Grace went still. “You saw Jesse in Idris,” she said. “I spoke with him. I know that he told you not to help him, and I know that you Herondales are honorable.” She practically spat the word. “If he asked you not to help him, you won’t. What use do you imagine I have for yet another person who won’t help my family?”

Lucie raised her chin. “That shows how well you know me, Miss Blackthorn. I have every intention of doing all I can to help Jesse—whether he wants me to or not.”

Grace stepped forward, out of the shadows. Her green earbobs danced in the light, like the jeweled eyes of cats. “In that case,” she said, “do tell me more.”

It did not take Magnus long to find Matthew Fairchild, leaning against the wall near the door to the withdrawing room, his necktie entirely undone.

Magnus stood a moment, looking at him: Matthew was exactly the sort of person Magnus always wanted to help, and later scolded himself roundly for having tried to help. In Magnus’s life there had been a hundred Matthew Fairchilds: young men and women as self-destructive as they were beautiful, who despite all the gifts that had been given to them, seemed to wish for no more than to burn down their own lives. He told himself over and over that the Matthew Fairchilds of this world could not be saved, and yet he could not stop himself from trying.

He leaned against the wall next to Matthew. He wondered why Matthew had chosen to stand here, half-hidden from the rest of the room by a pillar. He seemed to be staring rather blankly at the dance floor.

“I have always heard,” Magnus said, “that it was rude for a gentleman to be a wallflower.”

“Then you must also have heard that I am generally considered to be very rude,” said Matthew. There was a flask in his right hand, and a ring with the insignia of the Fairchilds sparkled on his finger.

Magnus had long observed to himself that a man who brought his own drink to a party where drinks were provided was indeed in a sorry state. But the real question was, he thought, why no one else seemed to notice that Matthew was only standing up because the wall was holding him.

Ordinarily, it would not have struck Magnus as particularly strange—getting tipsy at a party was nothing unusual for a boy of seventeen—but Matthew had been drunk when they were at Tower Bridge as well, though a less expert eye than Magnus’s might never have spotted it. A less expert eye might not spot it now. It wasn’t the drinking, Magnus thought, so much as the fact that Matthew was clearly practiced at pretending he had not been drinking.

Magnus said mildly, “I had thought that I might be an exception, since you said you admired my waistcoats.”