Lucie waved an ink-stained hand to get her attention. “There is so much material here,” she said. “Did you see Malcolm Fade over there? I adore his coat. Oh, I’ve decided that rather than being a dashing naval officer, Lord Kincaid should be an artist whose work was banned in London, so he fled to Paris, where he makes the beautiful Cordelia his muse and is welcomed into all the best salons—”

“What happened to the Duke of Blankshire?” said Cordelia. “I thought fictional Cordelia was about to become a duchess.”

“He died,” said Lucie, licking some ink off her finger. Around her neck, a gilded chain gleamed. She had been wearing the same plain gold locket for several months now; when Cordelia had asked her about it, Lucie had said it was an old family heirloom meant to be good luck. Cordelia could still remember its presence, a gold flash in the darkness, the night James had nearly died from demon poison in Highgate Cemetary. She did not recall having seen Lucie wear the necklace before that time. She could have pressed Lucie on it, she supposed, but she knew she kept her own secrets from her future parabatai—she could hardly demand to know all of Lucie’s, especially about a matter as small as a locket.

“This sounds like quite a tragic novel,” said Anna, admiring the way her champagne reflected the light.

“Oh, it’s not,” said Lucie. “I didn’t want fictional Cordelia to be tied to only one man. I wanted her to have adventures.”

“Not quite the sentiment one might hope for on the eve of a wedding,” said Anna, “but I applaud it nonetheless. Though one hopes that you will continue having adventures even after being married, Daisy.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she lifted her glass in a toast.

Lucie hoisted her mug. “To the end of freedom! To the beginning of a joyous captivity!”

“Nonsense,” Anna said. “A woman’s wedding is the beginning of her liberation, Lucie.”

“And how is that?” asked Cordelia.

“An unmarried lady,” said Anna, “is perceived by society as being in a temporary state of not being married, and in hopes of becoming married at any moment. A married woman, on the other hand, can flirt with whomever she wants, without damaging her reputation. She can travel freely. To and from my flat, for instance.”

Lucie’s eyes widened. “Are you saying that some of your love affairs have been with ladies who are already married?”

“I am saying it is the case more often than not,” Anna said. “It is simply the case that a married woman is in a freer position to do as she pleases. A single young lady can hardly leave the house unaccompanied. A married lady can shop, go to lectures, meet friends—she has a dozen excuses for being away from home while wearing a flattering hat.”

Cordelia giggled. Anna and Lucie were always able to cheer her up. “And you do like a lady in a flattering hat.”

Anna raised a thoughtful finger. “A lady who can choose a hat that truly suits her is very likely to have paid attention to every layer of her ensemble.”

“What a wise observation,” said Lucie. “Do you mind if I put it in my novel? It’s just the sort of thing Lord Kincaid would say.”

“Do as you like, magpie,” said Anna, “you’ve stolen half my best lines already.” Her gaze flicked about the room. “Did you see Matthew with Kellington? I hope that doesn’t start up again.”

“What happened with Kellington?” Lucie inquired.

“He rather broke Matthew’s heart, a year or so back,” said Anna. “Matthew has a habit of getting his heart broken. He seems to prefer a hopeless love.”

“Does he?” Lucie was scribbling in her book again. “Oh, dear.”

“Greetings, lovely ladies,” said a tall young man with dead-white skin and curling brown hair, appearing at their table as if by magic. “Which of you dazzling beauties yearns to dance with me first?”

Lucie leaped up. “I shall dance with you,” she said. “You’re a vampire, aren’t you?”

“Er—yes?”

“Capital. We shall dance, and you will tell me all about vampirism. Do you stalk beautiful ladies through the streets of the city in the hopes of snatching a sip of their genteel blood? Do you weep because your soul is damned?”

The young man’s dark eyes darted around worriedly. “I really only wanted to waltz,” he said, but Lucie had already seized him and dragged him out onto the floor. Music rose up in a surge, and Cordelia clinked glasses with Anna, both of them laughing.

“Poor Edwin,” Anna said, looking out at the dancers. “He has a nervous disposition at the best of times. Now, Cordelia, pray tell me every detail of the wedding plans, and I will get us some fresh champagne.”

2

ALL THAT TURNS

If sometimes, on the steps of a palace, on the green grass of

a gully, in the mournful solitude of your bed chamber, you

wake up, the intoxication diminished or dispelled, ask the

wind, a wave, a star, a bird, a clock, all that flees, all that

moans, all that turns, all that sings, all that speaks, ask what

time it is; and the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock

will answer you: “It is time to become intoxicated! To not be

the martyred slave of Time, be intoxicated; be unceasingly

intoxicated! With wine, with poetry, with virtue, as you wish.

—Charles Baudelaire, “Enivrez-vous”

“Look out behind you!” Christopher barked in alarm. James ducked hastily out of the way. Two werewolves flew past them, locked in drunken combat, and crashed to the floor. Thomas held his glass above his head to keep it safe from the jostling crowd.

James had not been sure that the Devil Tavern was the right place for this party, given that he was there several days a week anyway, but Matthew had been insistent, intimating that he’d arranged something special.

James glanced about at the chaos and sighed a quiet inner sigh. “I rather imagined a more sedate evening.”

Things had not been so riotous when they first arrived. The Devil was doing its usual lively, friendly evening business, and James would have been happy to slip upstairs to their private rooms, as he had so many times before, and simply relax with his oldest friends.

Matthew, however, had immediately climbed onto a chair, demanded the entire pub’s attention by clanging his stele against the metal chandelier, and cried out, “Friends! This evening my parabatai, James Jeremiah Jehoshaphat Herondale, celebrates his last night as a single man!”

The whole pub had whooped and cheered.

James had waved a hand to thank and dismiss his well-wishers, but it seemed they weren’t done. Downworlders of all kinds approached to shake his hand and pound his back and wish him happy. To his surprise, James realized that he knew most everyone present—that he’d known many of them, in fact, since he was a boy, and they had watched him grow up.

There was Nisha, the “oldest vampire from the oldest part of this old city,” as she always said. There were Sid and Sid, the two werewolves who were always arguing over which of them could be “Sid” and which must be “Sidney.” The odd cluster of hobgoblins who chattered among each other, never spoke to anyone else, but periodically sent free drinks to other customers, seemingly at random. They surrounded James and demanded he finish the whiskey in his hand so that he might drink the whiskey they’d brought to replace it.