Lucie glanced away and caught Hypatia Vex smirking again. “There you go, Shadowhunters,” she said. “A bit of assistance, in exchange for a snuffbox. Remember that I was helpful the next time the Institute needs to hire a warlock.”

“Oh, we will indeed remember it,” said Lucie, though her mind was still on Emmanuel Gast. Why have you dragged me back to this place of agony? What do you want, Shadowhunter?

Hypatia made a shooing gesture. “Now go. Having Shadowhunters about isn’t good for business.”

Lucie forced a pleasant smile onto her face as she followed Anna and Ariadne out to the street. She’d better hurry herself into a cab, she thought—her cousin Anna was a keenly perceptive person, and the last thing Lucie wanted was for anyone to guess the task that lay ahead of her tonight.

“Thomas Lightwood,” said Alastair. “I am nothing like you.”

All Thomas could do was stare. He had been so sure. But Alastair’s gaze was steady, his voice resolute. Dear God, Thomas thought, about to rise to his feet, there was nothing for it now but to go and bury his terrible humiliation at the other side of the room. Perhaps he could hide behind a candelabra.

“I am nothing like you, Thomas,” said Alastair, “because you are one of the better people I have ever known. You have a kind nature and a heart like some knight out of legend. Brave and proud and true and strong. All of it.” He smiled bitterly. “And all the time you have known me, I have been a terrible person. So, you see. We are nothing at all alike.”

Thomas’s gaze snapped up. This wasn’t what he was expecting. He searched Alastair’s face, but his eyes were hard mirrors, giving nothing away.

“I’m not—” Thomas bit off the words before he could stop himself. He was kind; he knew that. Sometimes he wished he wasn’t. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant.” The words hung between them, neither daring to move a muscle. After a moment Alastair added in a gentler voice, “How did you know about Charles?”

“You wouldn’t tell me what you were doing in Paris,” said Thomas. “But you mentioned Charles, over and over again, like you got pleasure out of just saying his name. And when you came to London this summer, I saw the way you looked at him. I know what it is to have to hide the—the signs of affection.”

“Then I imagine you may have noticed I don’t look at Charles that way anymore.”

“I suppose I did,” Thomas said, “though for the past four months, I’ve been trying not to look at you. I told myself I hated you. But I could never really make myself. When Elias died, all I could think about was you. What you must be feeling.”