“I was at Matthew’s,” Thomas said. He seemed too distracted to come inside, though his rapid breath was making white clouds in the cold air. Cordelia could see no carriage behind him. He must have walked here, or run. “At least, I went to see Matthew. But Henry said Matthew wasn’t at home and he didn’t know when he’d be coming back. He took Oscar with him, too. Henry seemed grumpy. I thought that was odd. Henry’s hardly ever grumpy. It is odd, isn’t it? I should have asked more, but I couldn’t, not after I heard—”
“Tom,” James said gently. “Slow down. What happened?”
“I was meant to meet Matthew this morning,” said Thomas. “But when I got to the Consul’s, only Henry was there. He didn’t want to talk about Matthew, really, but he said Charlotte was called to the Institute—that someone else had died—” He rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, almost violently.
“Someone was killed last night?” said Cordelia. “Another Shadowhunter on patrol?” She could not help but think of James’s screaming—she had burst into the room because the sound was so awful, and he had been thrashing, crying out in his sleep.
What had he dreamed?
“Not on patrol,” Thomas said. “Henry says they think it was someone coming back from Anna’s party. A girl.”
“Lucie was at Anna’s party,” Cordelia breathed. “Thomas—”
“It wasn’t Lucie. It seems Uncle Gabriel saw her come home last night. This girl was out much later, close to dawn. The patrol who found her body just said it was a girl with dark hair. And—Eugenia—I didn’t see her this morning. I know she was at the party last night, but I didn’t think anything of it until Henry told me what happened,” Thomas said quietly. “I should have gone straight home once he did, I know, but—after Barbara, I can’t—I need you with me. I need you with me, James.”
Thomas had lost one sister already that year, in the Mandikhor attacks. No wonder he looked so sick with terror. James went to put an arm around him as Cordelia turned to Risa.
“Please call the carriage,” she said. “We must get to the Institute, as fast as possible.”
* * *
There was already a crowd at the Institute when they arrived. The gates had been propped open, and Xanthos sped cheerfully below the arch, as if glad to be home.
A small crowd had gathered at the base of the front steps. Among the group, Cordelia recognized many of the older Shadowhunters—the Inquisitor and Charlotte, Cecily Lightwood—along with Lucie, Anna, and Matthew. （Cordelia was glad to see he’d turned up, though Oscar did not seem to be with him.） All of them looked shocked, their expressions grave.
As their driver pulled the carriage to a stop in the courtyard, the crowd parted and Cordelia saw a pale bundle lying at the foot of the steps. Thomas threw the carriage doors open and she realized: no, not a bundle. A body, covered in a white sheet. The sheet was stained red with dried blood. From one corner of the sheet, a hand protruded, as if reaching out for help.
At the edge of the sheet was a spill of dark hair.
Thomas leaped down to the ground. He looked frantic. James followed; as he stepped off the running board, Lucie bolted over. Anna, wearing a caped greatcoat and a grave expression, followed more slowly with Matthew. Cordelia found herself wondering where Christopher was, especially since he was currently residing at the Institute. Perhaps inside, with his father?
Lucie threw her arms around James. “I should have waited for her,” she sobbed, her small body shaking. “It’s my fault, Jamie.”
James held his sister tightly. “Who was it?” he demanded. “Who’s dead?”
“Please,” Thomas said, looking sick. “Just tell me—”
“Filomena di Angelo,” said Anna. “Stabbed to death, just as Basil Pounceby was. The Silent Brothers are on their way to bring her to the Ossuarium.”
“I thought—” Thomas began, and broke off. Shock, relief, and guilt at that relief played across his face. Cordelia could not blame him—she too was glad it was not Thomas’s sister. And yet Filomena had been so young, so lively—so excited to be on her travel year, so in love with art and culture.
“Were you worried about Eugenia?” Anna said, laying a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Poor darling. No, Eugenia is still quite peacefully asleep on my sofa. She may have been sick in a plant pot last night, but she is perfectly well.”