Eventually, as guests ceased arriving and more people joined the dancing, Lucie squeezed Jesse’s hand （she was wearing gloves, as was he; surely it did not count as touching） and said, “There’s only a few people left you haven’t met. Do you want to brave the Inquisitor and his wife? You’ll have to meet them eventually.”
He looked down at her. “Speaking of inquisitions,” he said, with a slightly self-mocking turn to his mouth, “I note that you have been avoiding telling me what Malcolm said in the Sanctuary.”
“You are too clever for your own good.”
“If you’d rather tell me later, we could dance—”
She bit her lip. “No,” she said quietly. “Come with me. We should talk.”
She glanced around to see if anyone was watching—no one seemed to be—before leading him to the French doors that gave onto the long stone balcony outside the ballroom. She slipped through them, Jesse on her heels, and went to the railing.
The snow had not been cleared, and it chilled her feet through her slippers: it was not expected that anyone would come out here during the coldest time of the year. Beyond the railing was a London gripped by cold, a Thames sluggish with chill water, the constant smell of burning wood and coal. The rooflines of distant houses resembled an Alpine ridge, dusted with snow.
“Can’t we just have one lovely night?” Lucie said, gazing out at the city from the chilly stone balustrade. “Can’t I refuse to tell you what Malcolm said?”
“Lucie,” Jesse said. He had joined her at the railing; the cold had already whipped color into his pale cheeks. She knew he liked it, liked the extremes of heat and cold, but he did not seem to be enjoying it now. “Whatever it is, you must tell me. I am not used to having a mortal heart, one that beats; it is out of practice. It cannot sustain this kind of panic.”
“I did not mean to make you panic,” Lucie murmured. “Only—Jesse—I cannot touch you. And you cannot touch me.”
She quickly summarized what Malcolm had told her. When she was done, Jesse rested a hand on the cold stone of the railing and said, “For so long, as a ghost, you were the only one I could touch. And now I am alive, and you are the only one I cannot.” He looked up at the stars in the clear sky above them. “It hardly seems worth the return.”
“Don’t say that,” Lucie breathed. “There is so much to being alive, and you are wonderful at it, and Malcolm will find a solution. Or we will. We have found solutions to worse problems.”
He almost smiled. “Wonderful at being alive? That is a compliment.” He raised a hand as if to touch her cheek—then drew it back, eyes darkening. “I don’t like to think that raising me made you more vulnerable to Belial.”
“I raised you,” Lucie said. “I did not ask you. I commanded you. The responsibility lies with me.”
But she could tell that had not comforted him; his gaze had turned inward, dark. The gaze of the boy who withdrew easily into himself, because for so long he had not been seen, not been heard. “Jesse,” she said. “The shadow of Belial has always hung over myself and my brother. You did not bring that upon us. It has become clearer and clearer over the past year that it was always his plan to turn his attention to us—that whatever his goal is, his blood descendants are a part of it.”
“So what you are saying is that the only thing to be done is to end Belial. Even though they say he can’t be killed.”
“But they also say that Cortana can kill him.” She thought, with a piercing loneliness, of Cordelia. “We have to believe it is true.”
He looked down at her. He looked like Christmas and winter: dark green eyes, snow-white skin, hair as black as coal. “Then what do we do?”
“We think about it tomorrow,” Lucie said softly, “but not tonight. Tonight is a Christmas party, and you are alive, and I am going to dance with you in the only way we can.” She held out her hands. “Here. Let me show you.”
She stepped in closer to him. Close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, though they were not touching; she raised her hand, and he raised his so that they stood with their palms facing each other, separated by an inch of cold winter air. He curved his other arm around her waist, careful not to make contact, not to even brush her skin.
She turned her face up to his. She could have raised herself up on her toes and kissed his mouth. Instead she caught his gaze with her own. Their eyes held each other’s, as their bodies could not, and together they began to dance. There on the balcony, under the stars, with the rooftops of London the only witnesses. And though Lucie could not touch him, Jesse’s presence warmed her, surrounded her, calmed her. She felt a pressure in her throat: Why had no one ever told her how close happiness was to tears?
And then there was a crash, a sound like a chandelier falling to burst apart in fragments upon the floor. And from inside the ballroom, a scream.
* * *
Cordelia’s hands were wet with tears.
She had lingered in the games room as long as she could after Matthew left. She had been aware she was crying—making hardly any noise at all, but the hot tears kept coming, spilling down her cheeks, spotting the silk of her dress.
Hurting Matthew had been one of the hardest things she had ever done. She wished she had been able to make him understand that she did not regret their time in Paris, that much of what had happened was good, even wonderful. That Matthew had taught her that there was life for her even if she were not a Shadowhunter. That even in the darkest moments, humor and light could shine through.
Part of her wanted to run after him and take it all back, but then they would only be exactly where they were before. She had told him the truth. She had been honest when she’d said she didn’t know what she would do about James.
But the necklace. The necklace had changed things. She touched it now, with damp fingers. Realized there were no longer hot drops of salt water splashing onto her collarbone. There was only so long she could hide in here; Anna and Ari would come looking for her, as would Alastair. With a quick glance in the mirror over the fireplace, she tucked her hair into place and returned to the ballroom.
She scanned the room quickly—if she had been worried that anyone would have noticed her disappearance with Matthew, it seemed not—before realizing who she was looking for. Lucie. Who she did not see anywhere, or Jesse, but even if Lucie had been there, Cordelia could not simply have gone to her for comfort. Things were too complicated for that.
The party was a torrent of color and brightness and warmth, and then the sound of breaking glass tore through it all.
She remembered the loud crash at her wedding when her father had crumpled drunkenly to the floor, knocking over plates and dishes as he fell, and thought, Someone has broken something.
And then came the scream. An awful, heartrending scream. A flash of movements. The crash of instruments as the musicians fled their small stage; the twang of a violin string breaking. A scramble as Shadowhunters retreated from the dance floor, some reaching for weapons, though most would have come unarmed.
The blade of a sharp, familiar voice, cutting through the noise and motion like a knife.
“STOP,” Tatiana Blackthorn cried. She stood atop the stage, wearing a faded, bloodstained dress, her hair wild, a bundle cradled against her chest. Her voice carried as if supernaturally amplified. “You will stop this instant—stop moving, stop speaking, and drop every weapon—or the child dies.”