Grace shrugged. “You’re the one who’s insisting we do this the ‘proper’ way. So, here we are.”
She had a point: breaking curfew was better than doing evil. The brief discussion of necromancy in James’s drawing room earlier that day had sent shivers up Lucie’s spine.
“Have you been here before?” Grace asked.
“Just once.” Still, Lucie was feeling a bit smug about her prior experience. She sauntered up to the door and knocked; when a faerie with purple hair, dressed in spangled pantaloons, answered the call, she gave her most charming smile.
“I’ve come by to see Anna Lightwood,” she said. “I’m her cousin.”
“Humph,” said the faerie. “Anna’s not here, and we don’t like Nephilim, neither. Go away.”
“Oh, brilliant,” Grace muttered, casting her gaze upward in exasperation. The faerie seemed about to slam the door in their faces.
“Wait!” called a voice. It was Hypatia Vex, her hair pinned up with elaborate porcelain flowers, her brown skin dusted with glittering powder above the neckline of a ruby velvet dress.
“She is Anna’s cousin,” Hypatia said to the door faerie, indicating Lucie. “She was here a few weeks back. As for the other one—” She shrugged. “Oh, let them in. It’s still early. I doubt even a Herondale could stir up trouble at this hour. And call my carriage, Naila. I’m ready to go out.”
Lucie and Grace slipped past the departing Hypatia and found themselves in a maze of rooms connected by cramped hallways. Following the sound of voices, they reached the large central chamber; it looked entirely different than it had the last time Lucie had been here. Then, it had been full of revelers. Tonight seemed quieter—lamps were shaded in cream-colored velvet, casting a softened glow. Jewel-toned couches were scattered about the room, and on them were crowded all manner of vampires and faeries, even a werewolf or two, as well as creatures Lucie could not identify. They spoke to each other in low voices as satyrs carrying silver trays of iced drinks passed between them.
“Hardly the bacchanal I expected,” Grace said coolly. “I can’t imagine why people are so desperate to be invited.”
Lucie spotted Malcolm Fade first, sprawled on a settee alone, his arm behind his head, his purple gaze fixed on the ceiling. He sat up as they approached, his expression frankly skeptical.
“Is this how it’s to be, then? Shadowhunters showing up here every night?” Malcolm sighed. He was wearing a formal white frock coat, the same color as his hair. “My patience begins to fray.”
“I’m glad it’s only begun,” Lucie said, “because we need to speak with you. In private. I’m Lucie Herondale, and this is Grace Blackthorn—”
“I know who you are.” With a sigh, Malcolm rolled off the settee. “You get five minutes of my time, less if you bore me. Come to my office.”
They followed him down a narrow hall to a private room papered in a William Morris pattern and outfitted with a writing desk and several amber-colored brocade chairs. He gestured impatiently for them to sit. Grace perched coquettishly on the edge of her seat, tilting her head so that she gazed up at Malcolm through fluttering lashes. Grace really was awfully odd, Lucie thought, sitting down in another brocade chair. Did she think flirting with a century-old warlock would work? Then again, any port in a storm.
Malcolm, leaning back against the wall beside a painting of a stormy sea, seemed amused—and entirely unmoved. “Aren’t you children supposed to be home at this hour?”
“You mean,” Grace said, quick as a whip, “you know about the murders, then?”
Malcolm sank down into a leather chair behind the desk. Something about him reminded Lucie of Magnus, though Magnus had kinder eyes. By contrast, there was something remote about Malcolm, as if he were walling some part of himself away where it could not be touched. “I am the High Warlock. Things like Shadowhunter curfews fall under my purview. Though I’ve already told the Clave: I have no idea who killed those three Nephilim.”
“We understand,” Lucie said. “And we truly are sorry to interrupt your evening. I was hoping you might be able to help us with something else. Something we’re trying to learn more about. It has to do with raising the dead.”
Malcolm’s eyes widened. “How refreshingly candid,” he said, running a finger over the ebony inlay on his desk. “It’s always nice to see the youth of today thirsting for knowledge. Do you think the murderer is trying to raise the dead?”