“I will seduce,” said Anna. “You will distract, or at the least, not get in my way.”
Cordelia smiled. She leaned against the window as Anna pointed out landmarks to her: the statue of Eros in the center of the roundabout, and the Criterion Restaurant, where Arthur Conan Doyle had set the first meeting of Holmes and Watson. Soon they were rolling into Soho with its narrower streets. Fog hung like spider’s webs stretched between the buildings. The carriage rattled past an Algerian coffee vendor, the window crammed with the shining brass and tin of coffee cans. Nearby was a shop for light fittings with a shiny new black-and-gold facade on which the words W. SITCH & CO. were inscribed, and past it a collection of market stalls. In the dark, narrow street, oil flares blazed like warning fires, and the cloth hangings protecting the stall fronts flew in the wind.
The carriage came to a stop at last in front of Tyler’s Court. The air was full of smoke and shadow and the chatter of voices speaking a dozen different languages. James and Matthew lounged against the stone walls. They both wore fitted black evening coats. Matthew had added a bottle-green tie and velvet trousers to his ensemble. James had his collar turned up against the wind, his face pale between his black hair and the fine black material of his suit.
Anna threw open the door of the carriage and hopped out, leaving the door open behind her. Cordelia tried to follow, only to find that it was less than easy to move in her new dress. She inched across the bench seat, squeaking slightly, and half tumbled out the carriage door.
Arms braced her before she hit the pavement. James had caught her by the waist. Her hair brushed his cheek and she inhaled his cologne: cedarwood, like the forests in Lebanon.
He set her on her heels, his hands still on her hips. She could feel the imprint of the Herondale ring he wore against her side. He was staring, and Cordelia realized with a jolt that she had left her coat in the carriage. She was standing in front of Matthew and James in her new dress, with nothing else to cover her.
She could not help but be conscious of how closely the dress clung to her body. The fabric over her hips was so tight that she hadn’t been able to wear a petticoat beneath it, only her combination and a light corset. Anyone could see the shape of her waist, the swell of her bosom, and even the silk draped across the curve of her stomach. The narrow sleeves slipped down her shoulders, uncovering the tops of her breasts; the weight and softness of the material was like a caress. She felt elegant in a way she never had before, and a little wild.
“Cordelia,” said Matthew. He looked slightly stunned, as if he’d walked into a wall. “You look different.”
“Different?” Anna scoffed. “She looks stunning.”
James hadn’t moved. He was looking at Cordelia, and his eyes had darkened, from the color of a tiger’s eyes to something richer and deeper. Something like the gold of Cortana when it flashed in the air. He exhaled and let her go, stepping back. Cordelia could feel her heart beating in her throat, a sharp pulse, as if she had drunk too much of her mother’s strong tea.
“We had better go in,” James said, and Cordelia saw Anna smile sideways, a catlike smile, before she led them into the narrow court.
The faerie at the door recognized Anna and Matthew and let them all pass through into the Hell Ruelle with only a lift of her lavender eyebrows. They found themselves in the Ruelle’s dazzling series of interconnected rooms. As they followed Anna, who strode along with purpose, Cordelia realized what she had not before: that the rooms spread out from a central large chamber like the arms of a starfish. The ceilings in the passages were low, but every room was illuminated by electric light, brilliant and harsher than witchlight.
They found Hypatia Vex holding court in the central chamber. The decor of the octagonal room had been changed. The walls were now hung with paintings of bacchanals: naked dancers encircled with streaming ribbons, demons with eyes painted red and foreheads garlanded with flowers, their bodies lacquered gold like James’s eyes. Behind Hypatia Vex hung a massive triptych of a dark-haired woman holding a black owl with golden eyes.
The stage in the center of the room was empty now, though chairs and couches had been arranged around it. They were full of Downworlders. Cordelia recognized the vampire girl Lily, jeweled combs in her black hair, sipping blood from a crystal glass. She winked at Anna, but Anna was focused on Hypatia, who was seated on an intricately carved oak settee, upholstered in red-and-green jacquard fabric. She was wearing another shimmering gown, this one black silk that made it seem as if the luxurious curves of her body had been dipped into ink.
