She knew that he did. Her fingers were entwined with his, his other hand on her waist. The waltz was a far more sensual dance than the polonaise, and James wasn’t bothering to keep his distance. She was pressed against him, making the starch of his shirtfront crinkle. The corner of his mouth curled into a half smile. “I see Matthew has filled you in on all the gossip regarding Charles. How was your sojourn among the matrons of the Enclave?”

“Well, they are all looking over at us now,” said Cordelia. “They seem scandalized.”

“That’s because all their husbands are off drinking port and playing billiards.”

“Don’t you want to go drink port and play billiards?” she teased.

“When you dance as well as I do, you have a responsibility to set an example,” said James, swinging her in an exaggerated turn. She laughed, spinning back toward him. He caught her, his fingers splayed at her waist.

“I heard a bit more about what happened to Amos Gladstone the other night,” he said. “He was found with his throat slit. Frozen in an alley. No ichor, or any demon traces, but it’s rained since, so…”

Cordelia shuddered. “I can’t help but be uneasy. The last time Shadowhunters were dying…”

“Those were attacks in full daylight,” said James. “This is normal, or as normal as things get for Nephilim. We’ve stopped being used to it, but people die on patrol. Not that I advocate pretending it didn’t happen because you’ve ordered an ice sculpture, mind you—”

He broke off. Two guests had entered the room, and Rosamund and Thoby had already rushed to greet them. Even through the crowd, Cordelia knew who they were: there was Charles, his red hair set off by his black tailcoat, and beside him, Grace. Her dress was a cloud of ivory net, worn over an ice-blue satin underskirt.

She looked at Cordelia for a long moment, her gray eyes wide. Then she glanced away.

“I wouldn’t have thought Charles would have come,” Cordelia said, struggling to seem unaffected. “Isn’t he being packed off to Paris tomorrow?”

“First thing in the morning, along with my parents, but Charles is determined to put on a good face.” James was no longer looking at Grace and Charles. He had practice, Cordelia supposed; it was not the first time she and James had seen Grace at a party, though it had not happened since their wedding. He never looked at her long, nor went to speak to her, but Cordelia, tuned as she was to his moods, could always sense his distraction. “My apologies—we have quite lost the thread of the dance.”