“It’s a sort of beard,” said Cordelia with a smile. “I’ll point one out if I see it.” Though beards were rare among Shadowhunter men: harking back to the armies of Rome, Nephilim regarded facial hair as something an enemy could potentially grab onto in battle. There were no such prohibitions for women’s hair, likely because the Romans would never have imagined women fighting.

“Well, if Thoby is sporting one, that leaves me two choices,” said James. “Challenge him to a duel, or grow one even bigger.”

“I hope you won’t do either.” Cordelia made a face.

“I suppose as my wife, you do get some say in my appearance,” said James. Cordelia looked at him through her eyelashes, but he was only gazing out the window at the black-and-white night. “The Wentworths don’t entertain often. I’m looking forward to your first glimpse of the Pastry.”

“The Pastry?” she echoed.

“You’ll see.”

She did, the moment they pulled in through the gates. The house was a ridiculously ornate mansion with towers and turrets, like a castle, but plastered in pale ivory, so that it resembled a cross between the Taj Mahal and a wedding cake. With lights blazing from its windows and the grounds surrounding it covered in snow, the effect was blinding.

The carriage stopped in front of a green carpet, which led like a forest path up gleaming white steps to a massive faux-medieval door. The steps were lined with footmen in ivory livery, all standing stiffly to attention as James and Cordelia passed them. She couldn’t help but giggle as they arrived in a very grand foyer with an elaborately tiled pink-and-white marble floor. It really did look like a cake.

James winked at her when they entered the ballroom, another massive space with ornate ceilings, slathered with gilding and boasting pastel paintings of clouds and cherubs. The edges of the room were crowded with people: Cordelia recognized Will and Tessa chatting in a corner with Gabriel and Cecily Lightwood. The Merry Thieves were there as well, sprawled at a table in one corner with Anna. Matthew raised a glass of champagne as he spotted them; Anna waved indolently. The dancing had not yet begun: guests milled around a long banquet table loaded down with enough food to feed a small town. Silver towers of pastries and sandwiches made a backdrop to huge glazed hams and fish the size of small children in gleaming aspic, staring balefully with boiled eyes from their silver platters.

In the center of the ballroom Martin Wentworth and his wife, Gladys, were admiring a large ice sculpture of Rosamund and Thoby, both in flowing robes. There was a small dove on Rosamund’s shoulder. James stared at it openly. “Would you say the theme of this party is ‘Cold Reception’?” he whispered to Cordelia.