Alastair smirked. “Yes, you know, the sort of thing we’re meant to prevent. Angelic mandate and all that.”

Matthew’s face had turned to stone; Lucie was looking at him anxiously. James’s eyes narrowed.

“Charles is going with Gideon Lightwood and Inquisitor Bridgestock to see what’s going on,” Alastair said. “I offered to go with them, but I don’t know the streets of London well enough yet. Charles will get me acquainted with the city and I will soon be a gift to any patrol.”

“You, a gift,” Matthew said, his eyes glittering. “Imagine.”

He walked away. Alastair watched him go with one eyebrow raised. “Moody, isn’t he?” he said, to no one in particular.

“No,” said James shortly. His jaw was set, as if he was barely tolerating Alastair’s presence. Cordelia thought back to the time Alastair had been at the Academy and wished she knew what had happened there.

Alastair looked as if he was about to speak again, but Sona appeared out of the crowd, arriving like a docking steamship. Her roosari quivered as her gaze fell upon Alastair, and then Cordelia. “Children,” she said, as Alastair hastily slid his cigar into his pocket. “I believe we should take our leave.”

Rumors of the attack were clearly spreading through the ballroom, breaking up the dance. The musicians had stopped playing, and quite a few of the girls in pastel dresses were being bundled into wrappers and gloves by anxious parents. Will and Tessa were now at the center of a crowd, bidding them good night. Nearby Charles was tucking a wrapper fondly about Ariadne’s shoulders as Gideon and the Inquisitor waited for him by the doors.

A moment later Will and Tessa had joined Cordelia and the others. As Sona thanked them for a delightful evening, Cordelia’s attention was arrested by the Fairchilds. Matthew was standing beside a thin man with faded ginger hair who was confined to a Bath chair. Matthew leaned over the back of it, saying something to make the older man smile: Cordelia realized this must be Henry Fairchild, Matthew’s father. She had nearly forgotten he was a veteran of the Clockwork War, in which he had lost the use of his legs.

“Oh, dear,” Tessa was saying. “We will try again, Mrs. Carstairs, truly. You deserve a real welcome to the London Enclave.”

Sona smiled. “I am sure if we put our heads together, we can think of something.”

“Thank you for rushing to help Barbara, Cordelia,” said Tessa. “You will make quite an excellent parabatai for Lucie.”