The Red Scrolls of Magic

“No, no,” the goblin said. “No party. I’m seven hundred years old. I get confused.”

Alec had clocked the goblin right back. “Maybe,” he said quietly into Magnus’s ear, “we should go to the restaurant.”

Magnus was relieved and embarrassed and annoyed and grateful, all at once. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

Once the door was safely closed between them and the bar car, Alec said, “Are there always this many Downworlders on trains?”

“Not usually,” Magnus said. “Not unless they’re going to some big Downworlder party in Venice that no one thought to tell me about. Which they are, in this case.”

Alec didn’t say anything. Neither of them mentioned that without Alec, Magnus would be on his way to that party right now. Magnus wanted to tell Alec that he didn’t care about a party, that he was happier to have dinner with Alec, because Alec mattered and some party didn’t, really.

They passed two more lounge cars—a champagne car and a viewing car—before reaching the restaurant car. A host met them at the entrance and escorted them to an elegantly draped booth in the corner. A small brass chandelier above them bathed the table in a warm yellow glow, and the table was set with an intimidating number of different forks, spoons, and knives at various orientations to the plates.

Magnus ordered a bottle of Barolo and swished the drink as they admired the scenery rolling by outside their window. Dinner was Noirmoutier lobster, oven-baked with a drizzle of butter and lemon juice. There was a plate of caviar-laden potatoes served on the side.

Alec was dubious of the caviar. Then he looked embarrassed about being dubious of the caviar. “I just always assumed people ate it because it was expensive.”

“No,” said Magnus, “they eat it because it’s expensive and delicious. But it’s complicated. You have to eat it slowly, really experience the subtlety and the complexity.” He took a piece of potato, topped it with sour cream and a healthy dollop of caviar, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and deliberately, eyes closed.

When he opened his eyes again, Alec was gazing intently at him, nodding thoughtfully. Then his expression broke into laughter.

“It’s not funny,” said Magnus. “Here, I’ll make you one.” He assembled another potato and fed it to Alec from his fork.

Alec copied Magnus’s performance, chewing with great exaggerated movements and rolling his eyes back in his head in mock ecstasy. Magnus waited.

Finally, Alec swallowed and opened his eyes. “It really is good, actually.”

“See?”

“Do I have to do the eye-rolling every time?”

“It’s better with the eye-rolling. Wait—look.”

Alec gave a gratifying, wondering, “Oh,” as the train emerged around a bend into the heart of the French countryside. Dense, dark green forest framed mirrored lakes, and in the distance, white snowcapped mountains watched over the landscape. Closer, a rocky promontory rose like the prow of a ship from the distinctive tidy grid of bright vineyards below.

Magnus watched the landscape, then Alec’s face, then the landscape again. Seeing this with him was like seeing the world made new. Magnus had been through the Parc du Morvan before, but for the first time in a long while, he felt wonder too.

“At some point,” said Alec, “we’ll cross the Idris wards, and the whole train will jump from the near border to the far border in an instant. I wonder if we’ll be able to tell.”

There was a yearning note to his voice, though Alec had not lived in Idris since he was small. The Nephilim always had someplace they could return to, no matter what, a country of enchanted forests and rolling fields, and in its center, a city of shining glass towers. Given by the Angel. Magnus was a man with no homeland, and had been for longer than he could remember. Odd, to see the compass of Alec’s soul swing around surely and point home. The compass of Magnus’s soul spun freely within him, and he’d long been used to that.

Their hands lingered together, Magnus’s fingers curling around Alec’s as they looked out at heavy clouds rolling in from the east.

Magnus pointed at one of the clusters of storm clouds. “That long one looks like a serpent that tied itself into a knot. That looks like the croissant I had this morning. That one . . . a llama, I guess? Or possibly my dad? Bye, Dad! Hope not to see you soon!” He blew a sarcastic kiss.

“Is this like the thing with the stars?” said Alec. “It’s romantic to name the stuff you see in the sky?”

Magnus was silent.

“You can talk about him if you want,” said Alec.

“My father the demon, or my stepfather who tried to kill me?” Magnus asked.

“Either.”

“I don’t want to put us off our lobster,” said Magnus. “I try not to think about either of them.” He seldom mentioned his father, but after Johnny Rook’s information, Magnus couldn’t get him off his mind. He kept considering what it might mean for his father to be the demon worshipped by the Crimson Hand.

“I was thinking about my dad yesterday,” Alec offered hesitantly. “He told me I should stay in New York and pretend I was straight. That’s what he meant, anyway.”

Magnus remembered one long, cold night, in which he had to stand between a family of terrified werewolves and a group of Shadowhunters, Alec’s father and mother among them. There was so much hate and fear in the world, even among those chosen by the Angel. He looked into Alec’s face and saw the doubt and fear Alec’s father had put there.