First Matthew had to breeze into the London Institute to collect a parcel known as James Herondale. He had a shrewd idea of where James was likely to be, so he told Oscar to stay and guard a lamppost. Oscar obeyed: he was very well behaved for a puppy, and people said Matthew must have trained him well, but Matthew only loved him. Matthew threw a grappling hook up to the library window, climbed up while being careful of his trousers, and tapped on the glass.

James was in the window seat, his black head bent over—what a surprise!—a book. He looked up at the tap and smiled.

James had never really needed Matthew. James had been so shy, and Matthew had wanted to take care of him, but now that James was growing into his angular features and accustomed to having the certain company of three good friends, he was far more collected during social gatherings. Even when Jamie was shy, he never seemed to doubt or wish to alter himself. He never looked to Matthew for rescue. There was a quiet, deep certainty to James that Matthew wished he had himself. From the start, there was something between them that was more equal than between him and Thomas or him and Christopher. Something that made Matthew want to prove himself to James. He was not sure he ever truly had.

James never looked relieved to see Matthew, or expectant. He only looked pleased. He opened the window and Matthew crawled in, upsetting both James and the book from the window seat.

“Hello, Matthew,” said James from the floor, in slightly sardonic tones.

“Hello, Matthew!” chimed Lucie from her writing desk.

She was a picture of dainty disarray, clearly in the throes of composition. Her light brown curls were half pulled out of a blue ribbon, one shoe dangling precariously from her stockinged toes. Uncle Will frequently gave dramatic readings from the book he was writing on the demon pox, which were very droll. Lucie did not show her writing around. Matthew had often considered asking her if she might read him a page, but he could think of no reason why Lucie would make a special exception for him.

“Bless you, my Herondales,” said Matthew grandly, scrambling up from the floor and making Lucie his bow. “I come upon an urgent errand. Tell me—be honest!—what do you think of my waistcoat?”

Lucie dimpled. “Devastating.”

“What Lucie said,” James agreed peacefully.

“Not fantastic?” Matthew asked. “Not positively stunning?”

“I suppose I am stunned,” said James. “But am I positively stunned?”

“Refrain from playing cruel word games with your one and only parabatai,” Matthew requested. “Attend to your own attire, if you please. Heave that beastly book away. The Misters Lightwood await us. We must hook it.”

“Can’t I go as I am?” asked James.

He looked up at Matthew with wide gold eyes from his position on the floor. His pitch-black hair was askew, his linen shirt rumpled, and he was not even wearing a waistcoat. Matthew nobly repressed a convulsive shudder.