“I always preferred the death of a thousand cats, in which one is buried under kittens,” said Matthew.

Cordelia laughed. They had reached the glossy black front door. She began to remove Matthew’s jacket to return it to him; he held up a slender hand, scarred as all Shadowhunters’ hands were scarred. She could see his parabatai rune, printed darkly on the inside of his wrist. “Keep it,” he said. “I have at least seventeen, and this is the plainest.”

Seventeen coats. He was ridiculous. He was also rich, Cordelia realized. Of course he was. His mother had been Consul longer than they had been alive. His clothes were always a bit outrageous, but they were also expensive-looking and finely made. There was a silk flower, dyed green and secured in the buttonhole of his shirt. She touched the petal lightly with a fingertip.

“What does this mean?”

“The green carnation symbolizes a love of art and artifice, since a green carnation has to be created rather than appearing in nature.” Matthew hesitated. “It also celebrates loving anyone you choose, whether that is a man or a woman.”

A man or a woman. She looked at Matthew in surprise for a moment: Was he like Alastair? But no, she thought—it seemed to her that Alastair preferred only men romantically, as he had said he would never deceive a woman by pretending he loved her. Matthew was clearly saying he liked women and men both.

Matthew was looking at her hesitantly, as if he could not puzzle out her response or perhaps thought she might be angry. She thought of the hurt look in Alastair’s eyes when he’d realized she had spied on him. She thought of the secrets people kept and the way they were like scars or wounds beneath the skin. You could not always see them, but if you touched on them in the wrong way, you could cause great pain.

“I like that,” she said. “And I am sure anyone you chose to be in your life, whether it was a man or a woman, would be a good person who I would like very much.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of me, Cordelia,” Matthew said, “or my choices.”

“Matthew,” she said. “What could you ever have done that would be so bad?”

He set one hand on the doorframe, above her head, and gazed down at her. The faint glow from the streetlamps illuminated the high arches of Matthew’s cheekbones and the soft, disarranged fall of his hair. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“I believe James would not have chosen you as a parabatai if there was anything so terrible about you.”