A knock echoed throughout the house. A moment later Effie appeared, looking furious in a nightcap and paper curlers. She ushered Magnus into the room, muttering. He wore a caped greatcoat of blue velvet, and next to Effie, looked taller than ever.

“Magnus Bane here to see you,” said Effie darkly, “and I must say, this is not at all the class of person I was led to believe I would be working for, not at all.”

Calmly, Magnus doffed his coat and handed it to her expectantly. She stalked off, muttering about going back to sleep with a flannel wrapped around her head to block out the “unending clatter.”

Magnus looked inquiringly at James and Cordelia. “Do you always keep a staff that insults you?”

“I prefer it,” said James, rising to his feet. He had his revolver stuck through his belt, Cordelia realized. After what had happened in Nelson Square, perhaps he didn’t want to be caught without it again. “It keeps me on my toes.”

“Would you like some tea?” Cordelia asked Magnus.

“No. We ought to get started. Hypatia will be expecting me back.” Magnus looked around the study, his eyes flicking over the windows; he gestured once with his fingers, and the curtains flew shut. “This room is as good as any, I suppose. Cordelia, can you guard the door?”

Cordelia stationed herself at the door, drawing Cortana from its sheath. It gleamed in the firelight, and for a moment, pulsing through her hand, she felt the same energy she had during the fight with the Naga—as if the blade were whispering to her. Asking her to wield it.

Magnus had moved James to stand before the fire. Cordelia had never noticed before how oddly alike their eyes were: Magnus’s gold-green, slit-pupilled, and James’s the color of yellow gold. Soft sparks of magic, the color of bronze, spilled from Magnus’s hands as he pressed his fingers to James’s temples.

“Now,” he said. “Concentrate.”

GRACE: 1899–1900

As it turned out, Grace’s power worked on Shadowhunters. All male Shadowhunters except James. Tatiana drove home from the trip to Alicante with a carriage so laden with baked goods that it could barely get over the ruts in the road.

“Just tell the baker to give you everything he has,” Tatiana had snapped, when they’d first arrived outside the shop in Alicante. Now she watched Grace stonily as the carriage bumped sluggishly back in the direction of Blackthorn Manor. She alternated her time between biting into an enormous flaky strudel and glowering in silence as stacks of cardboard boxes jostled unpleasantly into both of Grace’s sides.

Back at home, her mother sized Grace up, and then, without warning, surprisingly quick, slapped her in the face.

Grace flinched and brought her hand up to her stinging cheek. Her mother hadn’t slapped her since before the visit to Paris.