He leaned against the doorjamb as Matthew, a shadow in the fog, came around the car to help Cordelia out. The blanket wrapped around her started to slip down as she stood, but Matthew caught it before it reached the ground and carefully rearranged it around her shoulders. Even through the fog, James could see her smile.

He felt an odd sensation, a sort of tingle between his shoulder blades. Apprehension, perhaps; he was not looking forward to telling his tale to Cordelia. She and Matthew were making their way toward the house, their booted feet silent on the snowy pavement. Cordelia’s hair was loose, its brilliant red the single focal point of color in the monochrome fog.

“Daisy!” James called. “Math! Get inside. You’ll freeze.”

A moment later they were hurrying past him into the entryway, Matthew reaching to help Cordelia off with her coat before James could think to do it. They both looked windburned, high color in their cheeks. Matthew was chattering about the car, and how James should have a try at driving it.

Cordelia, though, was quiet, drawing off her gloves, her wide, dark eyes thoughtful. As Matthew took a moment to breathe, she said, “James—who’s here?”

“Anna, Lucie, Thomas, and Christopher are in the drawing room,” he said. “I asked them to come.”

Matthew frowned, pulling off his goggles. “Is everything all right?”

“Not quite,” said James, and added, as they both turned apprehensive faces toward him, “There hasn’t been another death—nothing like that.”

“But things are not all right?” Matthew said. “Has something else happened? The Enclave done something dreadful?”

“The Enclave is torn between thinking it’s a warlock gone rogue and thinking it’s a Shadowhunter,” said James. “But Thomas and Anna can tell you more about that. I need to talk to Cordelia for a moment. If you don’t mind, Math.”

A flicker of emotion crossed Matthew’s face but vanished before James could identify it. “Of course,” he said, sliding past James to vanish down the hall.

Cordelia looked up at James inquiringly. Her hair was damp; it curled around her face like the buds of roses. A whisper pressed at the back of his mind: You have to tell her you kissed Grace.

He told the whisper to be quiet. What he had to tell her first was so much worse.

“I’ve missed you,” he said. “And before we go into the drawing room, I wished to apologize. What I said about your father in the Ossuarium was unforgivable, and my sending him away was something I will always regret—”