstoke is a tragedy in itself,” said Matthew.

James grinned. They had chosen Basingstoke because it was a dull enough place not to inspire much questioning.

“Rosamund,” Matthew said, “Thoby has been looking all over for you.”

This was a clear and blatant lie; Thoby was poking at the weapons tree, a mug of cider in hand, and chatting with Esme and Eugenia. Rosamund frowned suspiciously at Matthew but took herself off to join her fiancé.

“Are people always like that at parties?” Jesse asked as soon as she’d gone.

“Rude and peculiar?” said James. “In my experience, about half the time.”

“Then there are those who are charming and spectacular,” said Matthew, “though I’ll admit there are fewer of us than the other kind.” He winced, then, and touched his head as if it hurt; James and Jesse exchanged a worried glance.

“So,” said James, trying to keep his voice light, “I suppose the question is, who do you wish to meet first: the more pleasant people or the unpleasant people or a mixture of both?”

“Is there a need to meet unpleasant people?” Jesse asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Matthew said. He was no longer holding his head, but he looked pale. “So you can be better prepared to guard yourself against their wiles.”

Jesse did not reply; he was looking out at the crowd. No, James realized, he was looking at someone making their way through the crowd: Lucie, looking elfin in a pale lavender dress. The gold locket around her throat shone like a beacon. She smiled at Jesse, and Matthew and James exchanged a look.

A moment later they had made themselves scarce, and Lucie and Jesse were whispering together in the alcove. James had every confidence that Lucie could easily show Jesse around and fend off the Rosamund Wentworths of the world.

He was less confident that Matthew was all right. James led him toward one of the tinsel-encircled pillars at the edge of the room, trying to peer into his face. He looked pinched, and there was a greenish cast to his skin; his eyes were bloodshot.

“I assume you are not staring at me because you are riveted by my beauty or my haute couture,” Matthew said, leaning back against the pillar.

James reached up and plucked one of the leaves from Matthew’s hair. It was pale green, edged with gold: not a real leaf, but enamel. Painted beauty taking the place of a living thing. “Math. Are you all right? Have you got the stuff Christopher gave you?”

Matthew tapped his breast pocket. “Yes. I’ve been doling it out as instructed.” He looked out across the room. “I know what I’d be doing at an ordinary party,” he said. “Floating about, being entertaining. Scandalizing Rosamund and Catherine. Joking with Anna. Being witty and charming. Or at least, I thought I was witty and charming. Without the alcohol, I…” His voice sank. “It’s like I’m watching clockwork dolls in a child’s dollhouse, acting out their parts. Nothing seems real. Or perhaps I am the one who is not real.”

James was aware that Thomas and Alastair had arrived—interestingly, together—and that Alastair was looking over at them, his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve known you a long time, Matthew,” said James. “You were witty and charming long before you began drinking. You will be witty and charming again. It’s too much to ask it of yourself at this very moment.”

Matthew looked at him. “James,” he said. “Do you know when I started drinking?”

And James realized: he did not. He had not seen it, because of the bracelet; he had not felt the changes in Matthew, and then it had seemed too late to inquire.

“Never mind,” Matthew said. “It was a gradual process; it’s unfair to ask.” He winced. “I feel as if there’s a gnome inside my head, banging away at my skull with an axe. I ought to give him a name. Something nice and gnomish. Snorgoth the Skullcrusher.”

“Now,” said James, “that was witty and charming. Think of Snorgoth. Think of him taking an axe to people you don’t like. The Inquisitor, for instance. Perhaps that can help you get through the party. Or—”

“Who is Snortgoth?” It was Eugenia, who had come up to them, her yellow cap askew on her dark hair. “Never mind. I am not interested in your dull friends. Matthew, will you dance with me?”

“Eugenia.” Matthew looked at her with a weary affection. “I am not in a dancing mood.”

“Matthew.”Eugenia looked woebegone. “Piers keeps stepping on my feet, and Augustus is lurking about as if he wants a waltz, which I just can’t manage. One dance,” she wheedled. “You’re an excellent dancer, and I’d like to have a bit of fun.”

Matthew looked long-suffering but allowed Eugenia to lead him out onto the floor. As they took up the positions for the next dance, a two-step, Eugenia glanced over at James. She cut her eyes toward the ballroom doors as if to say, Look there, before letting Matthew sweep her into the dance.

James followed Eugenia’s glance and saw that his parents were greeting Anna and Ari, who had just arrived, Anna in a fine blue frock coat with frogged gold clasps. With them was Cordelia.

Her fiery hair was pinned in braided coils around her head, as if she were a Roman goddess. She wore a dress of stark, satiny black, the short sleeves baring her long brown arms to the elbow, the front and back cut so low it was clear she was not wearing a corset. No fashionably pallid dress, covered in lace or white tulle, could hold a candle to hers. A snatch of a poem James had read once flashed through his mind: viewing the shape of darkness and delight.

