Anna laughed. “Are you always so straightforward? Why did you come to tea if you didn’t want to gossip?”

“I didn’t say I didn’t want to gossip. Just not about myself.”

Anna’s smiled deepened. “You’re a vexing little thing,” she said, though she didn’t sound vexed. “Oh! The kettle.”

She leaped up in a swirl of glimmering brocade and busied herself in the small kitchen. It had brightly painted walls and a small window that looked out onto the brick facade of the building opposite.

“Well, then, if you want to gossip but you don’t want to tell me about yourself, why don’t you tell me about your brother? Is he as awful as he used to be at school?”

“Did you go to school with Alastair?” Cordelia was surprised; surely Alastair would have mentioned it.

“No, James and Matthew and the rest of the Merry Thieves did, and Matthew says he was a miserable blighter and gave them all the pip. No offense meant. I admit, Thomas never says a bad word about him. Sugar? I haven’t any milk.”

“No sugar,” said Cordelia, and Anna whirled back into the parlor with tea in a chipped cup and saucer. She handed it to Cordelia, who balanced it awkwardly on her knees.

“Alastair is rather awful,” she admitted, “but I don’t think he means to be.”

“Do you think he’s in love?” Anna said. “People can be awful when they’re in love.”

“I don’t know who he’d be in love with,” Cordelia said. “He’s hardly had time to fall in love with anyone, since we’ve just arrived in London, and I doubt everything that’s happened has put anyone in a falling-in-love mood—”

“What did your father do, exactly?” Anna said.

“What?” Cordelia nearly spilled her tea.

“Well, we all know he did something dreadful,” said Anna. “And that your mother’s come here to try to ingratiate herself back into Shadowhunter society. I hope everyone won’t be too stiff-necked about it. I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from Lalla Rookh. You’re half-Persian, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded—I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn’t expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother’s hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair—he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna’s eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”