His hands trembled slightly. Cordelia wished she could approach him, say something comforting, but what he had told her was a secret. She must pretend as if she saw nothing wrong.
Troubled, she followed the others out of the tavern.
Lucie leaned out the window of the carriage she was sharing with Cordelia as they approached the southern end of London Bridge. The scent of the Market was on the air: incense and spices, hot wine and a charred smell like burning bone. Night had only just fallen, and the sunset brushed the sky with copper and flame. It was one of those times, Lucie thought, when the world seemed improbably big, and full of possibilities.
She sprang out of the carriage as soon as it drew up, Cordelia following after her. The stalls and stands and carts of the Shadow Market snaked away beneath an arched, glass-paned ceiling supported by tall iron girders, tucked between Southwark and Borough High Streets. Stands that held fruits and vegetables and flowers during the morning had been transformed by Downworlder merchants into a colorful, noisy bazaar, the stalls lit by sparkling lights and decorated with painted signs and lengths of colored silk.
Lucie took a deep breath of the incense-scented air as James’s carriage rattled up and he, Christopher, and Matthew spilled out, James brushing off Christopher’s coat where he had somehow managed to spill powder on it. A roar of sound rose up from the bazaar, like soft thunder: Come buy! Come buy!
“No running off into the Shadow Market alone, minx,” James said, coming up behind Lucie. His black wool coat was buttoned to his chin, hiding his runes. They had agreed there was no point trying to disguise that they were Shadowhunters—Shadowhunters were no more welcome in the Shadow Market than they were in other Downworlder haunts, unless, of course, they had money to spend—but there was no point calling attention to it either. “It may look like a harmless fair, but there’s quite a bit of danger down those narrow aisles.”
He glanced at Cordelia—perhaps to see if she’d heard him as well, but she was busy putting on her gloves. Some of her red hair had come free beneath her velvet cap and was curling against her cheek. She seemed lost in thought. As Matthew and Christopher came toward them, she hurried toward Matthew, saying something to him in a low voice Lucie couldn’t hear. Odd, Lucie thought.
James offered Lucie his arm. “Cruel Prince James at your service.”
Lucie giggled; it was a nice reminder of times past, when she and James had been playmates who teased and protected each other in turns. Taking his arm, she passed into the Shadow Market proper, beneath the glass roof. A railway viaduct ran by far ahead, and the distant rumble of trains was just audible over the sound of the Market itself: tinny enchanted music played from various stalls, the tunes clashing loudly with each other. Downworlders crowded the aisles looking for a bargain, an illicit trade, or something in between. Silk banners flew, and sparkling baubles of light drifted like will-o’-the-wisps through the air.
Lucie caught one as they passed an apothecary stall with tins and jars set up on wooden shelves, a warlock with a double set of curving horns calling out the virtues of his potions. The bauble was like a child’s ball made of thin glass. Inside it glowed with a deep violet light. When Lucie opened her fingers it flitted away, seeming glad to be free.
Matthew said something, and Cordelia and Christopher laughed. Lucie was too entranced to ask what the joke was. She had spied a pair of carts painted in scarlet and gold and green; a mustachioed troll standing on a raised platform expounded on the scientific properties and dubious claims of his medicinal remedies. At the heart of the Market, where the larger stalls were located, there were tailors catering to faeries and werewolves, selling clothes with holes for wings and tails. Nearby was a tiny cart operated by a vampire modeling her line of cosmetics: fine powder to cover any imperfections and lipsticks guaranteed to give one’s lips “that bloodred tinge coveted in Europe’s most cosmopolitan cities.”
The group convened in a central space, where the stalls were arranged around them in a square. Lucie released James’s arm so he could consult a hand-lettered directory nailed to a post. Matthew gazed warily at a vampire selling bottles of “special” ginger beer as Christopher produced a long scroll of paper from his pocket. Cordelia had darted off to examine a stall selling hand-tooled leather scabbards and wrist gauntlets.
“What have you got there?” Lucie asked Christopher, peering over his shoulder at a list of unfamiliar terms.
“Oh, this? It’s my shopping list,” Christopher said. “What with the curfew business, I haven’t been able to attend the Market for quite some time, and I’ve got ingredients to acquire.”
He set off briskly along a winding path between the stalls. Lucie followed; to her amusement, the vendors greeted him enthusiastically:
“Mr. Lightwood! A new shipment of marrubium has just come in. Would you be interested?”
“Christopher Lightwood! Just the man I was hoping to see! I’ve got the materials we discussed last time we spoke—top grade, very rare….”
As Lucie watched, Christopher paused to haggle with a werewolf who was selling dried roots and fungi, eventually walking away empty-handed, only to return when the werewolf called after him to accept the price he’d offered.
“Christopher haggles like an expert!” Cordelia exclaimed, appearing at Lucie’s side with two bottles of fizzy pink liquid. “He could hold his own in the souks of Marrakech. Here, try this—I’m told it makes the cheeks rosy.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” James said, swooping in and taking the bottles from her hands. “Daisy, Lucie, do not eat or drink anything that is being sold here. At best, you might get a mild stomachache. At worst, you will wake up as a pair of otters.”
“Otters are lovely,” said Cordelia, her eyes dancing.
“Your cheeks are rosy enough as is,” said James firmly, tossing the bottles on a trash heap behind the stalls before joining Matthew to look at a display of swords with dubiously sparkling “gems” decorating the hilts.
“Speaking of brothers,” said Lucie. “Not that we were, exactly, but—I am so sorry that Alastair was arrested. I think what he did was exceedingly brave.”
Cordelia looked surprised. “I knew you would understand,” she said, laying a hand on Lucie’s arm. “And Lucie …”
Lucie glanced about. Cordelia had the air of someone wanting to confide a secret. James and Matthew were deep in conversation with a werewolf—a woman with long, gray-brown hair and a necklace of teeth, presiding over a glass case full of colorful crystal bottles from which perfumed scents wafted. A hand-lettered sign on a shelf declared WILL COVER UP THE SMELL OF WET FUR.
“I know that you’ve been doing something—something you’re keeping secret. I’m not angry,” Cordelia hastened to add. “I just wish you’d tell me what it is.”
Lucie tried to cover her surprise; she had thought that—busy with marriage and a house to keep up—Cordelia hadn’t been paying her any mind. “I’m sorry, truly,” she said slowly. “What if I told you … that I am trying to help someone, someone who is very deserving of help, but for their safety I cannot share the specifics at this point?”
Cordelia looked hurt. “But … I’m your parabatai. Or I will be, very soon. We are meant to face our challenges together. If there is someone who needs help, I could help them as well.”