Nor was she alone. Next to her was a handsome werewolf with green-gold eyes. Cordelia had seen him the last time they had come here. He had been the violin player in the string quartet. Now there was no music and he was focused on Hypatia, his body turned toward hers attentively, his long fingers playing gently with a strap of her gown.
Anna’s blue eyes narrowed.
“Anna,” said James in his low voice. “You may have your work cut out for you.”
“That’s Claude Kellington,” said Matthew. “He’s the master of entertainment here. In charge of the stage.”
Anna turned to them, her eyes bright. “Matthew,” she said. “Distract him.”
Matthew winked and strode over to the settee. Lily glanced over at him as he passed her, possibly sizing him up as a potential snack. He was very handsome, Cordelia thought; she didn’t know why she didn’t respond to him as she did to James. But then, she didn’t respond to anyone as she did to James.
Raising an eyebrow, Kellington rose and followed Matthew back into the crowd. Cordelia and James exchanged a look as Matthew wove toward them, the werewolf in tow.
“Please don’t tell me the three of you have some sort of act,” said Kellington as he drew near, and Cordelia realized with a jolt of surprise that Anna had slipped away, silent as a cat. “No one wants to see singing and dancing Shadowhunters.”
“I was hoping my parabatai and I might recite some poetry,” said Matthew. “Perhaps about the bonds of brotherly love.”
Kellington gave Matthew an amused look. He had a sharply handsome sort of face, and curling chestnut hair. A gold ring stamped with the words Beati Bellicosi flashed on his hand. “I recall the poetry you recited to me once,” he said. “Though not as particularly brotherly. However, we’re looking for new performers tonight.” He glanced at James. “Do you have any talents, besides standing there looking good and saying nothing?”
“I’m quite skilled at throwing knives,” James said calmly. He moved to the side, Kellington’s gaze following him, as Anna slid onto the settee beside Hypatia and lifted the warlock’s hand to her lips for a kiss. Hypatia looked more than a little surprised.
“If a Shadowhunter gets up and starts waving knives around, we’re going to have a riot,” said Kellington. “Hypatia wants to entertain her guests, not kill them.” His gaze slid to Cordelia. It was a gaze like being touched, she thought. Not entirely pleasant, but certainly novel. Kellington seemed to be examining her from head to toe and finding himself not displeased. “What about you?”
Matthew and James both stared at her.
“I suppose I could perform,” Cordelia said breathlessly.
She heard her own voice as if from a distance. Was she mad? What was she offering? What would she even do? She heard Kellington agree and felt James’s slender, scarred fingers on her arm. “Cordelia, you don’t need to—” he began.
“I can do it,” she said.
He met her gaze directly, and she saw that there was no doubt in his expression. He was looking at her with exactly the faith he showed when he looked at Matthew, at Lucie, or at Thomas. With a total belief that she could do anything, if it was required of her to do it.
It was as if she could suddenly get enough air into her lungs: Cordelia inhaled, nodded at James, and turned to Kellington.
“I am ready,” she said.
With a bow, the werewolf led her toward the stage.
PART TWO
— —
You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since—on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hours of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil.
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
15 THE WHISPERING ROOM
Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood,
But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song.
I kiss you and the world begins to fade.
—William Butler Yeats, Land of Heart’s Desire
From her window, Lucie could see the steady stream of carriages arriving through the arched entrance to the Institute. She drew back with a frown. Where were Thomas and Christopher? She didn’t blame either of them for having had difficulty concentrating the day before. Barbara’s death was on all their minds. But it had meant the three of them had failed to make a proper plan for meeting up tonight.
Well, she thought, if she had to spy on the Enclave meeting alone, then that was what she’d do. She had just gone to fetch her stele from atop the dresser when she heard something rattle against the glass of her window. Assuming Thomas and Christopher were trying to get her attention with pebbles—their usual method—she darted over and threw the window open.
Something that looked like a burning butterfly sailed past her head, and Lucie gave a shriek. She ran toward it as it alighted on her desk and burst into red-orange flames. It was small, no bigger than her hand, and she hastened to put it out with a handy pen wiper.