Somehow James was still explaining, saying something about Ariadne, about engagements being called off, but Cordelia’s mind was full of Alastair. Alastair and Charles in the library—Alastair in agony over Charles’s engagement. Alastair saying that at least it was Ariadne—he could not possibly have known of this.

Oh, Alastair.

“Are you all right?” James took a step toward her, his expression worried. “You look very pale.”

I ought to go home, she was about to say. James had moved closer to her; she could smell the scent of him, of sandalwood soap and a mixture of leather and ink. She felt the brush of his hand against her cheek, his thumb softly tracing her cheekbone.

“Cordelia!” Both James and Cordelia turned, startled: Sona was standing on the threshold of the house, candlelight burning behind her. A silk roosari covered her dark hair and she was beaming. “Cordelia joon, do come inside before you catch cold. And Mr. Herondale, it was kind of you to escort Cordelia home. You are truly a gentleman.”

Cordelia looked at her mother in surprise. She hadn’t expected Sona to be in such a good mood.

James’s eyebrow flicked upward, black as the wing of a crow, if the wing of the crow had a faintly sardonic air. “It’s a pleasure to escort Daisy anywhere.”

“Daisy,” Sona repeated. “Such a charming pet name. Of course, you were children together, and now you are reunited and quite grown-up. It’s all so delightful.”

Ah. Cordelia realized what was going on with her mother. James was eligible—very eligible. As the son of the head of the London Institute, he might be expected to wield significant influence in the future, or even to become the head of an Institute himself, a job that paid far more than the salary provided by the Clave to a typical Shadowhunter.

Besides, he was charming when he was not wearing the Mask, and that sort of thing had an effect on mothers. At Sona’s urging, she and James climbed the steps to the front door of the house: warm light spilled out from the vestibule, along with the smell of Risa’s cooking.

Sona was still exclaiming over James. “Delightful,” she said again. “Might I offer you refreshment, James? Tea, perhaps?”

Cordelia was seized by the impulse to flee the scene, but the Angel alone knew what her mother would say to James then. Besides, she could not flee—Alastair should hear this news from her, rather than from gossip or a stranger.

James smiled. It was the sort of smile that could lay waste to a good portion of England. “I remember the tea you made me at Cirenworth,” he said. “It tasted of flowers.”

Sona brightened. “Yes. A spoonful of rosewater, that’s the secret to good chai.”

“You had a beautiful samovar as well, I recall,” said James. “Brass and gold.”

Sona was beaming like a lighthouse. “It was my mother’s,” she said. “Alas, it is still among the things we have not unpacked, but my mother’s tea set—”

“James has to go,” Cordelia said firmly, and steered James back down the steps. “James, say goodbye.”

James bid Sona a quick goodbye; Cordelia hoped he didn’t notice the clear look of disappointment on her mother’s face. She released her grip on his jacket as Sona went back inside.

“I had no idea your mother liked me so much,” said James. “I should come round more often when I am in need of feeling appreciated.”

Cordelia made an exasperated sound. “I fear my mother might be equally enthused over any eligible bachelor who pretended an interest in tea. That is why I told you to find me one, remember?”

She had made her voice light and joking, but the smile left James’s face anyway. “Right,” he said. “When all this business is over…”

“Yes, yes,” Cordelia said, starting back up the stairs.

“I really do like tea!” James shouted from the bottom of the steps. “In fact, I love it! I LOVE TEA!”

“Good for you, mate!” yelled the driver of a passing hansom cab.

Despite everything, Cordelia could not stop herself from smiling. She went inside and shut the door; when she turned, her mother was standing directly behind her, still looking delighted. “He is handsome, isn’t he?” said Sona. “I never would have thought it. He was such an awkward boy.”

“Mâmân,” Cordelia protested. “James is just a friend.”

“Why have such a handsome friend? It seems a waste,” said Sona. “Also, I do not think he regards you as only a friend. The way he looks at you—”

Cordelia threw her hands up. “I need to speak with Alastair about—about training,” she said, and escaped at speed.

* * *

The door to Alastair’s room was open. Cordelia stood a moment in the hallway, looking at her brother: he was seated at his satinwood writing desk, mundane newspapers strewn in front of him. He rubbed at his eyes as he read, weariness evident in the set of his shoulders.

“Any interesting news?” she asked, leaning against the doorframe. She knew better than to actually enter without an invitation; Alastair kept his room neat as a pin, from the polish on the walnut wardrobe to the spot-free set of blue armchairs by the window.

