Matthew mimed being stabbed in the heart. “Doubted! Unmanned! Cruelty, thy name is woman.” He peered at her out of a narrowed eye. “Does that mean you don’t want to know what they’re talking about?”
“Of course I do, you oaf.” She hit him lightly on the shoulder. The polonaise was not as intimate a dance as the waltz, but she was still close enough to Matthew to note the faint lines around his eyes when he really smiled. She didn’t see them that often. He smelled of brandy, frangipani, and cigars.
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice. “You know Charles has been in Paris, working at the Institute.”
“I heard the head of the Paris Institute was ill, and Charles was pitching in.”
“And quite a help he’s been,” said Matthew. “There was a meeting with all the vampire clans of France, and Charles neglected to invite the clan from Marseilles. Probably just forgetfulness, but they took mortal offense.”
“Surely he could just explain and apologize?”
Matthew snorted. “Have you met Charles? He doesn’t apologize. Besides, the vampires aren’t inclined to trust him. They feel, not unreasonably, that in any serious disagreement, the Consul would side with her son. So Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa are going back with him to Paris tomorrow to help smooth things over quietly.” Matthew’s eyes danced. “Downworlders tend to look favorably on them, since Tessa is herself a Downworlder, and Will saw fit to defend her against the Clave, and even marry her.”
They raised their hands up and placed them palm to palm. Cordelia could see the black Voyance rune shimmer against the back of her hand as her fingers twined lightly with Matthew’s. “Well, I say they sent the wrong Fairchild brother there in the first place,” she said.
They began to turn in a slow circle, keeping their hands clasped. “What do you mean?”
“You’re the one who loves France. You’re always talking about Paris,” she said. “And you’re devilishly charming—you know you are. You would have made a much better ambassador than Charles.”
Matthew looked—well, “stunned” might be the best description. She had the feeling he was rarely compared favorably to his brother when it came to professional matters. They made one more turn in silence. Without the bulwark of light conversation, the dance seemed suddenly far more intimate. She could feel his movements beside her, feel the warmth of his hand, the cool press of his signet ring. The one James had given him.
She had seen couples like that on the dance floor before: utterly silent, drinking in the sight of each other, the rare opportunity to touch and be close without scandal. Not that she and Matthew were like that—she had only said something that made him feel awkward, was all. Well, too bad, she thought. He ought to hear it. He was worth a hundred of Charles.
The music stopped. Amid the bustle of dancers leaving the floor, they lowered their hands. “Alas,” said Matthew, in his familiar bright tone, “I shall have to return you to durance vile, I fear. I would ask for a second set, but it is frowned upon for single men to dance too much with married ladies. We are meant to be hurling ourselves at unattached females like cannonballs.”
Cordelia chuckled. “That’s all right. You’ve spared me an otherwise dull ten minutes. I was about to throw myself into the trifle.”
“Terrible waste of trifle,” said a familiar voice, and Cordelia turned in surprise to see James. In the gilded light, his eyes were a startling gold.
“Freed yourself from the clutches of your parents, have you?” said Matthew, after a hesitation so brief, Cordelia wondered if she’d imagined it. “Heard about Charles?”
James mimed a whistle. “Indeed. Much to be said on that topic, but for the moment—” He turned to Cordelia. “Mrs. Herondale, would you do me the honor of dancing the first waltz with me?”
Cordelia looked at him in surprise. “But husbands aren’t supposed to—I mean, they don’t dance with their wives.”
“Well, this one does,” said James, and whirled her away across the floor.
GRACE: 1896
Jesse’s was not a clean death. He had begun screaming in the night, and Grace had rushed in, to find her brother already a grotesque horror, a tangle of linens and blood, so much blood, screaming, inhuman in his torment. Grace shouted for her mother, her cries joining Jesse’s. She knew there were healing runes, Shadowhunter magic that could help, but she didn’t know how to draw them. Besides, she had no stele.