“It’s not about that,” Lucie said carefully, “but rather, whether there are ways to raise the dead that don’t involve so much… er, death. Ways that don’t require evil deeds.”
“There is no way to raise the dead without doing great evil,” Malcolm said flatly.
“That can’t be true,” Grace said. Her gaze was still fixed on Malcolm. “I beg you. Help us. Help me.”
Malcolm’s gaze darkened. “I see,” he said, after a long moment, though Lucie wasn’t sure what he saw. “Grace—your name is Grace, isn’t it?—I am helping you already, by telling you the truth. Life is in balance, just as magic is in balance. And so there is no way to grant life without taking life.”
“You are very famous, Mr. Fade,” said Grace. Lucie looked at her in alarm: What was Grace playing at? “I remember hearing that you were once in love with a Shadowhunter. And that she became an Iron Sister.”
“What of it?” Malcolm said.
“My mother just joined the Iron Sisters in the Adamant Citadel, but she is not one of them. She is not bound by their rules of silence. We could ask her to find out how your beloved fares in the Citadel. We could tell you how she is.”
Malcolm froze, the color draining from his already pale face. “You’re serious?”
Lucie wished she had asked Grace for more details about her plan. Somehow she’d imagined they’d simply approach Malcolm and ask for help. This was entirely unexpected; she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about it.
“We are serious,” said Grace. “Lucie would agree with me.”
Malcolm turned his gaze to Lucie. His eyes had darkened; they looked nearly black. “Is this indeed your offer, Miss Herondale? I assume you make it without the knowledge of your parents?”
“Yes, and yes,” said Lucie. “But—my parents have always taught me to right injustice. That is what I am trying to do. Someone is dead who should—who should never have died.”
Malcolm laughed bitterly. “Determined, aren’t you? You remind me of your father. Like a dog with a bone. Here is what you must know: even if it were possible to raise the dead without also taking life to restore balance, you would need a body for the departed to occupy. A body that hasn’t rotted away. But alas, as you surely must know by now, it is in the nature of the dead to rot.”
“But what if one had a body that was still in perfect condition?” Lucie said. “Unoccupied, as it were, but still, um, pristine?”
“Really?” Malcolm’s gaze moved from Lucie to Grace and back again. He sighed, as if in defeat. “All right,” he said at last. “If what you say is true—and you can bring me word of Annabel—then return when you have a message from her. I will be here.”
He rose, inclining his head curtly. It was clear their interview was over.
Lucie got to her feet, discovering she felt quite shaky. Grace had already risen, and made as if to stalk from the room, but as she passed Malcolm, he caught her arm and spoke in a deadly quiet voice.
“Miss Blackthorn,” he said. “In case you haven’t realized it already, the kind of enchantment you employ doesn’t work on those like me, nor do I consider it a frivolity, a harmless bit of magic. Try such tricks in the Ruelle again, and there will be consequences.”
He flung her arm away; Grace darted from the room, her head down. For a moment, Lucie thought—but no. It wasn’t possible. She could not have seen tears shining in Grace’s eyes.
“What do you mean by enchantment?” Lucie said. “Grace can’t cast a spell to save her life. I ought to know.”
Malcolm looked at Lucie for a long time. “There are different sorts of enchantments,” he said at last. “Miss Blackthorn is of the sort who know that men like to be needed. She plays at helplessness and flirting.”
“Humph,” said Lucie. She forbore to point out that given the limits placed on women by the world, they often had no choice but to seek assistance from men.
Malcolm shrugged. “All I am saying is that you should not trust that girl,” he said. “The decision, of course, is up to you.”
* * *
“It’s the most extraordinary thing,” Ariadne said, closing the door of the Whispering Room behind her and locking it for good measure. “Grace Blackthorn just burst out of Malcolm Fade’s office and went running out of the Ruelle. Do you think I should go after her?”
They had lit a fire in the grate; Anna was lounging in front of it, wearing only a man’s white button-down shirt. Her long bare legs, extended toward the flames, were elegant as a poem. She rolled over onto her stomach, propping her chin on her palms, and said, “No—she’s made it quite clear that she doesn’t care much about you. Perhaps you should extend her the same consideration. Besides,” Anna added, her red lips curling into a smile, “you’re not thinking of charging out into the night wearing that, are you?”