“Besides,” said Matthew, “if we go around asking who sells demonic adamas, I’m sure that won’t bring us any unwanted attention.”
“Well, we’ll need to be careful about it,” said James. “But adamas is valuable. And where else are valuable magical items bought and sold and appraised? I can’t think of anywhere else we might find someone with that sort of expertise, not on such short notice.”
Christopher brightened, excited by the prospect. “Capital idea. The sun’s nearly down; we can go straightaway.”
“Alas, I cannot join you,” Anna said, rising gracefully from her chair. “I have patrol tonight.”
As the rest of them gathered their things to leave, Cordelia noticed Lucie giving Anna an odd look. It was the sort of look that meant Lucie knew something that she wasn’t saying. But what on earth could she know about Anna? Cordelia wondered briefly if she should ask, but she was distracted by Matthew, who was refilling his flask from one of the bottles on the sill.
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.”