There was a stall selling faerie fruit, though there was also a werewolf outside the stall making dark remarks about being cheated and not making deals with goblin men. There were stalls with red-and-white-striped awnings selling cinder toffee, though Brother Zachariah had doubts about its provenance. Matthew stopped and laughed for sheer joy at a warlock woman with blue skin who was juggling toy unicorns, mermaids’ shells, and small wheels on fire, and he flirted until she told him her name was Catarina. She added that he certainly might not call on her, but when he smiled, she smiled back. Brother Zachariah imagined people usually did.

The Shadow Market as a whole seemed rather bemused by Matthew. They were accustomed to Shadowhunters arriving on the hunt for witnesses or culprits, not demonstrating huge enthusiasm.

Matthew applauded when another stall sidled up to him, walking on chicken feet. A faerie woman with dandelion-fluff hair peered out among vials of many-colored lights and liquids.

“Hello, pretty,” she said, her voice rasping like bark.

“Which one of us are you talking to?” asked Matthew, laughing and leaning his elbow against Brother Zachariah’s shoulder.

The faerie woman regarded Zachariah with suspicion. “Oooh, a Silent Brother at our humble market. The Nephilim would consider that we were being honored.”

Do you feel honored? asked Zachariah, shifting his stance slightly to stand protectively in front of Matthew.

Oblivious, Matthew sauntered past Zachariah to examine the vials laid out before him.

“Jolly nice potions,” he said, flashing his smile on the woman. “Did you make them yourself? Good show. That makes you something of an inventor, does it not? My papa is an inventor.”

“I am happy to have anyone at the Market who has an interest in my wares,” said the woman. “I see you have a honey tongue to match your hair. How old are you?”

“Fifteen,” Matthew replied promptly.

He began to sort among the vials, his rings clinking against the glass and their wood-and-gold or wood-and-silver stoppers, chattering about his father and faerie potions he had read about.

“Ah, fifteen summers, and by the look of you it has been all summer. Some would say only a shallow river could flash so bright,” said the faerie woman, and Matthew looked up at her, an unguarded child surprised by any hurt dealt him. His smile flickered for an instant.

Before Jem could intervene, the smile resumed.

“Ah well. ‘He has nothing, but he looks everything. What more can one desire?’” Matthew quoted. “Oscar Wilde. Do you know his work? I heard faeries like to steal poets. You should definitely have tried to steal him.”

The woman laughed. “Perchance we did. Do you wish to be stolen, honey-sweet boy?”

“I do not think my mama the Consul would like that at all, no.”

Matthew continued to beam radiantly on her. The faerie looked discomfited for a moment, then smiled back. Faeries could prick like thorns because it was their very nature, not because they meant harm.