The picnic area was in shreds: patches of grass burned with ichor, hampers and blankets scattered and destroyed. But none of that mattered. What mattered were the three still figures that lay in the grass, unmoving. Piers Wentworth, his shirt drenched in blood, his sister sobbing at his side. Barbara Lightwood, being lifted into Thomas’s arms—Oliver had his stele out and was drawing healing rune after healing rune on her dangling arm. And Ariadne, crumpled in a heap, her pink dress stained with red. Charles knelt with her, but her head was in Anna’s lap. Dark blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.

The demons might have gone, but they had left devastation behind.

5 FALLEN WITH THE NIGHT

The gas-lamps gleam in a golden line;

The ruby lights of the hansoms shine,

Glance, and flicker like fire-flies bright;

The wind has fallen with the night,

And once again the town seems fair

Thwart the mist that hangs i’ the air.

—Amy Levy, “A March Day in London”

Cordelia leaned close to Lucie as they jolted through the streets in the Institute’s carriage, surrounded by the blurred traffic of omnibuses, motorcars, and pedestrians. Advertisements whirled past. THE HORSESHOE HOTEL. THREE-GUINEA STOUT. NEW PALACE STEAMERS. Signs advertising tailors and fishmongers, hair tonic and cheap printing. A world incredibly distant from the one Cordelia had just left behind in Regent’s Park. A world where small things mattered.

Matthew was sitting across from them on the upholstered carriage seat, gripping the seat cushions with his fists. His hair stuck out madly. Blood and ichor stained his linen jacket and silk tie.

The moment the demons had gone, James had taken off on Balios, one of his father’s horses, hoping to reach the Institute and prepare them for the arrival of the wounded. Charles had bolted off with Ariadne in the Consul’s carriage, leaving Matthew to cadge a ride with Lucie and Cordelia.

Alastair had returned to Kensington to tell Sona what had happened. Cordelia was half-glad for the ichor burns on her hands: she had told him she would need treatment in the Institute infirmary, and besides, she could potentially stay to offer help and assistance. After all, they had to be mindful of the impression they were making on the Enclave.

“Now?” he had demanded, dark eyes snapping. “At this moment, you’re worried about the impression we’re making in London?”

“It’s important, Alastair,” she’d replied. “It’s for Father.”

Alastair hadn’t protested further. Cordelia had been a little surprised; she knew he thought her scheming was pointless. They had argued about it at Cirenworth, and she’d told him she couldn’t comprehend why he wouldn’t stand behind their father with her, why he seemed to feel that there was no hope when they hadn’t yet tried everything. He’d only told her she didn’t understand.