Malcolm cocked his head, as if he could hear the music through the walls; perhaps he could. “The Blackthorns had a yearly Christmas party, when I was a boy,” he said. “I was never invited. Annabel would creep out during the festivities, and we would sit together, overlooking the ocean, sharing the iced cakes she’d smuggled out in her coat pockets.” He closed his eyes. “Try not to collect any painful memories, Lucie,” he said. “Do not get too attached to anything, or anyone. For if you lose them, the memory will burn in your mind like a poison for which there will never be any cure.”
There seemed nothing to say to that. Lucie watched Malcolm wend his shadowy way out of the Sanctuary, and she composed herself to go upstairs. She felt cold all over. It was bad enough just knowing that touching the boy she loved might connect her more strongly to Belial, the demon who had once tortured him; how on earth would she explain it to Jesse?
By the time James made his way to the ballroom, a good number of the guests had already arrived. There was family—his aunts and uncles, though he did not see his cousins yet, or Thomas. Eugenia was there, looking furious and wearing a yellow velvet cap over what seemed to be slightly charred hair. Esme Hardcastle was lecturing the Townsends about the difference between mundane and Shadowhunter Christmases, and the Pouncebys were admiring the weapons tree, along with Charlotte, Henry, and Charles. Thoby Baybrook and Rosamund Wentworth arrived together, wearing matching outfits in rose-colored velvet, which oddly suited Thoby better than Rosamund.
Those who were there were outnumbered by those—Cordelia, Anna, Ari, Matthew—who had not yet arrived; what was puzzling, though, was Lucie’s absence. Jesse was at the doorway with Will and Tessa, presumably being introduced to arriving partygoers as “Jeremy Blackthorn,” but Lucie was nowhere to be seen, and it was not like her to have left Jesse to face the party alone.
James wondered if he should get himself a glass of champagne. Under normal circumstances, he would have, but with everything that had happened with Matthew recently, the idea of taking the edge off his nerves with alcohol had lost its appeal. And he was nervous—each time the ballroom doors opened, he turned his head, hoping for a glimpse of scarlet hair, a flash of dark eyes. Cordelia. He had something he desperately needed to tell her, and though it was not quite the core of his secret, it was very close.
He knew perfectly well that he ought to be thinking about what had happened that afternoon. The mirror, the vision of Belial, the Chimera demons. The question of who Belial was possessing—mundanes? It would be a fool’s errand, though, to send even possessed mundanes against Shadowhunters. But the last time he’d seen Cordelia, she’d said, Tomorrow, at the party—we’ll talk then, and regardless of any number of Princes of Hell, it was nearly all he could think about.
Nearly. The ballroom doors swung open; this time it was Matthew, wearing a frock coat that put biblical Joseph’s to shame. There was brocade of violet, green, and silver, and a tasseled gold fringe. On anyone else it would have looked like a costume; on Matthew, it seemed avant-garde. There appeared to be shining leaves in his hair; he looked a bit as if he were about to appear as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
James started to smile, just as his aunt Cecily swept up to him. She had three-year-old Alex by one chubby hand; he wore a blue velvet sailor suit, with a matching hat complete with white ribbon.
“His debut, I see,” James said, eyeing Alexander, who was scowling. He did not seem to like the sailor suit, and James did not blame him.
Cecily swung Alex up into her arms with a smile. “Speaking of debuts, I do think that Blackthorn boy you’ve all adopted may need saving.”
This turned out to be true. The musicians had arrived, which had required that Will and Tessa show them where to put their instruments; in the resulting confusion, Jesse had been trapped in an alcove by Rosamund Wentworth. She had obviously been introduced to Jesse already, or at least, James hoped she had been, given how intently she was speaking to him. As James approached them, Jesse shot him a beseeching look.
“Jeremy, Rosamund,” said James. “Lovely to see you. Jeremy, I was wondering if you’d be interested in a hand of cards in the games room—”
“Oh, don’t be a stick, James,” said Rosamund. “It’s much too early for the gentlemen to retire to the games room. And I’ve only just met Jeremy.”
“Rosamund, he’s now part of the London Enclave. You’ll meet him again,” said James, as Jesse mimed what James thought was someone being saved from a sinking ship.
“But look at his eyes.” She sighed, as if Jesse were not, in fact, present. “Couldn’t you just die? Isn’t he divine?”
“Excruciatingly so,” said James. “Sometimes it pains me just to gaze upon him.”
Jesse shot him a dark look. Rosamund tugged at Jesse’s sleeve.
“I thought it was only going to be the same old soggies as always, so what a pleasant surprise you are!” Rosamund said. “Where did you say you grew up?”
“When my parents returned to England, they settled in Basingstoke,” said Jesse. “I lived there until I found out I was a Shadowhunter, and decided to rejoin the ranks.”
“A tragic backstory indeed,” said Matthew, who had appeared at James’s side.
“It isn’t tragic at all,” said Rosamund.
“Being from Basingstoke is a tragedy in itself,” said Matthew.
James grinned. They had chosen Basingstoke because it was a dull enough place not to inspire much questioning.
“Rosamund,” Matthew said, “Thoby has been looking all over for you.”
This was a clear and blatant lie; Thoby was poking at the weapons tree, a mug of cider in hand, and chatting with Esme and Eugenia. Rosamund frowned suspiciously at Matthew but took herself off to join her fiancé.
“Are people always like that at parties?” Jesse asked as soon as she’d gone.
“Rude and peculiar?” said James. “In my experience, about half the time.”
“Then there are those who are charming and spectacular,” said Matthew, “though I’ll admit there are fewer of us than the other kind.” He winced, then, and touched his head as if it hurt; James and Jesse exchanged a worried glance.
“So,” said James, trying to keep his voice light, “I suppose the question is, who do you wish to meet first: the more pleasant people or the unpleasant people or a mixture of both?”
“Is there a need to meet unpleasant people?” Jesse asked.