“Just once.” Still, Lucie was feeling a bit smug about her prior experience. She sauntered up to the door and knocked; when a faerie with purple hair, dressed in spangled pantaloons, answered the call, she gave her most charming smile.

“I’ve come by to see Anna Lightwood,” she said. “I’m her cousin.”

“Humph,” said the faerie. “Anna’s not here, and we don’t like Nephilim, neither. Go away.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Grace muttered, casting her gaze upward in exasperation. The faerie seemed about to slam the door in their faces.

“Wait!” called a voice. It was Hypatia Vex, her hair pinned up with elaborate porcelain flowers, her brown skin dusted with glittering powder above the neckline of a ruby velvet dress.

“She is Anna’s cousin,” Hypatia said to the door faerie, indicating Lucie. “She was here a few weeks back. As for the other one—” She shrugged. “Oh, let them in. It’s still early. I doubt even a Herondale could stir up trouble at this hour. And call my carriage, Naila. I’m ready to go out.”

Lucie and Grace slipped past the departing Hypatia and found themselves in a maze of rooms connected by cramped hallways. Following the sound of voices, they reached the large central chamber; it looked entirely different than it had the last time Lucie had been here. Then, it had been full of revelers. Tonight seemed quieter—lamps were shaded in cream-colored velvet, casting a softened glow. Jewel-toned couches were scattered about the room, and on them were crowded all manner of vampires and faeries, even a werewolf or two, as well as creatures Lucie could not identify. They spoke to each other in low voices as satyrs carrying silver trays of iced drinks passed between them.

“Hardly the bacchanal I expected,” Grace said coolly. “I can’t imagine why people are so desperate to be invited.”

Lucie spotted Malcolm Fade first, sprawled on a settee alone, his arm behind his head, his purple gaze fixed on the ceiling. He sat up as they approached, his expression frankly skeptical.

“Is this how it’s to be, then? Shadowhunters showing up here every night?” Malcolm sighed. He was wearing a formal white frock coat, the same color as his hair. “My patience begins to fray.”

“I’m glad it’s only begun,” Lucie said, “because we need to speak with you. In private. I’m Lucie Herondale, and this is Grace Blackthorn—”

“I know who you are.” With a sigh, Malcolm rolled off the settee. “You get five minutes of my time, less if you bore me. Come to my office.”