♕

Dahlia Bridgestock nearly fell off a rooftop fighting a demon.

She really didn't know why she was here, she would much rather be with her sister who was most likely dying of boredom with Charles Fairchild in her presence.

If Dahlia was there he would be running away his trousers on fire, and a pie stuck in his annoying bright red hair.

But here she was at the request of Christopher Lightwood. There weren't many people Dahlia listened to but Christopher was one of the few people she did listen too.

How glamorous the life of a Shadowhunter was, indeed. It sounded good, she thought, gazing down at the empty alley below her: a narrow space choked with rubbish, lit dimly by the half-moon overhead. A special race of warriors, descended from an angel, gifted with powers that allowed them to wield weapons of shining adamas and to bear the black Marks of holy runes on their bodies—runes that made them stronger, faster, more deadly than any mundane human; runes that made them burn brightly in the dark. No one ever mentioned things like accidentally kneeling on a dead bird while waiting for a demon to turn up.

That would be gruesome. Well whatever gruesome meant to Shadowhunters.

A yell echoed down the alley. Dahlia was distantly aware of James rushing to the shout. THen realization flickered in her head, it was probably Matthew Fairchild. The one person Dahlia hated more than Grace Blackthorn.

Matthew and James were parabatai. James was sworn to protect him, not that it mattered: he would have given his life for Matthew's, vows or not.

Dahlia had her own parabatai, someone she was bound to forever, and she would easily give up her life for him.

Movement flashed at the end of the alley, where it curved behind a narrow row of houses. James spun as a demon emerged from the shadows, roaring. It had a ribbed gray body, a curving, sharp beak lined with hooked teeth, and splayed paw-like feet from which ragged claws protruded.

A Deumas demon.

Dahlia launched herself off the roof landing softly behind James, her black dress fluttering quietly. He glanced at her, he looked grim, then he noticed her attire and raised a questioning eyebrow. Dahlia looked at him, challenging him with her eyes to say a word about her wearing a dress in battle.

It wasn't too puffy or really grand, it was just a simple black gown, no corset, with black tights under it. Her gear belt was strapped on around her waist, and Dahlia really couldn't bother tying her hair. It wasn't that she wanted to be different from the other female Shadowhunters, she just found tunics awkward.

The Deumas roared again and lurched toward them, drool spilling from its mouth in long strings of greenish slime.

James swung his arm back, ready to throw his first knife. The demon's eyes fixed on him for a moment. They were coruscating, green and black, filled with a hate that turned suddenly into something else.

Then James lurched forward, his figure flickering. He closed his right hand around his knife—not the handle, but the blade. Dahlia wasn't sure if she wanted to yell at him or make sure he was okay.

Only then did Dahlia register that the Deumas was in midair, claws extended toward him, when a swirl of cords whipped through the sky, entangling the demon's leg and yanking it backward.

A slow smile crept up on Dahlia's face.Thomas Lightwood, she thought and Thomas had appeared behind the demon, armed with a bolas. Behind him was Christopher, armed with a bow, and Matthew, a seraph blade blazing in his hand.

The Deumas hit the ground with another roar, just as Dahlia let both her chakaras fly.

One plunged into the demon's throat, the other into its forehead. Its eyes rolled back, it spasmed. James looked as if he has suddenly remembered something.

"Matthew—" he began, just as the creature burst apart, showering them in ichor and burnt bits of what could only be described as goo.

Deumas demons were notably messy. Most demons vanished when they died. Not Deumas demons.

They exploded. Dahlia recalled, her eyes widening at the green goo.

"How—wha—?" Christopher stuttered, at a clear loss for words. Slime dripped off his pointed nose and gold-rimmed spectacles. "But how...?"

Dahlia pulled a apart bits of her hair that were starting to burn with the ichor.

"Do you mean how is it possible that we finally tracked down the last demon in London and it was also the most disgusting?" James was saying.

"Ours is not to question why, Christopher." Dahlia finished for James, fanning out her dress in an attempt to make the bit of goo fall off.

