Matthew squeezed his eyes shut, as if in pain. “Oh, Jamie,” he sighed. “What if I said there is no shadow?”

“I would not believe you,” said James. “I know what I feel in my own heart.”

“James,” said Matthew. “You’re starting to slide off the bridge.”

“Good.” James closed his eyes. “Maybe I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

Matthew leaped down, just in time to catch James as he slumped backward off the wall.

* * *

James knelt upon the roof of the Institute. He knew that he was dreaming, yet at the same time it felt impossible that what was happening to him was not real: he could see London laid out before him as clearly as a painting, see its roads and alleys and boulevards, see the stars hanging high above the city, pale white as the pearly teeth of a child’s doll. He could see himself, as from a distance, see the black of his hair, and the deeper black of the wings that rose from his back.

He saw himself struggle with the weight of the wings. They were jagged and dark, with overlapping layers of feathers that shaded from deep black to gray. He realized then—they were not his wings: a monster knelt on his back, a creature whose face he could not see. A humped, misshapen thing, in pale gray rags, its sharp talons dug deep into his back.

He felt the pain. It was as fierce as fire, burning through his skin; he staggered to his feet, twisting and turning as if he could hurl the creature off him. Light blazed up all around him—pale gold light, the same light he had seen when he had passed into the shadow realm and then into the Chiswick greenhouse.

The light of Cortana.

He saw her there, the blade in her hand, her hair like fire. She cut at the creature on James’s back, and with a searing pain it tore away from him, Cortana sunk deep into its body. It fell away, tumbling down the steep incline of the roof.

James’s shirt was rags, soaked in blood. He could feel more blood trickling between his shoulder blades. Cordelia ran to him. She whispered his name: James, James, as if no one had ever spoken it before.

All about them the sky bloomed with brilliant lights. He could no longer see Cordelia. The lights formed into shapes and patterns—he had seen them before, the scrawls on the paper in Gast’s flat. The knowledge of what they were tickled at the edge of his brain. He called out for Cordelia, but she was gone, like the dream he’d known she was.

* * *

When James woke in the morning, he was lying in his own bed. He was fully dressed, though someone had taken off his jacket and shoes and set them on a chair. In a velvet wing-backed chair nearby Matthew was dozing, his cheek propped on his hand.

Matthew always looked quite different when he was asleep. The constant motion that was such a distraction when he was awake vanished, and he became one of those paintings he loved: a Frederic Leighton, perhaps. Leighton was famous for painting children in their innocence, and when Matthew slept, he looked as if sorrow had never touched him.

As if he knew he was being watched, he stirred and sat up, focusing on James. “You’re awake.” He began to grin. “How’s your head? Ringing like a bell?”

James sat up slowly. He had been with Matthew on many mornings when his parabatai was complaining of a bad head, or aches and misery and the need to swallow a glass of raw egg and pepper before he could face the day. But James felt nothing like that. Nothing hurt or ached. “No, but—how do I look?”

“Ghastly,” Matthew reported happily. “Like you saw the ghost of Old Mol and your hair’s still sticking up.”

James stared down at his own hands, turning them over. His bare wrist still looked odd, the bracelet’s absence like a glaring wound. But there was no actual pain, either physical or mental.

“On the other hand,” Matthew said, his eyes diabolically alight, “I can’t say your parents were too pleased when I carried you in last night.…”

James bolted out of bed. His clothes were as rumpled as if he’d slept under a bridge. “You carried me? My parents were here?”

“They had indeed come back from their meeting with my brother,” said Matthew, “who was, apparently, very boring, which I could have told them.”

“MATTHEW,” James said.

Matthew held his hands up innocently. “I said nothing to them, but apparently Charles told them of his engagement to Grace at the meeting, and they deduced you were trying to drown your sorrows. I told them that you’d only had a sip of gin and they decried you as a lightweight.”

“Dear God.” James staggered to the washroom. Thankfully there was water in the pitcher, and a bar of sandalwood soap. He scrubbed himself down hastily and rinsed his hair. Feeling less revolting, he went into the dressing room, threw on new clothes, and returned to the bedroom, where Matthew sat on the foot of his bed with his legs crossed. He handed James a mug of tea without a word—exactly the way he liked it: strong and sugared, with no milk.

“Where did you produce that from?” James wondered aloud, accepting the mug.

