The carriage stopped in front of a green carpet, which led like a forest path up gleaming white steps to a massive faux-medieval door. The steps were lined with footmen in ivory livery, all standing stiffly to attention as James and Cordelia passed them. She couldn’t help but giggle as they arrived in a very grand foyer with an elaborately tiled pink-and-white marble floor. It really did look like a cake.
James winked at her when they entered the ballroom, another massive space with ornate ceilings, slathered with gilding and boasting pastel paintings of clouds and cherubs. The edges of the room were crowded with people: Cordelia recognized Will and Tessa chatting in a corner with Gabriel and Cecily Lightwood. The Merry Thieves were there as well, sprawled at a table in one corner with Anna. Matthew raised a glass of champagne as he spotted them; Anna waved indolently. The dancing had not yet begun: guests milled around a long banquet table loaded down with enough food to feed a small town. Silver towers of pastries and sandwiches made a backdrop to huge glazed hams and fish the size of small children in gleaming aspic, staring balefully with boiled eyes from their silver platters.
In the center of the ballroom Martin Wentworth and his wife, Gladys, were admiring a large ice sculpture of Rosamund and Thoby, both in flowing robes. There was a small dove on Rosamund’s shoulder. James stared at it openly. “Would you say the theme of this party is ‘Cold Reception’？” he whispered to Cordelia.
She clamped her lips shut but could not prevent herself from shaking with silent giggles. James gazed innocently at the cherubs on the ceiling as the real Rosamund and Thoby swept up to welcome them. “Oh, you both look lovely, such a beautiful couple I was saying, wasn’t I just saying that, Thoby?” Rosamund exclaimed.
Thoby looked startled. “Were you?”
Rosamund gave James a hungry look, as if he were a delicious cream scone she couldn’t wait to slather in blackberry jam. Feeling a need to rescue her husband, Cordelia said, “And how wonderful that everyone has come out to celebrate! James, we must greet your parents—”
“Not everyone,” said Rosamund, with a heavy sigh. “Amos Gladstone had to go and get himself killed, and quite a few people felt attending was in poor taste, which is very unfair, because we obviously planned this event before he died. And we would have canceled it, but we’d already ordered the ice sculpture.”
“That was an extraordinary speech, Rosamund,” said James.
“Thank you,” said Rosamund, seeming pleased. “I mean, how were we to know he’d get topped on patrol?”
“When did this happen?” said Cordelia. She glanced at James, who shrugged. “We hadn’t heard—？”
“Oh, it was just the night before last,” said Thoby, a tall, weak-chinned young man with pale blond hair.
“Was it a demon attack?” asked James.
“Well, clearly,” said Rosamund. “What else would it have been? Now, Thoby, do show James the billiards room. It’s new.” She giggled and clasped Cordelia’s arm. “We ladies have somewhere to be.”
As Thoby led James away, Rosamund steered Cordelia toward a group of women in pastel dresses stationed near the refreshments table. Among them was Thomas’s sister Eugenia, wearing a pale yellow dress and matching gloves.
“Here you go,” Rosamund said with some satisfaction. Her hair had been dressed very high and studded all over with flowers. Petals rained down as she tossed her head. “This is where the married ladies are,” she added in a stage whisper.
Of course, Cordelia realized belatedly. Married women tended to group together at dances: after all, they were no longer looking for husbands. She looked hopefully at Eugenia, but Rosamund had already bustled over to her. “Eugenia. You oughtn’t be here. Come back to where the young ladies are—there are quite a few gentlemen here tonight eager to dance—”
“Shan’t,” said Eugenia, looking mutinous, but she was no match for Rosamund. A moment later she was a yellow speck disappearing into the crowd.
“Cordelia Herondale, is it?” said an angular woman in apricot silk. Cordelia recognized her as Eunice Pounceby, Augustus Pounceby’s mother. It seemed Rosamund had left her with not just the married ladies but the matronly ones—mothers and grandmothers. “You look rather tired.”
There was a gale of laughter; Cordelia stared.
“Eunice is only teasing you,” said Vespasia Greenmantle, a comfortable-looking woman in purple velvet. “Newlyweds and their late nights, eh?”