They, of course, stuck to her clothes making her feel a lot like Ariadne's jelly. It was always green and goopy, one of the many horrors Dahlia had to wake up to during Christmas morning in her seventeen years of living.

Thomas rolled his eyes. He was scrubbing at himself with a handkerchief that was also half-burnt and covered in ichor, so it was doing little good.

Matthew's seraph blade had begun to sputter. Seraph blades, infused with the energy of angels, were often a Shadowhunter's most trusted weapon and best defense against demons, but it was still possible to drown one in enough ichor. "This is an outrage," Matthew said, tossing the extinguished blade aside. "Do you know how much I spent on this waistcoat?"

"No one told you to go out patrolling for demons dressed like an extra from The Importance of Being Earnest," said Dahlia rolling her eyes at him. He glared back at her.

"And are you any better, Bridgestock?" he asked. Dahlia rolled her eyes.

"I don't think he's dressed like an extra," said Thomas, Dahlia glared at him. Dahlia ripped away a piece of her dress to help Christopher.

"Thank you," said Matthew with a slight bow.

"I think he's dressed like a main character." Thomas grinned. He had one of the kindest faces Dahlia had ever known, and gentle hazel eyes. None of which meant he didn't enjoy mocking his friends.

Dahlia threw her hairpin at him.

Matthew mopped at his dull gold hair with James's handkerchief. "This is the first time in a year that we've patrolled and actually found a demon, so I'd supposed that my waistcoat would probably survive the evening. It's not as if any of you are wearing gear either."

It was true that Shadowhunters usually hunted in gear, a sort of flexible armor made of a tough, leatherlike black material resistant to ichor, blades, and the like, but a lack of reliable demonic presence on the streets had made them all a bit lax about rules.

Dahlia wanted to throw her hair pin at him as well but she didn't want to waste her hairpins on Matthew of all people.

"Stop scrubbing at me, Dahlia," said Christopher, windmilling his arms. "We should go back to the Devil and clean up there."

There was a murmur of assent among the group as they picked their sticky way back to the main street.

There were plenty of mundanes out and about on the streets of the city, though the hour was late. None glanced at the bedraggled group of Shadowhunters as they made their way down Fleet Street; their glamour runes made them invisible to all eyes not gifted with the Sight.

To Dahlia it was a pity, not being able to see the world as it was, to be living in a lie even if they didn't know it. It seemed cruel, but then again it was for their sanity.

Fleet Street was home to the newspaper offices and law courts of London, and everywhere were brightly lit pubs, with print workers and barristers and law clerks, who kept late hours, drinking into the dawn light. The Strand nearby had spilled the contents of its music halls and theaters, and well-dressed groups of young people, laughing and boisterous, chased the last omnibuses of the night.

The bobbies were out working their beats too, and those denizens of London unfortunate enough to have no homes to go to crouched muttering around cellar vents that sent up drifts of warm air—even in August the nights could be damp and chilly.

The Devil made its home at No. 2 Fleet Street, next to a respectable-looking print shop. Unlike the shop, it was glamoured so that no mundanes could see it or hear the raucous noises of debauchery that poured from the windows and the open doors. It was half-timbered in the Tudor style, the old wood ratty and splintering, kept from falling down by warlocks' spells. Behind the bar, werewolf owner Ernie pulled pints: the crowd was a mix of pixies and vampires and lycanthropes and warlocks.

The usual welcome for Shadowhunters in a place like this would have been a cold one, but the patrons of the Devil Tavern were used to them. They greeted James, Christopher, Matthew, and Thomas with yells of welcome and mockery, Dahlia rarely came but when she did she was greeted with nothing less or more. James stayed in the pub to collect drinks from Polly, the barmaid, while the others tramped upstairs to their rooms, shedding ichor on the steps as they went.

Dahlia threw the door open, a bright smile adorning her face. She rushed to the bathroom before anyone else could reach it, she was rewarded with a collective groan from Matthew and Thomas.

