“I detest it when Shadowhunters make sense.” Hypatia sighed. “Ragnor Fell is back in London, and he has often worked with Shadowhunters in the past. He knows a great deal about demon worlds, having made himself a student of dimensional magic. If there is a dimension that breeds demons who can withstand sunlight, he would know about it.”

“It does seem a place to start. How do we find him?” said Matthew.

“I will send him an urgent message,” said Hypatia. “He will contact you.” She sank back into her chair. “Now go,” she said, closing her starry eyes. “I find myself weary of angels.”

There seemed little else to say. Matthew, Anna, and Cordelia made their way back through the main room of the salon, where a vampire was reciting poetry about blood. In moments they had reached Berwick Street and the outside world: Cordelia inhaled lungfuls of cool night air. It tasted of dirt and city.

“Nephilim!” It was the blue-skinned faerie girl Hypatia had called Hyacinth. She looked around at the city in distaste before handing Matthew a velvet-wrapped bundle. “Fade wished you to have this,” she said. “He is grateful for what you all did. What did you do?” she added curiously. “I’ve never heard of a warlock being grateful before.”

Anna winked at her. “I’ll tell you the story in a moment.”

Cordelia and Matthew looked at Anna in surprise. Hyacinth blushed and giggled her way back down the alley.

“I’m going to linger a bit longer,” Anna said, with a catlike stretch. “You two can take the carriage; I’ll make my own way home.”

Matthew pulled back a corner of the velvet. Folded gently within were perhaps a half-dozen blades of fine and careful faerie workmanship.

Matthew whistled. “A real gift.” He looked at Cordelia with admiration, his bronze hair gleaming in the naphtha light. “I would never have guessed Arabella was engaged in poisoning.”

“I told you earlier,” said Anna, gesturing for the carriage. “I never do court dull girls.”

DAYS PAST: PARIS, 1902

“You must go to Paris,” Matthew had said to Thomas the day before Thomas left for Madrid. He, James, and Matthew were sprawled in their chairs in the Devil Tavern, waiting for Christopher. “If you are finally getting to flee this dull island for someplace cultured, you must go to Paris first.”

“It’s not on the way to Spain,” Thomas had said. “And that will be plenty of excitement for me.”

“Nonsense,” said Matthew. “Only Paris is like Paris. And you must stay in my absolutely favorite digs, the Hotel d’Alsace. On the Left Bank. Everyone calls it L’Hotel.”

“Doesn’t that just mean ‘the hotel’ in French?” James had said, barely looking up from his book.

“That’s because it’s the hotel where anybody who is anybody stays.”

“I’m not anybody,” Thomas had protested.

“Oscar Wilde stayed there,” said James. “When Matthew says ‘anybody,’ that’s usually who he means.”