But Matthew had caught hold of his arm with a surprising strength and was steering James through a gap between two stalls. They found themselves in an alley—barely an alley, really: more a narrow space between the wooden side of a stall and the brick wall of a railway arch.

Only when James’s back hit the brick wall did he realize Matthew had shoved him. It hadn’t been a hard shove, especially one-handed—Matthew was still gripping the neck of his wine bottle with a white-knuckled hand. But the gesture alone was enough to startle James into an exclamation of annoyance: “Math, what are you doing?”

“What are you doing?” Matthew demanded. The air was full of the thick smell of incense, and glassy bubbles floated past them, illuminating the space in star-bright shades of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. Matthew pushed one away impatiently. “Having Grace to your house while your wife is away mourning the death of her father is hardly in the spirit of the agreement you have with Daisy.”

“I know that,” said James, “and so I’ve told Cordelia all that happened, even that I kissed Grace—”

“You did what?” Matthew threw his hands in the air, splattering wine onto the snow. It stained the white crystals red. “Are you mad?”

“Daisy knows—”

“Cordelia has far too much dignity to show that you have hurt her, but she also has honor. I know you have an agreement with her that you will not see Grace while you’re married—to save Cordelia from ridicule, from the Enclave gossiping that you were forced to marry her after you compromised her. She deserves better than to be seen as an anchor around your neck.”

“An anchor around my—I didn’t invite Grace over. She appeared at my door and demanded to talk to me. I cannot even recall why I kissed her, or if I even bloody wanted to—”

Matthew gave James an odd look—more than odd; it seemed as if he were trying to make sense of something he could not quite remember. “You shouldn’t have let her into the house, James.”

“I have apologized to Daisy,” James said, “and I will do so again—but what difference does this make to you, Math? You know the circumstances of our marriage—”

“I know that ever since you met Grace Blackthorn, she has been a misery in your life,” said Matthew. “I know there was a light in your eyes, and she puts it out.”

“It is being separated from her that makes me miserable,” James said. Yet he was keenly aware, as he had been the night before, that there seemed to be two James Herondales. The one who believed what he was saying, and the one torn by doubt.