Dahlia smiled blew a kiss to the boys and slammed the door shut.

A few moments later she came out in a simple light yellow gown, her dark hair damp and her feet bare.

Matthew and Thomas rushed to the bathroom, and coming out eventually, both Thomas and Matthew were free of ichor, wearing wrinkled but clean clothes, their hair—Thomas's sandy brown and Matthew's dark gold—still damp.

Dahlia was sprawled out on the couch in a manner that she knew her mother would have scolded her for.

Her legs were on the couch headboard, her head dangling off the seats, her hair spread out on the floor. Her dress fell back to her knees, which were bare, and flattered out.

She was intently staring at a book.

The room was a fond and familiar place, with worn walls, a collection of ragged furniture, and a low fire burning in the grate. Over the fireplace was a marble bust of Apollo, his nose chipped off long ago. The walls were lined with occult books written by mundane magicians: the library at the Institute didn't allow such things, but James collected them.

James shouldered the door open.

"James!" Matthew cheered upon seeing his friend.

Dahlia realized suddenly that during her staring with the book, Matthew had managed to get himself half drunk.

"Is that a bottle of cheap spirits I see before me?" James asked as he set the wine down on the table just as Christopher emerged from the small bedroom at the far end of the attic space. The bedroom had been there before they had taken over the space: there was still a bed in it, but none of the Merry Thieves used it for anything besides washing up and storing weapons and changes of clothes.

"James," Christopher said, looking pleased. "I thought you'd gone home."

"Why on earth would I go home?" James took a seat beside Matthew and tossed a dish towels onto the table.

"No idea," said Christopher cheerfully, pulling up a chair. "But you might have. People do odd things all the time. We had a cook who went to do the shopping and was found two weeks later in Regent's Park. She'd become a zookeeper."

"It's true." said Dahlia nodding eagerly, well as much as she could with her constrained neck space.

The group was never sure whether to entirely believe Christopher's stories. Not that he was a liar, but when it came to anything that wasn't beakers and test tubes, he tended to be paying only a fraction of attention.

Christopher was the son of aunt Cecily and uncle Gabriel. He had the fine bone structure of his parents, dark brown hair, and eyes that could only be described as the color of lilacs. "Wasted on a boy!" Cecily said often, with a martyred sigh. Christopher ought to have been popular with girls, but the thick spectacles he wore obscured most of his face, and he had gunpowder perpetually embedded under his fingernails.

"Your hand," Matthew said suddenly, leaning forward and fixing his green eyes on James. "What happened?"

"Just a cut," James said, opening his hand. The wound was a long diagonal slice across his palm. As Matthew took James's hand, the silver bracelet that James always wore on his right wrist clinked against the hock bottle on the table. "You should have told me," Matthew said, reaching into his waistcoat for his stele. "I would have fixed you up in the alley."

"I forgot," James said.

Thomas, who was running his finger around the rim of his own glass without drinking, said, "Did something happen?"

Thomas was annoyingly perceptive. "It was very quick," James said, with some reluctance.

"Many things that are 'very quick' are also very bad," said Matthew, setting the point of his stele to James's skin. "Guillotines come down very quickly, for instance. When Christopher's experiments explode, they often explode very quickly."

"Clearly, I have neither exploded nor been guillotined," said James. "I—went into the shadow realm."

Dahlia sighed, she never spoke up when the boys were talking, there was a certain bond between them that Dahlia admired.

She was also aware that the only reason they were like this with her was because she was Christopher's parabatai. She wasn't a very interesting Shadowhunter, why would they even be interested in her?

Dahlia had decided to simply observe and only speak when it was needed on her part.

For instance if Christopher was to explode something, she would be the one to scold him while cleaning up after him. Christopher had a miraculously wandering mind, but he would die for anyone he loved. He might never pay attention, but he had his own adorable quirks, like when he struggled with his glasses when he was measuring the beakers' liquids.

Dahlia had suggested they become parabatai, Christopher had been fascinated by the fire circles rather than the actual ceremony.

