“Thank you,” said Cordelia, but behind her she could hear some of the other ladies whispering—someone wondering aloud why she wasn’t on her honeymoon, and someone else, probably Eunice, replying that James and Cordelia hadn’t had the luxury of waiting and planning. A matter of her reputation, you know.

Ugh, this was unbearable. And the music was about to start too: soon all Cordelia’s friends would be dancing, so she could hardly escape to their company. She saw that James had returned to the ballroom, but he had been drawn aside by his parents, with whom he was engaged in intense conversation. It wasn’t as if he could ask her to dance, she reminded herself. Husbands weren’t meant to dance with their wives at balls.

“If the honor of the first dance is still available, Mrs. Herondale?”

There was a little rustle of astonishment among the married ladies. Cordelia looked up in surprise, recognizing the lazy, indolent drawl: Matthew stood in front of her, looking inquiring and colorful—his waistcoat was decorated with embroidered peacocks, his blond hair shining brilliantly under the lights of the chandeliers.

Gratefully, she let him lead her out onto the floor. “Well, that will be the most exciting thing that’s happened to that lot in ages,” she said. “Oh dear, I suppose that’s rude, isn’t it? I’m married too; I can’t be finding married people boring.”

“Most people are boring,” said Matthew. “Being married or not has little to do with it.”

The first dance was a polonaise, and couples were coming from all over the room to join the procession onto the floor. Cecily and Gideon, Catherine Townsend and Augustus Pounceby, Filomena di Angelo—Cordelia recalled meeting the dark-haired Italian girl at her wedding—and Albert Breakspear. Christopher had partnered with Eugenia, and there was Alastair, dancing politely with Ariadne.

“Why come to parties, then?” Cordelia demanded. “If you find everyone so dull.”

“People are dull. Gossiping about them is never dull. Look—there’s Thoby and Rosamund, already arguing. I wonder what about? Lilian Highsmith hit Augustus Pounceby with her umbrella earlier: What could he have done? Did he insult her? Esme Hardcastle is telling Piers Wentworth all about the book she’s writing on the history of the London Enclave, but he only has eyes for Catherine Townsend. And the lovely Eugenia, rejecting every suitor. Possibly due to bad past experiences.”

“What happened to Eugenia?”

“Augustus Pounceby.” Matthew scowled. “He led her to believe they had an understanding.” Cordelia was surprised; an understanding could be quite a serious thing. It meant a girl was confident of an offer of marriage. “So she behaved rather freely with him—going for walks with him without a chaperone, all very innocent—but when he proposed to Catherine Townsend, who refused him, Eugenia was made to look a fool. She went off to Idris to get away from the Enclave’s gossip.”

“How rotten,” said Cordelia. “But surely someone must have a bigger secret than all that? Skeletons under the floorboards and such?”

“You mean is anyone a murderer?” Matthew turned her in a swift circle: the dozens of candles seemed to blur into a stream of light all around them. “I am.”

Cordelia laughed, a little breathless. They had spun toward the outer edge of the dance floor. She caught sight of James; he was still in animated conversation with Will and Tessa.

“What if I told you I could lip-read?” said Matthew. “That I knew every word James and his parents were exchanging? And that the news they share is shocking?”

“I would tell you to stop eavesdropping. Also, I wouldn’t believe you. It takes ages to learn lipreading. In fact, what I would say is that you are telling frightful bouncers to make yourself seem more interesting, when the truth is that if there is shocking news, you probably heard it from your mother.”

Matthew mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Doubted! Unmanned! Cruelty, thy name is woman.” He peered at her out of a narrowed eye. “Does that mean you don’t want to know what they’re talking about?”

“Of course I do, you oaf.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder. The polonaise was not as intimate a dance as the waltz, but she was still close enough to Matthew to note the faint lines around his eyes when he really smiled. She didn’t see them that often. He smelled of brandy, frangipani, and cigars.

“Well,” he said, lowering his voice. “You know Charles has been in Paris, working at the Institute.”

“I heard the head of the Paris Institute was ill, and Charles was pitching in.”

“And quite a help he’s been,” said Matthew. “There was a meeting with all the vampire clans of France, and Charles neglected to invite the clan from Marseilles. Probably just forgetfulness, but they took mortal offense.”

“Surely he could just explain and apologize?”

Matthew snorted. “Have you met Charles? He doesn’t apologize. Besides, the vampires aren’t inclined to trust him. They feel, not unreasonably, that in any serious disagreement, the Consul would side with her son. So Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa are going back with him to Paris tomorrow to help smooth things over quietly.” Matthew’s eyes danced. “Downworlders tend to look favorably on them, since Tessa is herself a Downworlder, and Will saw fit to defend her against the Clave, and even marry her.”

They raised their hands up and placed them palm to palm. Cordelia could see the black Voyance rune shimmer against the back of her hand as her fingers twined lightly with Matthew’s. “Well, I say they sent the wrong Fairchild brother there in the first place,” she said.

They began to turn in a slow circle, keeping their hands clasped. “What do you mean?”

“You’re the one who loves France. You’re always talking about Paris,” she said. “And you’re devilishly charming—you know you are. You would have made a much better ambassador than Charles.”

Matthew looked—well, “stunned” might be the best description. She had the feeling he was rarely compared favorably to his brother when it came to professional matters. They made one more turn in silence. Without the bulwark of light conversation, the dance seemed suddenly far more intimate. She could feel his movements beside her, feel the warmth of his hand, the cool press of his signet ring. The one James had given him.

She had seen couples like that on the dance floor before: utterly silent, drinking in the sight of each other, the rare opportunity to touch and be close without scandal. Not that she and Matthew were like that—she had only said something that made him feel awkward, was all. Well, too bad, she thought. He ought to hear it. He was worth a hundred of Charles.

The music stopped. Amid the bustle of dancers leaving the floor, they lowered their hands. “Alas,” said Matthew, in his familiar bright tone, “I shall have to return you to durance vile, I fear. I would ask for a second set, but it is frowned upon for single men to dance too much with married ladies. We are meant to be hurling ourselves at unattached females like cannonballs.”

Cordelia chuckled. “That’s all right. You’ve spared me an otherwise dull ten minutes. I was about to throw myself into the trifle.”

“Terrible waste of trifle,” said a familiar voice, and Cordelia turned in surprise to see James. In the gilded light, his eyes were a startling gold.