Lucie looked remorseful. “Daisy! Your hands! I should have given you a dozen iratzes, a hundred iratzes. It is only that you were so brave about your injuries—”

Oh, dear. Cordelia hadn’t meant to make Lucie feel guilty. “Truly, it only hurts a little—”

Cecily smiled at her. “Spoken like a true Carstairs. Jem would never admit when he was in pain either.” She kissed the top of Alexander’s head as he fussed to be put down. “Come, Lucie, let us get your future parabatai to the infirmary.”

James had never seen the infirmary like this before. Of course he’d heard stories from his mother and father about the aftermath of the Clockwork War, the dead and the wounded, but during his lifetime there had rarely ever been more than one or two patients in the sickroom. Thomas had once ended up there for a week when he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his leg. They’d stayed up nights playing cards and eating Bridget’s jam tarts. James had been disappointed when the healing runes finally worked and Thomas went home.

The scene was very different now. The room was already crowded: there were many Shadowhunters who had been burned by ichor or who had cuts and bruises. An impromptu nursing station had been set up at the counter, where Tessa and Will—with help from the Silent Brothers—were dealing out bandages and healing runes to whoever needed them.

The three more seriously injured Shadowhunters had been placed in beds at the end of the room, where a screen partially shielded them from the chaos in the rest of the infirmary. James could not help looking, though, especially at Thomas—the rest of the Lightwoods had not arrived yet, and Thomas sat silently by Barbara’s side. James had tried to sit with him, but Thomas had said he would rather be alone with Barbara. He was holding his sister’s hand as Uncle Jem tended to her: she lay still, her only movement her breathing.

Brother Shadrach, Brother Enoch, and Jem had arrived only moments after James had brought the news of the attack to the Institute. Shadrach leaned over Piers, treating him with a tincture meant to replace some of his lost blood. Brother Enoch crouched by Ariadne, his aspect grim. Inquisitor Bridgestock and his wife were huddled not far from their daughter, exchanging fearful looks. They had been a childless couple before they had adopted orphaned Ariadne from the Bombay Institute, and they had always treated her like a precious treasure. Charles slumped in a chair nearby: like Barbara, Ariadne was motionless save for her shallow breathing. One could see the tracery of her veins beneath the skin of her wrists and temples.