The voices around Grace were beginning to blend together into an unpleasant roar. She had been half listening to Charles’s conversation with James’s parents—something about vampires—and watching the hands crawl slowly on the face of a grandfather clock against the wall.

She waited nine minutes exactly. When they had passed, she whispered to Charles, “If you’ll excuse me a moment—I see the Wentworths have arrived, and I should say hello to Rosamund.”

Charles nodded absently and returned to his conversation with Will Herondale. Not that Grace minded. Better he was distracted, and she had hardly chosen him for his devotion to her.

She slipped away, through the crowd of wedding guests, heading for the stairs that led to the main part of the Institute. It felt good to be away from the clamor. Most of the members of the London Enclave looked at Grace oddly, with the exception of the Lightwoods, and their friendly attentions were even worse than the sidelong glances.

Gideon and Sophie Lightwood offered her a room in their house practically every time they saw her, saying that as their niece and Thomas and Eugenia’s cousin, she was always welcome. Cecily and Gabriel Lightwood had made the same offer, though they weren’t as inclined to repeat it as Gideon and his wife were. Grace, for her part, felt no relationship to any of them at all. She supposed that was Tatiana’s doing. She had characterized her brothers as monsters, though it seemed they were quite ordinary men.

Ordinary as they were, they could never be made to understand that for Grace to take shelter with her uncles would be the worst betrayal of her mother that she could think of. And Grace didn’t believe for a moment that Tatiana would remain in the Adamant Citadel forever, regardless of the Clave. She would find a way out eventually, and there would be hell to pay.

Having reached the next floor, Grace heard footsteps behind her and turned—James, perhaps, catching up to her? But it was Lucie, carrying a bunch of yellow flowers. The Blackthorn locket—Jesse’s locket—glittered at her throat; Lucie always wore it with the inscribed side against her skin, the telltale circlet of thorns safely hidden. But Grace knew the truth.

“Grace?” Lucie said in surprise.

An accidental meeting, but perhaps a convenient one, Grace thought. She always feared sending messages to Lucie, lest they be intercepted. Better to talk in person. “Lucie,” she said. “You said you wanted to consult a warlock about our—project. What about Malcolm Fade?”

The flowers wobbled in Lucie’s hands; she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, indeed. He’s easy enough to find—he’s always at the Hell Ruelle—and the Enclave trusts him. But do you think that he’d be willing to help us with this… particular matter?”