“Be charming,” said Anna. “Ask questions. See what we can learn.” She held out a gloved hand. “Come, come. Get up. Is the carriage downstairs, Matthew?”

“At your service,” said Matthew. “Are you quite sure you want to come, Cordelia? It will be scandalous.”

Cordelia didn’t bother to reply, just retrieved Cortana as they left the flat. It was dark outside; the air was chilly and dank. A carriage with the Consul’s coat of arms painted across the door waited for them at the curb. Someone had left a pile of roses with the heads snipped off on the front steps. Evangeline, or a different girl?

“So what kind of salon is this, exactly?” Cordelia inquired, as the carriage door swung open and Matthew helped her inside. One of the Consul’s servants, a middle-aged man with brown hair, sat impassively up front in the box seat.

She had heard of salons, of course—gatherings where the great and the famous and the noble came together to appreciate art and poetry. It was rumored that more daring things happened at salons as well, in the shadows and the dark gardens, couples gathering to tryst where no one could see them.

Anna and Matthew scrambled up after her, Anna disdaining Matthew’s helping hand. “An exclusive one,” said Anna, settling back on the velvet bench seat. “Some of the most famous Downworlders in the world attend.”

The carriage set off at a clip.

Anna said, “Some you may have heard of; some you may not. Some with reputations they don’t deserve—and some with reputations they more than do.”

“I never thought of Downworlders as being interested in painting and poetry,” said Cordelia. “But I suppose there is no reason they shouldn’t be, is there? It’s just those aren’t things that Shadowhunters do. We don’t create like that.”

“We can,” Matthew said. “We are simply told we shouldn’t. Do not confuse conditioning with a native inability.”

“Do you create, Matthew?” asked Cordelia, looking at him sharply. “Do you draw, or paint, or pen poetry?”

“Lucie writes,” said Matthew, his eyes like dark water. “I thought she wrote for you, sometimes.”

“Lucie worries,” said Cordelia. “She doesn’t say so, but I know she worries, that all her writing will come to nothing, because she is a Shadowhunter and that must come first.” She hesitated. “What does it mean, ‘Hell Ruelle’?”

Anna’s eyes gleamed. She said, “Official academic gatherings in Paris have always been controlled by men, but salons are a world ruled by women. One famous noble lady seated her artistic guests in her ruelle—the space between her bed, any lady’s bed, really, and the wall. A scandalous spot. Informally, an artistic gathering presided over by a woman came to be known as a ‘ruelle.’  ”

“But you said Malcolm Fade ran this one, I thought.”