Matthew turned then, raising his arm—James stepped forward, but Matthew had already violently slammed the bottle against the brick wall. Glass sprayed in all directions; Matthew flinched back. A flying bit of glass had scratched his face, just beneath his eye. He wiped at the blood on his face and said, “I don’t want to see you ruin your life. But if you don’t love Cordelia, you should let someone else love her.”

“I could hardly stop them, could I?” said James. “Now let me see your hand—Matthew—”

“There you two are,” a voice called. Cordelia was approaching, picking her way through the slippery new snow. “No luck, I’m afraid; I tracked down a faerie smith who sometimes worked with other metals but not adamas, it seems—” She stopped, looking between them, her lips pressed together worriedly. “What’s going on?” she demanded. “What’s wrong with you two?”

Matthew held up his left hand. James heard Cordelia make a sound of distress; she hurried toward them. James started, feeling sick: glass from the bottle had gone into Matthew’s hand, and blood seeped out from the cuts on his palm.

Mechanically, James fumbled for his stele. Matthew turned his hand over, looking at it curiously; the blood was running fast, no doubt mixed with wine. Fat red drops splashed onto the snow.

“I was playing around,” Matthew said, sounding drunker than James suspected he was. “I cut myself and James brought me back here for a healing rune. So silly of me. Who knew toys had sharp edges?”

James began to draw the healing rune onto Matthew’s hand, as Cordelia searched in her bag for something with which they could bind up the wound. It had stopped snowing, James realized; he wasn’t sure why he was so very cold.

The blue tent opened into a much larger space than Lucie would have guessed from its outer appearance. Malcolm was seated in an armchair next to a long table that had been set up on a threadbare carpet laid out on the ground. On the table were books, stacks and stacks of them: histories of Shadowhunter families, books of fairy tales, necromantic texts.

“Is this where you live?” Lucie demanded, looking around. “How lovely—so many books! Though what do you do during the day?”

“Of course I don’t live here.” Malcolm did not appear especially pleased to see her, though he was the one who had summoned her. “I keep some of my books here. A few that I would not like discovered in my flat should the Shadowhunters choose to raid it.” Rising, he gestured toward the armchair, the one seat in the room. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”