Matthew hopped to his feet. “Come along,” he said. “Food has been laid on in the breakfast room. Let us sample some of Bridget’s delicious eggs and I’ll explain.”

James eyed his parabatai with suspicion. Bridget’s eggs were famously awful. “Explain what?”

Matthew made a hushing gesture. Rolling his eyes, James slid his feet into shoes and followed Matthew through the winding corridors to the breakfast room, where food was still laid out. A silver urn with now-cold coffee in it, plates of veal chops, and James’s least favorite, kedgeree. He settled at the table with a plate of mushrooms and toast. His mind felt surprisingly clear, as if he had come out of a strange fog. Even the toast and mushrooms tasted different.

He frowned. “Something’s happened,” he said, realizing how quiet it was. Only the sound of clocks ticking in the Institute. The corridors had been devoid of people. He stood and went to the window, which looked out over the courtyard. It was empty of carriages. His grip tightened on the sill. “Matthew, has anyone—”

“No,” Matthew said quickly. “No, Jamie, no one else has died. The Enclave decided to move the wounded to the Silent City. They were too ill to be Portaled there, so your parents are helping with the task, as are Christopher’s. Even Charles has loaned our carriage.”

“And Grace?” said James. Her name felt odd in his mouth, as if it had acquired a new sound. He remembered the sick pain he had felt the day before, propelling him out into the dark. A feeling as if his chest were cracking apart, his bones splintering. He did not feel it now. He remembered the pain, but intellectually, not physically. It would surely come back, he thought. He should brace himself while he could.

“The Pouncebys have taken her in,” said Matthew. “They are in Highgate, near the entrance to the Silent City. She will be able to visit her mother.” He paused. “She will be all right, James.”

“Yes, I trust she will,” said James. “And Lucie? Does she know what’s going on?”

Matthew looked surprised. “Yes, but—did you hear what I said of Grace?”

Before James could answer, Lucie came into the dining room. She was in training clothes—a soft belted tunic over leggings and boots—and she carried a handful of letters with her. The post must just have come. She dropped the correspondence into the mail salver on the bureau and came toward James with a worried look. “Jamie! Oh, thank goodness. Mother told me about Charles and Grace, but I have kept the news entirely to myself. Are you all right? Is your soul harrowed?”

“Cruel Prince James is quite all right, thank you,” he said. Rather oddly, he noticed, Matthew had slid around behind Lucie and appeared to be poking at the mail. “Where have you been, Luce?”

“Up in the training room with Cordelia,” she said. “Alastair went with Charles to help move some of the sick, and she stayed back with me. We thought perhaps we ought to be a bit more prepared, you know, in case you have another secret assignation that ends in a demon attack.”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” James said, and saw Matthew give him yet another peculiar look.

“James,” said Lucie severely. “You do not need to pretend to be brave, as Lord Wingrave was when his hand was rejected in marriage.”

James wondered if this was someone he was supposed to know. “Who on earth’s that?”

“He’s in The Beautiful Cordelia,” Lucie said. “I swear I read that bit out loud last Christmas. Papa was very impressed.”

Matthew whirled around, his hands behind his back. “Ah, Lucie,” he said a little too loudly. “You have been training, I see, like a great warrior of England. Like Boadicea, who defeated the Romans. Sit down! Let me make you a honey sandwich.”

Lucie looked hesitant, then seemed to shrug and accept the gesture. “You are a mad person, Matthew,” she said. “But I do adore honey sandwiches.” She flopped down in a chair and reached for the teapot. “I suppose Charles and Grace haven’t announced their engagement formally yet, but that would be awfully rude of them with Ariadne so ill. I am surprised the Inquisitor hasn’t tried to get Charles arrested.”

As Matthew crossed the room to get the honey pot from the sideboard, he pressed something flat and papery into James’s hand. “I know it’s addressed to Lucie,” he said in a low voice. “But it’s for Cordelia. Take it to her.”

One did not ask questions when one’s parabatai made a request. “It seems I have forgotten to put on socks,” James announced. Lucie stared at him as if he’d lost his wits. He edged toward the door, trying to prevent Lucie from seeing his feet. “I shall return in a moment.”

James took the stairs toward the upper floors two at a time. He felt lighter than he had in months, as if he had put down a massive burden he hadn’t even known he was carrying. As he reached the third-floor landing, he examined the object that Matthew had handed him: a letter, addressed in the Consul’s unmistakable handwriting, to Lucie Herondale.