Matthew said something, and Cordelia and Christopher laughed. Lucie was too entranced to ask what the joke was. She had spied a pair of carts painted in scarlet and gold and green; a mustachioed troll standing on a raised platform expounded on the scientific properties and dubious claims of his medicinal remedies. At the heart of the Market, where the larger stalls were located, there were tailors catering to faeries and werewolves, selling clothes with holes for wings and tails. Nearby was a tiny cart operated by a vampire modeling her line of cosmetics: fine powder to cover any imperfections and lipsticks guaranteed to give one’s lips “that bloodred tinge coveted in Europe’s most cosmopolitan cities.”

The group convened in a central space, where the stalls were arranged around them in a square. Lucie released James’s arm so he could consult a hand-lettered directory nailed to a post. Matthew gazed warily at a vampire selling bottles of “special” ginger beer as Christopher produced a long scroll of paper from his pocket. Cordelia had darted off to examine a stall selling hand-tooled leather scabbards and wrist gauntlets.

“What have you got there?” Lucie asked Christopher, peering over his shoulder at a list of unfamiliar terms.

“Oh, this? It’s my shopping list,” Christopher said. “What with the curfew business, I haven’t been able to attend the Market for quite some time, and I’ve got ingredients to acquire.”

He set off briskly along a winding path between the stalls. Lucie followed; to her amusement, the vendors greeted him enthusiastically:

“Mr. Lightwood! A new shipment of marrubium has just come in. Would you be interested?”

“Christopher Lightwood! Just the man I was hoping to see! I’ve got the materials we discussed last time we spoke—top grade, very rare.…”

As Lucie watched, Christopher paused to haggle with a werewolf who was selling dried roots and fungi, eventually walking away empty-handed, only to return when the werewolf called after him to accept the price he’d offered.

“Christopher haggles like an expert!” Cordelia exclaimed, appearing at Lucie’s side with two bottles of fizzy pink liquid. “He could hold his own in the souks of Marrakech. Here, try this—I’m told it makes the cheeks rosy.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” James said, swooping in and taking the bottles from her hands. “Daisy, Lucie, do not eat or drink anything that is being sold here. At best, you might get a mild stomachache. At worst, you will wake up as a pair of otters.”

“Otters are lovely,” said Cordelia, her eyes dancing.

“Your cheeks are rosy enough as is,” said James firmly, tossing the bottles on a trash heap behind the stalls before joining Matthew to look at a display of swords with dubiously sparkling “gems” decorating the hilts.

“Speaking of brothers,” said Lucie. “Not that we were, exactly, but—I am so sorry that Alastair was arrested. I think what he did was exceedingly brave.”