To his surprise, Alastair stayed by his side. He did not devote his entire attention to Thomas—they stopped repeatedly to greet everyone from James to Eugenia, who looked from Thomas to Alastair and grinned maniacally, to Esme Hardcastle, who had a long list of questions for Alastair about his Persian relatives. “My family tree must be thorough,” she said. “Now, is it true that your mother was married to a French Shadowhunter?”
“No,” Alastair said. “My father was her first and only husband.”
“So she didn’t poison the Frenchman for his money?”
Alastair glowered.
“Did she murder him for a different reason?” Esme inquired, pen hovering.
“He asked too many questions,” said Alastair darkly, after which he was dragged away by Thomas, who, to his own surprise, was able to convince Alastair to join in playing with his cousin Alex. Alex had always enjoyed being put on top of Thomas’s shoulders, as it afforded an excellent view. It turned out he also liked it when Alastair picked him up and tickled him. When Thomas raised his eyebrows, Alastair said, “I might as well practice, oughtn’t I? I’ll have my own baby brother or sister soon.” Alastair’s dark eyes sparked. “Look at that,” he said, and Thomas turned to see that Anna and Ari were waltzing on the dance floor, arms around each other, seemingly oblivious to the world. A few of the Enclave were staring—the Baybrooks, the Pouncebys, Ida Rosewain, the Inquisitor himself, glaring from the sidelines—but most were simply going about their business. Even Ari’s mother was looking over at them wistfully, with no anger or judgment on her face.
“See,” Thomas said, in a low voice. “The sky has not fallen.”
Alastair set Alex down, and Alex toddled on chubby legs to his mother, pulling at her blue skirts. Alastair indicated that Thomas should come with him, and Thomas, wondering if he had annoyed Alastair and if so, how much, followed him behind a decorative urn that was exploding yew branches covered in red berries. From behind it, Thomas could catch only glimpses of the ballroom.
“Well, all right,” Thomas said, squaring his shoulders. “If you’re angry at me, say so.”
Alastair blinked. “Why would I be angry at you?”
“Perhaps you’re annoyed that I made you come to the party. Perhaps you’d rather be with Charles—”
“Charles is here?” Alastair looked honestly surprised.
“He’s been ignoring you,” Thomas noted. “Very rude of him.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I don’t care about Charles,” said Alastair, and Thomas was surprised at how startlingly relieved he felt. “And I don’t know why you want him to speak to me either. Perhaps you need to figure out what you do want.”
“Alastair, you are the last person—”
“Do you realize we’re under the mistletoe?” Alastair said, his dark eyes sparking with mischief. Thomas glanced up. It was true; someone had hung a bunch of the waxy white berries from a hook in the wall overhead.
Thomas took a step forward. Alastair instinctively retreated a step, his back against the wall. “Would you like me to do something about it?” Thomas said.
The air between them suddenly seemed as heavy as the air outside, weighted with the promise of a storm. Alastair laid a hand on Thomas’s chest. His long lashes swept down to hide his eyes, his expression, but his hand slid down, over Thomas’s flat belly, his thumb rubbing small circles, setting every one of Thomas’s nerves alight. “Right here?” he said, hooking his fingers into Thomas’s waistband. “Right now?”
“I’d kiss you right here,” Thomas said in a harsh whisper. “I’d kiss you in front of the Enclave. I am not ashamed of anything I feel about you. You are the one, I think, who doesn’t want it.”
Alastair tipped his face up, and Thomas could see what his lashes had been hiding: the slow-melting desire in his eyes. “I want it,” he said.
And Thomas was about to lean forward, he was about to crush his lips to Alastair’s, was about to suggest that much as he wanted to claim Alastair as his in front of the whole Enclave, they had to go somewhere, anywhere, where they could be alone, when a scream split the air. The scream of someone in anguished pain.
Alastair jerked bolt upright. Thomas reeled back, his heart slamming in his chest. He knew that scream. It was his aunt Cecily.
* * *
James paused halfway down the corridor, his heart pounding. He had not meant to follow Cordelia and Matthew to the games room; he’d gone there to retrieve a cheroot Anna had good-naturedly demanded, but as he’d approached the door, he’d heard their voices. Matthew, low and intense; Cordelia, obviously distressed. The pain in her voice kept him nailed in place, even as he knew he should back away. He had started to back away, when he heard Cordelia say, “I cannot and never will love you in the way you wish to be loved, Math. The way you deserve to be loved. I do not know what I will do about James. I have no plan, have made no decision. But I do know this. I know I must not let there be false hope between us.”
He would have thought he would be relieved. But it had felt like a thorn driven into his heart: he felt Matthew’s pain, nearly choked on it. He walked away then, not staying to hear what Matthew said. He could not bear to.
He found himself walking mechanically back into the ballroom. He could barely even perceive the other partygoers, and when his father tried to get his attention, he pretended he didn’t notice. He slipped into one of the alcoves and stared across at the Christmas tree. He could barely breathe. I do not know what I will do about James, she had said. Perhaps they would both lose her, he and Matthew. Perhaps it would be better that way; they could share their pain, repair each other. But a small and treacherous pulse beat inside his chest, repeating over and over that she had not said she was done with him, only that she did not know what she would do. It was enough for hope, a hope that warred with guilt, and a darker feeling that seemed to tighten like a band around his chest, cutting off his breath.
The party whirled on in front of him, a torrent of color and sound, and yet through it, he seemed to see a spill of shadows. Something dark, rising like smoke: a threat he could taste on the air.
This was not sorrow or worry, he realized. This was danger.
And then he heard the scream.
* * *
Lucie knew she should have taken Jesse aside immediately to tell him what Malcolm had said to her, but she hadn’t had the heart.
He appeared truly to be enjoying himself at this, the first social occasion he had ever attended as a living adult. The admiring glances shot his way nonplussed him, but Lucie glowed with happiness for him. She was proud of the way he held himself, and the real interest he showed in people, and she couldn’t bear to ruin it.
She’d once read in an etiquette book that when one introduced two people, one should add a small detail about one of them that might spark a conversation. So she told Ida Rosewain, “This is Jeremy Blackthorn. He collects antique cow-creamers,” while she informed Piers that Jeremy was an amateur astronomer, and told the Townsends that he had spent fourteen days living in the basket of a hot-air balloon. Jesse quite calmly went along with all the fibs, and even embroidered on them: Lucie had nearly choked when he’d told the Townsends that all his meals in the balloon had been brought to him by trained seagulls.