She glanced over at James. Her dress set off the depth of her eyes. Around her throat gleamed her only jewelry: the globe necklace he had given her.

She seemed to see that he was alone and raised her hand to beckon him to join her and his parents at the door. James crossed the room in a few strides, his mind racing: it only made sense that he should join his wife when she arrived. Perhaps Cordelia was merely thinking of appearances.

But,said the small, hopeful voice that still lived in his heart, the voice of the boy who had fallen in love with Cordelia during a bout of scalding fever, she said we would talk. At the party.

“James,” Will said cheerfully, “I’m glad you’ve turned up. I require your help.”

“Really?” James glanced around the room. “Everything seems to be going well.”

“Will,”Tessa scolded. “You haven’t even let him greet Cordelia!”

“Well, they can both help,” announced Will. “The silver trumpet, James, the one that was given to your mother by the Helsinki Institute? The one we always use as a centerpiece at Christmas? It’s gone missing.”

James exchanged a mystified look with Tessa. He was about to ask his father what on earth he was on about when Will said, “I’m quite sure it was left in the drawing room. Can you and Cordelia fetch it for me?”

Cordelia smiled. It was a thoroughly expert smile, the sort that showed nothing at all of what she was thinking. “Of course we can.”

Well,James thought as he and Cordelia crossed the ballroom, either she believes the story about the trumpet or has accepted that my father is a mad person and needs to be humored. Most likely, he had to admit, it was the latter.

He followed Cordelia into the drawing room and closed the pocket doors behind them. He had to admit he rarely gave much thought to the drawing room; it tended to be used at the end of parties, when the ladies who were too tired to dance but not tired enough to go home sought a place to talk and gossip and play cards while the men retired to the games room. It was old-fashioned, with heavy cream-colored curtains, and delicate, spindly gilt chairs surrounding small tables set up for whist and bridge. Cut-glass decanters gleamed on the mantelpiece.

Cordelia turned to face James. “There is no silver trumpet,” she said, “is there?”

James smiled wryly. “You know my family well.”

Cordelia tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture sent a bolt of heat through James. Such a small gesture, one he wished he could make himself; he wished he could feel the softness of her hair, her skin.

“It is sweet that your father wants us to be alone together,” she said. “But it is also true that we ought to talk.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “At the house—you said you had something to show me.”

And she blushed. Only slightly, but it was encouraging nonetheless. She seemed so calm, armored in her elegance, almost untouchable. It was a relief to know she also felt unease.

“Yes,” he said, “only for me to show you, you will have to come closer.”

She hesitated for a moment, then took a step toward him, and another, until he could smell her perfume. She was breathing quickly, the jet beads edging the neckline of her dress gleaming as her breasts rose and fell. His mouth was dry.

He reached out, capturing the gold pendant that hung around her neck, the tiny globe he had given her. The one she still wore, despite everything.

“I know you believe that I only want you now that I cannot have you,” he said. “But it is not true.”

He tapped the pendant with his thumb. There was a faint click and the globe popped open; her eyes widened. From inside he drew a small slip of paper, carefully folded. “Do you remember when I gave this to you?”

She nodded. “Our two-week anniversary, I believe it was.”

“I didn’t tell you then what was inside,” he said, “not because I did not want you to know, but because I could not face the truth of it myself. I wrote these words down and folded them up and put them where they would be near you. It was selfish. I wanted to speak them to you, but not to face the consequences. But here.” He held out the slip of paper. “Read them now.”

As she read, her expression changed. They were familiar, lines from Lord Byron.

There yet are two things in my destiny—

A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

The first were nothing—had I still the last,

It were the haven of my happiness.

“?‘A world to roam through,’?” Cordelia whispered. “That is why you chose this necklace. The shape of the world.” She fixed her gaze on his. “It means…”

Her eyes were deep and wide, and this time he let himself touch her cheek, his palm against her soft skin, his whole body burning at even that little touch. “It means I would rather have a home with you than all the world,” he said fiercely. “If you cannot believe me now, believe the James who gave you that necklace, long before you left for Paris. My God, what other reason could I have for placing those verses there, save that I loved you, but was too much a coward to say it?”

Cordelia leaned her cheek against his hand and looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes. “So you loved me and you loved Grace at the same time. That is what you are telling me?”

He felt his heart tighten in his chest. She was offering him a way out, he knew, a way to explain his past behavior. A way to say, Yes, I loved you both, but then I realized I love you more.

It was a story that made sense, in a way that the story he had offered her so far did not. And perhaps she would even accept it, forgive it. But it would never be something he could accept for himself. He dropped his hand from her face and said, “No. I never loved Grace. Never.”