Matthew's head jerked up, though his hand remained steady as the iratze, a healing rune, took shape on James's skin. James could feel the pain in his hand begin to subside. "I thought all that business had stopped," Matthew said. "I thought Jem had helped you."

"He did help me. It's been a year since the last time." James shook his head. "I suppose it was too much to hope it was gone forever."

"Doesn't it usually happen when you're upset?" said Thomas. "Was it the demon attacking?"

"No," James said quickly. "No, I can't imagine—no."

"Demons don't bother our boy," said Matthew, finishing the healing rune. "It must have been something else."

"You ought to talk to your uncle, then, Jamie," said Thomas.

James shook his head. "It was nothing. I was surprised by the demon; I grabbed at the blade by accident. I'm sure that's what caused it."

"Did you turn into a shadow?" said Matthew, putting his stele away.

Christopher looked up from his notebook. "Speaking of the demon—"

"Which we weren't," Matthew pointed out.

"—what kind was it again?" Christopher asked, biting the end of his pen. He often wrote down details of their demon-fighting expeditions. He claimed it helped him in his research. "The one that exploded, I mean."

"As opposed to the one that didn't?" said James.

Thomas, who had an excellent memory for detail, said: "It was a Deumas, Christopher. Odd it was here; they're not usually found in cities."

"I saved some of its ichor," said Christopher, producing from somewhere on his person a corked test tube full of a greenish substance. "I caution all of you not to drink any of it."

"I can assure you we had no plans to do any such thing, you daft boot," said Thomas.

Matthew shuddered. "Enough talk of ichor. Let's toast again to Thomas being home!"

Dahlia looked away slowly moving around to sit properly on the couch, a throbbing headache greeting her.

Thomas protested. James raised his glass and toasted with Matthew. Christopher was about to clink his test tube against James's glass when Dahlia, muttering imprecations, confiscated it and handed Christopher a glass of hock instead.

Thomas, despite his objections, looked pleased. Most Shadowhunters went on a sort of grand tour when they turned eighteen, leaving their home Institute for one abroad; Thomas had only just returned from nine months in Madrid a few weeks ago. The point of the travel was to learn new customs and broaden one's horizons: Thomas had certainly broadened, though mostly in the physical sense.

"When you're entirely done, I do have some news," Thomas said, tipping his chair back. "You know that old manor in Chiswick that once belonged to my grandfather? Used to be called Lightwood House? It was given to my aunt Tatiana by the Clave some years ago, but she's never used it—preferred to stay in Idris at the manor with my cousin, er..."

"Gertrude," said Christopher helpfully.

"Grace," James said. "Her name is Grace."

She was Christopher's cousin too, though Dahlia knew they had never met her.

"Yes, Grace," agreed Thomas. "Aunt Tatiana's always kept them both in splendid isolation in Idris—no visitors and all that—but apparently she's decided to move back to London, so my parents are all in a dither about it."

"Grace," James began, Matthew shot him a quick sideways glance. "Grace—is moving to London?"

"Seems Tatiana wants to bring her out in society." Thomas looked puzzled. "I suppose you've met her, in Idris? Doesn't your house there adjoin Blackthorn Manor?"

James nodded mechanically. "I usually see her every summer," he said. "Not this summer, of course."

"London is being positively swarmed by new arrivals," Matthew remarked. "The Carstairs family will be with us soon, won't they?"

James nodded. "Lucie is wild with excitement to see Cordelia."

Matthew poured more wine into his glass. "Can't blame them for being tired of rusticating in Devon—what's that house of theirs called? Cirenworth? I gather they arrive in a day or two—"

Thomas upset his drink. James's drink and Christopher's test tube went with it. Thomas was still growing accustomed to occupying so much space in the world, and he sometimes proved clumsy.

"All of the Carstairs family are coming, did you say?" said Thomas.

"Not Elias Carstairs," said Matthew. Elias was Cordelia's father. "But Cordelia, and of course..." He trailed off meaningfully.

