“Why do you keep mentioning Thomas to me?” Alastair said. They were passing row upon row of white houses, many with holly wreaths pinned to their front doors. Risa had clearly decided to take smaller roads to reach the Devil Tavern, avoiding the traffic of Knightsbridge at peak Christmas shopping time.
Cordelia raised an eyebrow at him.
“Thomas Lightwood,” he clarified, tugging on his scarf.
“I didn’t think you meant Thomas Aquinas,” said Cordelia. “And I keep mentioning him because I am not a complete idiot, Alastair. You did turn up rather suddenly at the Institute the moment he was arrested to tell everyone you knew he was innocent because you’d been following him about for days.”
“I didn’t realize you knew all that,” Alastair grumbled.
“Matthew told me.” She reached out to pat her brother on the cheek with a gloved hand. “There is no shame in caring about someone, Alastair. Even if it hurts.”
“？‘The wound is the place where the light enters you,’？” Alastair said. It was her favorite Rumi quote. Cordelia looked quickly out the window.
She told herself not to be foolish, not to cry, no matter how kind Alastair was being. Out the window, she could see the crowded streets of Piccadilly, where sellers pushed barrows of holly and ivy wreaths and wooden toys. Omnibuses rolled by, their sides advertising tins of holiday biscuits and Christmas crackers.
“You’re not going to mind seeing James, will you?” Alastair said. “It won’t bother you?”
Cordelia tugged at the lace on her skirt. She was wearing a pale lavender dress that her mother had gotten her when they first arrived in London, with far too many ruffles and frills. Her only other choices had been the elegant gowns she’d gotten in Paris, but when she’d opened the trunk and touched the silk and velvet, so carefully packed with tissue paper, she’d felt only a wave of sadness. Her time in Paris now seemed tinged with shadow, like the darkening of an old photograph.
“I left him, Alastair,” she said. “Not the other way around.”
“I know,” he said, “but sometimes we leave people to protect ourselves, don’t we? Not because we don’t want to be with them. Unless, of course,” he added, “you are in love with Matthew, in which case, you had better tell me now, and not spring it on me later. I’m braced, I think I can bear up.”
Cordelia made a face. “I told you,” she said. “I just don’t know what I feel—”
The carriage came to a jouncing stop. They had made good time through the park and across Trafalgar Square; here they were at the Devil Tavern. As Cordelia and Alastair clambered out of the carriage, Risa called down that she’d be waiting for them around the corner on Chancery Lane, where the traffic was quieter.
The ground floor of the Devil was as bustling as ever. The usual assortment of regulars filled the high-ceilinged space, and a brief cry of welcome from Pickles, the drunken kelpie, came from the far corner as they closed the door behind them. Alastair looked astonished when Ernie the barkeep welcomed Cordelia by name. Cordelia felt a little surge of pride at that; it was always gratifying to surprise Alastair, no matter how old she got.
She led them through the crowd to the staircase at the back. On the way they passed by Polly, who was carrying a precariously full tray of drinks above her head. “All your Thieves are already upstairs,” she said to Cordelia with a nod, and then turned to take in Alastair with wide eyes. “Cor, who knew the Shadowhunters have been hidin’ their handsomest away until now. What’s your name, love?”
Alastair, shocked into silence for a change, let Cordelia pull him past and up the stairs. “That was—did she really—”
“Fret not,” Cordelia said with a grin. “I shall keep a weather eye out lest she assail your virtue.”
Alastair glared. They had reached the top of the staircase, and the familiar door, above which was carved, It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. S.J.
Alastair read this with some interest. Cordelia poked him in the side.
“I want you to be nice in there,” she said sternly. “I don’t want to hear any comments about how the furniture is shabby and the bust of Apollo has its nose chipped.”
Alastair arched one eyebrow. “My concern is never with the shabbiness of the furniture,” he said loftily, “but the shabbiness of the company.”
Cordelia made a frustrated noise. “You are impossible,” she said, and swung the door open.
The little room inside was crowded. It seemed everyone else had already arrived: James, Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher, of course, but also Lucie and Jesse, Anna, and even Ariadne Bridgestock. All the available furniture from the adjacent bedroom had been dragged in so that there was a seat for everyone （counting the window ledge, where Lucie had perched）， but it was a tight squeeze. James and Matthew weren’t sitting next to one another, but Cordelia decided to be relieved that they had both come and didn’t seem to be exchanging glares.
A chorus of greetings rose up as Alastair and Cordelia came in. Thomas detached himself from the arm of Anna’s chair and came over to them, his hazel eyes bright. “You came,” he said to Alastair.
“Well, I was invited,” Alastair said. “Was that your doing?”
“No,” Thomas protested. “Well, I mean, you are the current holder of Cortana—you ought to be here, and you’re Cordelia’s brother; it wouldn’t make any sense to leave you out—”
Cordelia decided it was time to make herself scarce. She smiled awkwardly at Lucie, who smiled equally awkwardly back, and went to sit on the sofa, where she found herself next to Ariadne.
“I heard you were in Paris,” Ariadne said. There seemed something different about Ariadne, Cordelia thought, though she could not have put her finger on what it was. “I’ve always wanted to go. Was it wonderful?”
“Paris is lovely,” Cordelia said. It was true enough—Paris was wonderful. Nothing that had happened there had been the city’s fault.
She caught Matthew’s eye. He smiled a little sadly. Cordelia noticed with a pang at her heart that he looked awful—well, awful for Matthew. His waistcoat didn’t match his jacket, a lace had broken on one of his boots, and his hair was untidy. This was the Matthew equivalent of turning up at a party with a dagger protruding from his chest.
Thoughts Cordelia hated crowded her head—was he drunk? Had he been drinking that morning? He had kept up appearances in Paris; what did it mean that he wasn’t doing it now? At least he was here, she told herself.
As for James—James looked his ordinary self. Orderly, calm, the Mask firmly in place. He did not look at her, but Cordelia knew him well enough now to sense his tension. He did not wear his anguish plainly, as Matthew did, if indeed he felt anguish at all.
“And you,” Cordelia said, to Ariadne, “are you all right? And your parents? I am so terribly sorry to hear of what befell your father, though at least he is unharmed.”
Ariadne said calmly, “I think my parents are well enough. I am not staying with them at the moment, but with Anna.”
Oh. Cordelia glanced over at Anna, who was laughing at something Christopher had said. Ariadne had been pursuing Anna, Anna resisting—did this mean that Anna had finally given in? What on earth was going on with the two of them? Maybe Lucie knew.