The Bridgestocks lived in Fitzrovia, just off Cavendish Square. Theirs was a fine three-across town house. The paint on the shiny black door looked like it could have still been wet, and there were electric lights outside. A servant showed them into a dark and close reception room where the Inquisitor and his wife greeted them. They took little notice of Anna except to say what a charming young lady she was. She and Christopher sat politely on stiff chairs and added a decorative element to a dreary occasion.

The dinner gong finally sounded, and everyone shuffled through to the dining room. Anna and Christopher were seated at the far end of the table, and there was an empty place set across from her. Anna ate her asparagus soup and stared at a painting of a ship on the wall. The ship was in the throes of a storm, the masts on fire, and on the verge of disintegrating into the sea.

“Did you hear they are building a Portal in the Gard?” the Inquisitor asked Anna’s parents.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Bridgestock said, shaking her head, “is that a good idea? What if it were to let demons through?”

Anna envied the ship in the painting and all who sank in her.

“Of course,” the Inquisitor droned on, “there’s also the matter of money. The Consul has rejected the proposal to create an official currency of Idris. A wise decision. Very wise. As I was saying earlier—”

“I’m so sorry for my lateness,” said a voice.

In the doorway of the dining room stood a girl, probably Anna’s age, in a midnight-blue dress. Her hair was jet-black, like Anna’s, but fuller, more luxurious, deep as night sky against her soft brown skin. But what captured Anna were her eyes—eyes the color of topaz—large, the lashes thick.

“Ah,” the Inquisitor said. “This is our daughter, Ariadne. These are the Lightwoods.”

“I was meeting my tutor,” Ariadne said as a servant pulled out her chair. “We were delayed. I do apologize. It sounds like I came in just as you were debating the new currency. Shadowhunters are an international group. We must blend seamlessly with many international economies. Having our own currency would be a disaster.”

On that, she plucked up her napkin and turned to Anna and Christopher and smiled.

“We have not met,” she said.

Anna had to force herself to swallow, then to breathe. Ariadne was something beyond the realm of humanity or Shadowhunter. The Angel himself must have made her.

“Anna Lightwood,” Anna said.

Christopher was pushing peas onto the back of his fork, unaware that a goddess had seated herself across from him.

“And this is my brother Christopher. He can be a bit distracted.”

She gave him a nudge.

“Oh,” he said, noticing Ariadne. “I’m Christopher.”

Even Christopher, now that he had seen Ariadne, could not help but be mesmerized by her. He blinked, taking in the sight.