Cordelia plucked nervously at the fabric of her visiting gown. Quite surprisingly, an official invitation to tea from Anna Lightwood—on monogrammed stationery, no less—had arrived by penny post that morning. Cordelia was shocked that after everything that had happened, Anna had remembered her desultory offer. Still, she had seized at the opportunity to get out of the house like a drowning man seizing a rope.

She’d barely been able to sleep after getting home the night before. Curled under her coverlet, she couldn’t help thinking of Cousin Jem and her father, and helplessly of James, the way he’d been gentle with her ankle, the look on his face when he’d talked about the shadow realm that only he could see. She couldn’t think of a way to help him, any more than she could help her father. She wondered if not being able to help the people you loved was the worst feeling in the world.

Then at lunch, her mother and Alastair had occupied themselves by trading the latest gossip—Raziel knew where they’d found it out—that James had been discovered wandering about Tatiana Blackthorn’s gardens, having merrily smashed in all her windows and terrified her and her daughter by racing drunkenly about her lawn. Even Risa looked amused as she refilled the teapot.

Cordelia was horrified. “That is not what happened!”

“And how would you know?” said Alastair, sounding a bit as if he knew exactly why she did. But he couldn’t have guessed, could he? Cordelia couldn’t be sure; Alastair often seemed as if he knew a great deal more than he was letting on. She thought longingly of the distant past when the two of them had been able to settle their differences by hitting each other over the head with toy teakettles.

So, thank goodness for tea with Anna, even if she had nothing decent to wear. Cordelia cast a last glance at herself in the pier glass between the vestibule windows. While her apple-green princess dress with pink embroidery was fashionable and pretty, all the flounces made her resemble an old-fashioned lamp, and her face above the lace collar looked jaundiced. With a sigh, Cordelia caught up her gloves and reticule from the hall table and headed toward the door.

“Cordelia!” Sona hurried toward her, the heels of her boots click-clicking on the parquet floor. “Where are you going?”

“To take tea with Anna Lightwood,” said Cordelia. “She invited me yesterday.”

“That’s what your brother said, but I didn’t credit it. I want you to make friends, Layla.” Sona rarely used Cordelia’s pet name—given to her by Sona, after the heroine of the poem they both loved—unless she was worried. “You know that I do. But I am not sure you should visit Miss Lightwood.”