"Oh, bloody hell," said Christopher. "Alastair Carstairs." He looked vaguely ill. "I'm not remembering incorrectly? He's an awful pill?"

" 'Awful pill' seems a kind way of putting it," said James. Thomas was mopping up his drink; James looked at him with concern.

Dahlia hadn't seen why they were worried about Thomas and Alistair; to her it was clear as day that they had a connection.

"We can avoid Alastair, Tom. There's no reason for us to spend time with him, and I can't imagine he'll be yearning for our society either."

Thomas spluttered, but not in response to what James had said. The contents of Christopher's spilled test tube had turned a violent puce and begun to eat through the table. They all leaped up to grab for Polly's dish towels. Thomas hurled a pitcher of water at the table, which drenched Christopher, and Matthew doubled over laughing, Dahlia was watching from the couch.

"I say," said Christopher, mopping wet hair out of his eyes. "I do think that worked, Tom. The acid has been neutralized."

Thomas was shaking his head. "Someone should neutralize you, you mopstick—"

Matthew and Dahlia collapsed in hysterics.

♕

Dahlia had rushed to get to the institute to meet Cordelia Carstairs. She was running a bit late since she and Ariadne had needed to gather their gowns from the tailor and their maid had been sick.

It had taken a considerable amount of time because the tailor was a grumpy she-werewolf. She had angrily sent them out of her shop with two bundles. Then they had encountered a lane of ducks which resulted in Dahlia screaming in fright and holding a Seraph blade threathingly.

Ariadne had burst into laughter.

Dahlia was there for moral support for Lucie, the girl had been all up and about over Cordelia's arrival.

As Dahlia ran closer to the institute she saw James, his hand on Cordelia's arm, steadying her. "Daisy?" he was saying. "Are you all right?"

"Just clumsy." She looked around ruefully. "I was hoping for a more gracious arrival."

"Nothing to worry about." He smiled. "The pavements of South Kensington are vicious. I've been attacked by them more than once myself."

Dahlia finally managed to reach them, "So sorry I'm late!" she whispered hurridly to aunt Tessa, who simply smiled at her. "It's quiet alright Dahlia. Darling do go introduce yourself."

Dahlia felt her palms start to sweat.

She had never been the best at meeting new people, she wasn't one for social events.

James was talking with Alistair Carstairs.

"I see you're here, Alastair." James's voice was curiously flat. "And you look—"

He eyed Alastair's bright yellow-white hair with some astonishment.

Dahlia waited for him to say Alistair looked like a turnip, but he never did.

The boys looked at each other in silence as Lucie raced down the steps and threw her arms around Cordelia. "I am so very, very delighted to see you!" she said, in her breathless way. For Lucie, everything was always very, very, very something, be it beautiful or exciting or horrid. "Darling Cordelia, we shall have so much fun—"

"Lucie, Cordelia and her family have come to London so that you and Cordelia can train together," said Tessa in her gentle voice. "It will be a great deal of work and responsibility."

"Well, you must remember being sixteen yourself, Mrs. Herondale," said Sona. "Young girls adore dances and dresses. I certainly did when I was their age, and I imagine you did as well."

Tessa arched her eyebrows. "I do recall attending a vampire frolic once. And some sort of party at Benedict Lightwood's house, before he got demon pox and turned into a worm, of course—"

Dahlia was close to hysterics.

"Mother!" Lucie said, scandalized.

"Well, he did turn into a worm," said James.

"Really more of a vicious, giant serpent. It was entirely one of the most interesting parts of history class." Dahlia said, her hand covering her mouth.

Tessa was saved further comment by the arrival of the removers' vans carrying the Carstairs' belongings. Several large men leaped down from one of the vans and went to pull back the canvas covering the various furniture pieces, which had been fastidiously roped down.

Cordelia seemed to stare at Dahlia, who with a jolt realized she was curious who she was.

Yes Dahlia, you are rather stupid, she thought to herself.

"Hello Cordelia, my name is Dahlia Bridgestock." Dahlia said, holding out her hand for the other girl.

