Several carriages had drawn up in the courtyard: in the cool light of the moon, James could make out the coats of arms of the Baybrooks and Greenmantles, but not the others. He heard shouting—Will and Gabriel were racing down the front steps. The door of the Greenmantle carriage flew open and two women clambered out, supporting the body of a man between them. His white shirtfront was soaked in blood and his head hung at an angle, like a broken doll’s.

Beside James, his uncle had gone rigid. There was a faraway look on his face; James knew he could speak inside his mind to the other Silent Brothers, gathering information from them. It’s happened, Jem said. There’s been another attack.

The light of late morning was yellow as butter. It hurt Cordelia’s eyes as she paced the swords-and-stars tiles of the vestibule at Cornwall Gardens. Sona and Alastair were both fast asleep. Risa was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she made nân-e barbari, a flatbread that was her specialty.

Cordelia had not been able to sleep at all. Between her desperate worry over her father, the news about Barbara, and her new concern for Alastair, she had not been able to lie down, much less close her eyes.

Poor Thomas, she thought. And poor Barbara, who had been so happy dancing with Oliver, walking with him in Regent’s Park.

Shadowhunters knew death. They accepted that death came: in battle, by knife or tooth or sword. But for a strange poison to steal away life while one slept, like a ghost or a thief, was not part of Shadowhunter life. It felt wrong, like a boot put on backward. Just as it felt to imagine losing her father to the injustice of the Clave.

The sound of a knock on the front door nearly sent Cordelia sailing into the air. The Lightwoods’ housemaid had the morning off. Cordelia glanced toward the kitchen, but Risa must not have heard the knock. There was nobody to open the door but her. Cordelia braced herself and flung it open wide.

James Herondale stood on the front step. She caught her breath. She had never seen him in gear before, and its darkness made his hair look more black, his eyes the burning gold of a lion’s eyes. Around his upper left arm was a white silk band of mourning.

He met her gaze without flinching. His black hair continually looked tousled, as if he were caught in a storm no one else could see. “Daisy,” he said. “I have—very bad news.”

She could pretend she didn’t know, but suddenly she couldn’t bear it. “Barbara,” she whispered. “I know. I’m so sorry, James. Charles came by last night, he’s friends with Alastair and—”