Her expression changed. It had been questioning, curious; now it seemed to close like a fan. She nodded once and said, “All right. If you will excuse me, James. There is something I must do.”

And she walked out of the room, sliding open the pocket doors as she went. James followed her but hesitated in the doorway. He could see Cordelia, who had paused to speak to her brother and Thomas; he could not stop himself from staring after her, at the elegant line of her back, the crown of her flame-red hair. Why couldn’t you just lie? he asked himself savagely. If you can’t bring yourself to tell her the truth—

But there had been enough lies between them. He had given Cordelia one more piece of the truth, a piece he could bear to give. It was in her hands what she would do with it.

“James?” He nearly jumped out of his skin; lurking next to the drawing room door was Esme Hardcastle, a pen and notepad in hand. She peered at him owlishly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, James,” she added, tapping the pen against her front teeth, “but as you know, I’m working on a family tree, and it would be awfully helpful to know: Are you and Cordelia planning to have children, and if so, how many? Two?” She tilted her head to the side. “Six or seven?”

“Esme,” James said, “that family tree is going to be very inaccurate if this is the way you’re going about things.”

Looking highly offended, Esme sniffed. “Not at all,” she said. “You’ll see.”

---

Events like the Christmas party were Anna’s ideal milieu. She liked nothing better than to observe the peculiarities of people’s behavior: the ways they made small talk, their gestures, the way they stood and laughed and smiled. She’d started when she was small, trying to guess what the grown-ups were feeling while she watched them talk at parties. She’d quickly discovered she was quite good at it, and often made Christopher laugh by telling him what this or that person was secretly thinking.

Sometimes, of course, her subjects made it easy, as in this moment, when she was watching James as he looked at Cordelia as if he were longing for the moon. Cordelia did look stunning—she must have gotten her dress on her ill-judged trip to Paris; it had the hallmarks of a more daring fashion than was usually seen in London. Instead of boasting ruffles, it curved in swirls around Cordelia’s hips; instead of lace, the deep neckline was edged with jet beads that glimmered against her light brown skin. She was talking to Alastair and Thomas now, as Thomas tossed a delighted and giggling Alex into the air; though Anna knew perfectly well that Cordelia had a great deal on her mind, one could certainly not tell it by looking at her.

Beside Anna, Ari chuckled. They were both at the refreshment table, shamelessly eating the miniature iced queen’s cakes. Each was decorated with the crest of a Shadowhunter family. “You do enjoy people-watching, don’t you?”

“Mm,” Anna said. “It’s always so deliciously telling.”

Ari cut her eyes around the room. “Tell me a secret about someone,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve deduced.”

“Rosamund Wentworth is thinking of leaving Thoby,” said Anna. “She knows it will be a scandal, but she cannot bear that he’s really in love with Catherine Townsend.”

Ari’s eyes were like saucers. “Really?”

“You just wait—” Anna began, and broke off at Ari’s expression. She had gone very still and was looking past Anna, her expression flat and strained. Anna turned toward the door to see who had just arrived, though she had already guessed. Of course. Maurice and Flora Bridgestock.

Anna curled her hand around the crook of Ari’s elbow; it was an automatic gesture, a need to help brace Ari on her feet. “Remember,” she said, steering her gently away from the refreshment table. “If they want to make a scene, that is their decision. It does not reflect on you.”

Ari nodded but didn’t take her eyes off her parents, and Anna could feel her hand trembling slightly. It was Flora who caught sight of her daughter first. She started in their direction, looking hopeful. Before she could get within twenty feet, Maurice had swept up behind her, put his hand on her waist, and firmly steered her away. Flora said something to her husband, who looked irritated as he replied; Anna thought they were arguing.

Ari watched them with a look that cut at Anna’s heart. “I don’t think they will make a scene,” she said softly. “I don’t think they care enough to do that.”

Anna swung around so she was facing Ari. Ari, who had been her first love, who had opened and then broken her heart. But also Ari who slept in her bed, who liked to do the washing-up but put all the dishes away in the wrong places, Ari who sang to Percy the stuffed snake when she thought no one was listening, Ari who used her hairpins as bookmarks and put too much sugar in her tea, so that when Anna kissed her, she always tasted sweet.

“Dance with me,” Anna said.

Ari looked at her in surprise. “But… you’ve always said you don’t dance.”

“I like to break rules,” Anna said. “Even ones I have set myself.”

Ari smiled and held out her hand. “Then let us dance.”

Anna led her out onto the dance floor, knowing full well that Ari’s parents were watching. One hand on Ari’s shoulder, another on her waist, she led her into the steps of the waltz. Ari began to smile as they whirled around the dance floor, her eyes glowing, and for once, Anna’s need to observe the rest of the party—the interactions, gestures, conversations—fell away. The world shrank down to only Ari: her hands, her eyes, her smile. Nothing else mattered.