"Please thank Cecily Lightwood for me, for the loan of her domestic help," Cordelia's mother was saying to Tessa.

Cordelia smiled, "Cordelia Carstairs, it's a pleasure."

"Oh, indeed! They will come on Tuesdays and Thursdays to do the rough, until you can find suitable servants of your own," Tessa replied.

A large shape on one of the vans caught Dahlia's eye.

"Mama!" Cordelia exclaimed. "You brought the piano?"

Her mother shrugged. "I like a bit of music about." She gestured imperiously toward the workmen. "Cordelia, it's going to be messy and noisy. Perhaps if you and Lucie, and this young lady would go take a turn about the neighborhood? And Alastair, you stay here and help direct the servants."

Tessa Herondale looked amused. "James, go with the girls. Perhaps Kensington Gardens? It's a short walk and a lovely day."

"Kensington Gardens does seem safe," James said gravely.

Lucie rolled her eyes and seized Cordelia's hand. "Come along, then," she said, and pulled her down the steps and onto the pavement. Dahlia on flanked on Lucie's other side.

James, with his long legs, matched them easily. "There's no need to bolt, Lucie," he said. "Mother isn't going to haul you back and demand that you drag a piano into the house."

"I'm so happy you're here," Lucie declared. "I never thought it would really happen."

"Why not?" said James. "The Law demands you train together before you can become parabatai, and besides, Father adores Daisy, and he does make the rules...."

"Your father adores any Carstairs," said Cordelia. "I'm not sure it's to my particular credit. He may even like Alastair."

"I think he has convinced himself Alastair has hidden depths," said James.

"So does quicksand," said Cordelia.

James laughed.

"That's quite enough," said Lucie, reaching over to smack James on the shoulder with a gloved hand. "Daisy is my friend, and you're monopolizing her. Do go off somewhere else."

"I will walk ten paces behind you like a train-bearer," said James. "But I must keep you within sight, otherwise Mother will kill me, and then I will miss tomorrow's ball and Matthew will kill me, and I will be dead twice, and then Dahlia will kill me for letting her sweets go to waste and I would be dead thrice."

Dahlia rolled her eyes, "I wouldn't kill you. I would gladly replace your gracious sacrifice with Matthew."

James shook his head murmuring to himself. Cordelia smiled, but James was already dropping back as promised. He ambled along behind them, giving the girls space to talk.

"What ball did he mean?" she asked, turning to Lucie. They passed under the black wrought-iron gates of Kensington Park and into leafy shade. The public garden was full of nannies pushing babies in prams and young couples walking together under the trees. Two little girls were making daisy chains, and a boy in a blue sailor suit was running along with a hoop, shrieking with laughter.

"The one tomorrow night," Lucie said, linking her arm with Cordelia's. "We're throwing it to welcome you to London. All the Enclave will be there, and there will be dancing, and Mother will have a chance to show off the new ballroom. And I will have a chance to show off you."

"Will everyone there—does everyone know about my father?"

"Oh, no. Very few people have heard any details, and those are being quite closemouthed about it." Lucie eyed her speculatively. "Would you be willing—if you told me what happened, I swear I would not share it with a soul, not even James."

Dahlia slowly fell back, her pace matching James to give the two girls space.

"Hello Dahlia." he said, smiling at her. "Hello Jamie!" she said.

He raised an eyebrow.

Dahlia ignored him and went on, "For the cake I was wondering do you think people would prefer vanilla or chocolate? Would it anger Matthew if I did strawberry? If it does then I will at any cost make the cake strawberry."

James looked amused, "No, Matthew quiet likes strawberry.....hm vanilla would appear more liked by people." he said.

Dahlia was quiet disappointed.

"I see....thank you Jamie, I shall go listen to what Luice and Cordelia are talking about."

She slowly picked up her pace and fell in step with the girls.

"You're so lucky," Cordelia said, still looking over her shoulder at James.

"Why on earth?" Lucie looked at her with wide eyes.

