She sprang out of the carriage as soon as it drew up, Cordelia following after her. The stalls and stands and carts of the Shadow Market snaked away beneath an arched, glass-paned ceiling supported by tall iron girders, tucked between Southwark and Borough High Streets. Stands that held fruits and vegetables and flowers during the morning had been transformed by Downworlder merchants into a colorful, noisy bazaar, the stalls lit by sparkling lights and decorated with painted signs and lengths of colored silk.

Lucie took a deep breath of the incense-scented air as James’s carriage rattled up and he, Christopher, and Matthew spilled out, James brushing off Christopher’s coat where he had somehow managed to spill powder on it. A roar of sound rose up from the bazaar, like soft thunder: Come buy! Come buy!

“No running off into the Shadow Market alone, minx,” James said, coming up behind Lucie. His black wool coat was buttoned to his chin, hiding his runes. They had agreed there was no point trying to disguise that they were Shadowhunters—Shadowhunters were no more welcome in the Shadow Market than they were in other Downworlder haunts, unless, of course, they had money to spend—but there was no point calling attention to it either. “It may look like a harmless fair, but there’s quite a bit of danger down those narrow aisles.”

He glanced at Cordelia—perhaps to see if she’d heard him as well, but she was busy putting on her gloves. Some of her red hair had come free beneath her velvet cap and was curling against her cheek. She seemed lost in thought. As Matthew and Christopher came toward them, she hurried toward Matthew, saying something to him in a low voice Lucie couldn’t hear. Odd, Lucie thought.

James offered Lucie his arm. “Cruel Prince James at your service.”

Lucie giggled; it was a nice reminder of times past, when she and James had been playmates who teased and protected each other in turns. Taking his arm, she passed into the Shadow Market proper, beneath the glass roof. A railway viaduct ran by far ahead, and the distant rumble of trains was just audible over the sound of the Market itself: tinny enchanted music played from various stalls, the tunes clashing loudly with each other. Downworlders crowded the aisles looking for a bargain, an illicit trade, or something in between. Silk banners flew, and sparkling baubles of light drifted like will-o’-the-wisps through the air.

Lucie caught one as they passed an apothecary stall with tins and jars set up on wooden shelves, a warlock with a double set of curving horns calling out the virtues of his potions. The bauble was like a child’s ball made of thin glass. Inside it glowed with a deep violet light. When Lucie opened her fingers it flitted away, seeming glad to be free.