“We went to the infirmary at the Institute,” lied Alastair, his eyes wide and innocent. He truly was the son of a Persian mother with a temper, Cordelia thought with some amusement. She had patted down her hair and skirts in the carriage as much as she was able, but she was well aware she looked a fright. “We thought we would bring flowers, to show our concern as part of the London community.”

Some of the anger went out of Sona’s face. “Those poor children in the sickroom,” she said. She stood back and ushered them inside. “Come in, then. And take your shoes off before you get mud on the rugs!”

Supper was a swift affair of cold tahdig and khoresh bademjan. By the end of it, Sona had been convinced that the idea of helping out at the infirmary had been hers. “You are a good boy, Alastair joon,” she said, kissing him on top of his head as she rose from the table. “And you, too, Cordelia. Though you should not have picked the flowers yourself. Your dress is ruined. So much mud!” She shook her head.

“Good,” said Cordelia. “It’s a horrid dress.”

Sona looked hurt. “When I was your age—” she began. This, Cordelia knew, presaged a story about how when Sona had been a girl, she had been perfectly obedient to her parents, a dutiful Shadowhunter, and had always kept her clothes in pristine condition.

Alastair tossed his napkin onto the table. “Our Layla looks exhausted,” he said. “Helping the ill is very tiring. I’ll see her upstairs.”

There were three floors to the town house, the upper floor given over to Alastair’s and Cordelia’s bedrooms and a small study. Diamond-paned windows looked over the dark sky above Kensington. Alastair paused at the top of the stairs and leaned against the damask wallpaper. “Let’s never talk to those terrible people ever again,” he said.

He was twirling one of his Chinese spears between his fingers, its leaf-shaped blade catching the light that seeped up from downstairs. Alastair had a collection of spears, some of which folded up and could be kept in his pockets, several of which were secured in his coat lining.

“I like them,” Cordelia said crossly. “All of them.”

She could hear her mother singing to herself in her bedroom; a long time ago, Alastair himself had often sung and played the piano. Once they had been a musical family. Once things had been very different. Tonight had reminded Cordelia of when she and her brother were children, and co-conspirators as isolated siblings often were. Of the time before Alastair went to school, and came back so very hard to reach.

“Really?” Alastair inquired. “Which one do you find so agreeable? If it’s Herondale, he will never like you better than Miss Blackthorn, and if it’s Fairchild, he will never like you better than the bottle.”