“Charles says that a rash of demon attacks can often be accompanied by a spike in what the mundanes report as crime,” said Alastair, flicking aside the page he was reading with a newsprint-stained finger. “I can’t say I’m seeing anything here, though. Nary a single juicy murder or the like.”

“I was actually hoping to speak with you about Charles,” said Cordelia.

Alastair flicked his gaze up at her. People often remarked that the two of them had the same black eyes, the iris only a shade lighter than the pupil. A strange effect considering Sona’s eyes were light brown and Elias’s blue. “About Charles?”

She nodded.

“Well, come inside then, and shut the door,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

Cordelia did as requested. Alastair’s room was bigger than hers, furnished in dark gentleman’s colors: green walls, a muted Persian rug. Alastair had a collection of daggers, and he had brought quite a few of them with him from Cirenworth. They were the only beautiful things Cordelia remembered Alastair ever paying special attention to: one had a sheath of blue-and-white enamel, another was inlaid with golden designs of dragons, kylins, and birds. A pishqabz carved of a single piece of ivory hung above the washstand, near it a khanjar whose blade bore an inscription in Persian: I wanted so much to have a gleaming dagger, that each of my ribs became a dagger.

Cordelia settled herself in a blue armchair. Alastair turned a little to look at her; his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the newsprint. “What about Charles?” he said.

“I know he has become engaged again,” she said. “To Grace Blackthorn.”

Alastair’s restless hands stopped moving. “Yes,” he said. “Pity for your friend James.”

So he knows, Cordelia thought. Charles must have told him. “So—are you all right?” she asked.

Alastair’s black eyes were fathomless. “What do you mean?”

Cordelia couldn’t bear it any longer. “I heard you and Charles talking in the library,” she said. “I heard you say you loved him. I won’t tell anybody else, I promise. You know I always keep my word. It doesn’t make the least bit of difference to me, Alastair.”

Alastair was silent.

“I wouldn’t have said anything, but—for Charles to become engaged again, after he knew how unhappy you were about Ariadne—Alastair, I don’t want anyone to be cruel to you. I want you to be with someone who will make you happy.”

Alastair’s eyes glittered. “He’s not cruel. You don’t know him. He and Grace have an understanding. He explained it to me. Everything Charles does is so he and I can be together.” There was something mechanical about the words, as if they had been rehearsed.

“But you don’t wish to be someone’s secret,” said Cordelia. “You said—”

“How do you know what I said? How could you possibly have overheard us without going out of your way to do so? You were upstairs, we were downstairs—unless you followed me,” Alastair finished slowly. “You were eavesdropping. Why?”

“I was afraid,” Cordelia said, in a low voice. “I thought you were going to tell Charles—what I had made you promise not to say.”

“About that demon creature at the bridge?” he said incredulously. “About your little friends and their little schemes and secrets? I gave you my word.”

“I know,” she said, close to crying, “and I should have trusted you, Alastair. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear such things. I know they’re private. I only wanted to tell you I loved you just the same. It makes no difference to me.”

She thought the reassurance might help, but instead Alastair’s mouth wrenched out of shape with sudden violence.

“Really,” he said coldly. “Well, it makes a difference to me to have a sister who is a sneak and a spy. Get out of my room, Cordelia. Now.”

* * *

“Jesse,” Lucie whispered. “Jesse, where are you?”

She sat on the floor by the cast-iron fireplace in the Institute drawing room. She had come home from the Devil Tavern once night had begun to fall in earnest. Both Thomas and Christopher had been distracted and preoccupied, anyway, and she wasn’t sure how much real Pyxis research was getting done. Christopher had had some kind of realization about the antidote he was working on and vanished into the steel-lined corner of the tavern room, where he had banged about trying to distill something in a retort.

But that wasn’t the real reason she had wanted to leave. Night had a new importance now. Night meant she could talk to Jesse.

“Jesse Blackthorn,” she said now, feeling a little ridiculous. “Please come here. I want to speak with you.”

She glanced about the room, as if Jesse might be hiding under a sofa. This was their family room, where the Herondales often gathered in the evenings. Tessa had kept some of the older decorations here—a gilt-framed mirror still hung over the fireplace—and the furniture was comfortably shabby, from the flowered armchairs by the fireplace to the big old desk, scarred with years of marks from the nibs of pens. The walls were papered in light damask, and well-thumbed books lined the walls.