"Oh, because—He's such a good older brother. If I'd asked Alastair to walk ten paces behind me in a park, he would have made sure to stick by my side the entire time just to be annoying."

"Pfft!" Lucie exclaimed. "Of course I adore Jamie, but he's been dreadful lately, ever since he fell in love."

"He what?"

"Fell in love," Lucie repeated, with the look of someone enjoying imparting a bit of gossip. "Oh, he won't say with who, of course, because it's Jamie and he never tells us anything. But Father's diagnosed him and he says it's definitely love."

"You make it sound like consumption."

"Well, it is a bit, isn't it? He gets all pale and moody and stares off out of windows like Keats."

"Did Keats stare out of windows?"

Lucie plowed on, undeterred by the question of whether England's foremost Romantic poet had or had not stared out of windows. "He won't say anything to anyone but Matthew, and Matthew is a tomb where James is concerned. I heard a bit of their conversation this morning by accident, though—"

"Accident?" Cordelia raised an eyebrow.

"I may have been hiding beneath a table," said Lucie, with dignity. "But it was only because I had lost an earring and was looking for it."

Cordelia seemed suppressed a smile. "Go on."

"He is definitely in love, and Matthew thinks he is being foolish. It is a girl who does not live in London, but she is about to arrive here for an extended stay. Matthew does not approve of her—" Lucie broke off suddenly and clutched at Cordelia's wrist. "Oh!"

"Ouch! Lucie—"

"A lovely young lady about to arrive in London! Oh, I am a goose! Of course it's clear who he meant!"

"Is it?" Cordelia said. They were nearing the famous Long Water; she could see the sun sparkling off the surface.

"He meant you," Lucie breathed. "Oh, how lovely! Imagine if you got married! We could be sisters in truth!"

"Lucie!" Cordelia dropped her voice to a whisper. "We've no proof he meant me."

"Well, he'd be mad not to be in love with you," said Lucie. "You're terribly pretty, and just as Matthew said, you've just arrived in London for an extended stay. Who else could it be? The Enclave simply isn't that large. No, it must be you."

"I don't know—"

Lucie's eyes rounded. "Is it that you don't care for him? Well, you can't be expected to, yet. I mean you've known him all your life, so I imagine he isn't that impressive, but I am quite sure you could get used to his face. He doesn't snore or make rude jokes. Really, he isn't bad at all," she added judiciously. "Just consider it? Dance one dance with him tomorrow. You do have a dress, don't you? You must have a lovely dress, if he is to be properly stunned by you."

Dahlia wanted to interfere in the coverstaion, say it was Grace he was in love with. Dahlia didn't fancy Cordelia being hurt.

"I do have a dress," Cordelia hastened to reassure her, though she knew it was far from lovely.

"Once you have stunned him," Lucie went on, "he will propose. Then we shall decide whether you will accept and if you do, if you will have a long engagement. It might be better if you did, so that we can complete our parabatai training."

"Lucie, you are making me dizzy!" Cordelia said, and cast a worried look over her shoulder.

She frowned suddenly. "Why does Matthew not approve of me?" she asked, and then cleared her throat. "I mean, if I was the girl they were talking about, which I am sure I was not."

Lucie waved her hand airily. "He did not think the girl in question cared for James. But as we have already ascertained, you can fall in love with him quite easily, if you put a bit of effort into it. Matthew is overly protective of Jamie, but he is nothing to fear. He may not like many people, but he's very kind to the ones he does like."

To Dahlia it seemed that Cordelia Carstairs might already be in love with James Herondale, she would murder the bastard if he did not invite her to their wedding.

♕

𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: I intended to post everyday, but it seems I will not be able to tomorrow so I posted it today, I won't be avalible until Tuesday, Pacific time <3

I will post next Wednesday!!

𝚃𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙺  𝚈𝙾𝚄  𝙵𝙾𝚁  𝚁𝙴𝙰𝙳𝙸𝙽𝙶: 

✧.* 𝐔𝐋𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐄⋆.ೃ࿔*:･