“Ariadne is an unusual case,” said Alastair. “If she did not prefer women, she would be unlikely to be willing to marry you.”

Charles stood very still, his eyes fixed on Alastair’s face. “And if it were not Ariadne?”

Alastair looked bewildered. “Speak sense, Charles. What do you mean?”

Charles shook his head as if he were clearing away cobwebs. “Nothing,” he said. “I am—unsettled. Much has happened this night, all of it bad.”

Cordelia tensed. What did he mean? He couldn’t possibly know about their encounter with the demons at Battersea Bridge. Had someone else fallen ill?

Charles spoke in a heavy voice. “Barbara Lightwood has died.”

Cordelia felt as if she had been punched in the stomach. She heard Alastair as if from a distance, sounding stunned, “Thomas’s sister is dead?”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to care,” said Charles. “I thought you hated those fellows.”

“No,” said Alastair, surprising Cordelia. “But—Ariadne is all right?”

“She lives still,” said Charles. “But Raziel alone knows what will happen. To any of them.”

Alastair sat back down. “Perhaps we should leave London. It may not be safe here for Cordelia, for my mother—”

Cordelia felt a jolt of surprise that her brother had thought of her.

Alastair put his head in his hands. “Nemidoonam,” he whispered. Charles looked blank, but Cordelia understood him: I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.

“We are Shadowhunters,” said Charles, and Cordelia wondered—did he not worry about Matthew falling ill? About Henry? “We do not run, or spend our time in mourning. This is the time to fight and win. The Enclave will need a leader, and with my mother in Idris, now is the time for me to show them my best qualities.” He touched Alastair lightly on the shoulder. Alastair looked up, and Cordelia closed her eyes. There was something too personal about the way Alastair looked at Charles, all his defensiveness stripped away.

“I must go,” Charles said. “But do not forget, Alastair, that whatever I do, it is with the thought of you ever in my mind.”

“Throw that back over here, Alexander,” Lucie said in a low voice.

“That” was a small red rubber ball. Lucie’s young cousin scooted along the marble floor of the library, but the ball bounced out of his reach and into Lucie’s lap.

Alexander looked mutinous. “Not fair,” he said. He was tired and fussy, as he had been awake for many hours past his usual bedtime. Lucie wasn’t sure what time it was exactly—she was sure many hours had passed since she had learned of Barbara’s death—but it all seemed strangely like a bad dream, timeless and imprecise.

Lucie glanced up and frowned. “Jessamine. Don’t take the child’s ball from him.”