You are a Shadowhunter, she reminded herself. One of a long line of Persian Shadowhunters. The Jahanshah family had fought demons for longer than people like Rosamund Wentworth could imagine. Sona claimed they had the blood of the famous hero Rostam in them. Cordelia could manage a picnic.
“Cordelia Carstairs?” Cordelia glanced up to see Anna standing above her, elegant as ever in a pale linen shirt and buff trousers. “May I join you?”
“Of course!” Delighted, Cordelia made space. She knew Anna was a topic of legend and admiration: she did as she liked, dressed as she liked, and lived where she liked. Her clothes were as spectacular as the stories about her. If Anna chose to sit with her, Cordelia could not be seen as dull.
Anna sank gracefully to her knees, reaching into the basket to retrieve a bottle of ginger beer. “I suppose,” she said, “we have not been officially introduced. But after the drama of last evening, I feel as if I know you.”
“After hearing about you from Lucie for so many years, I feel as if I know you.”
“I see you have ranged your food about you like a fortress,” Anna said. “Very wise. I think of each social occasion as a battle to be entered, myself. And I always wear my armor.” She crossed her legs at the ankle, showing her knee-high boots to advantage.
“And I always bring my sword.” Cordelia tapped the hilt of Cortana, currently half-concealed beneath a fold of blanket.
“Ah, the famous Cortana.” Anna’s eyes sparkled. “A sword that bears no runes, yet can kill demons, they say. Is that true?”
Cordelia nodded proudly. “My father slew the great demon Yanluo with it. They say the blade of Cortana can cut through anything.”
“That sounds very useful.” Anna touched the hilt lightly and withdrew her hand. “How are you finding London?”
“Honestly? It is overwhelming. I have spent most of my life traveling, and in London I only know James and Lucie.”
Anna smiled like a sphinx. “But you brought enough food to provision an army.” She cocked her head to the side. “I’d like to invite you to tea at my flat, Cordelia Carstairs. There are some matters we should discuss.”
Cordelia was stunned. What could glamorous Anna Lightwood possibly have to discuss with her? The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it had to do with her father, but before she could ask, Anna’s face lit up and she began waving at two approaching figures.
Cordelia turned to see Anna’s brother Christopher and Thomas Lightwood picking their way along the edge of the lake. Thomas towered over Christopher, who appeared to be chatting to him amiably, the sun glinting off his spectacles.
Anna’s smile took on a curl at the edges. “Christopher! Thomas! Over here!”
Cordelia plastered on a bright smile as they came closer. “Do come say hello,” she said. “I’ve lemon tartlets, and ginger beer, if you like.”
The boys glanced at each other. A moment later they were settling onto the blanket, Christopher nearly upsetting the picnic basket. Thomas was more careful with his long arms and legs, as if nervous he might knock something over. He wasn’t beautiful like James, but he would certainly suit a lot of girls. As for Christopher, his fine-boned resemblance to Anna was even clearer up close.
“I see why you called for our help,” Thomas said, his hazel eyes sparkling as he took in the picnic spread. “It would be staggeringly difficult for you to consume all this by yourselves. Best to call in the reserves.”
Christopher snagged a lemon tart. “Thomas used to be able to clear out our larder in an hour—and the eating contests he had with Lucie, I shudder to report them.”
“I may have heard a bit about that,” said Cordelia. Thomas adores ginger beer, Lucie had told her once, and Christopher is obsessed with lemon tarts. She hid a smile. “I know we’ve met before on occasion, but now that I’m officially in London, I hope that we’ll become friends.”
“Absolutely certainly,” said Christopher, “especially if there will be more lemon tarts in the offing.”
“I doubt she carries them everywhere with her, Kit,” said Thomas, “stuffed into her hats and whatnot.”
“I keep them in my weapons belt instead of seraph blades,” said Cordelia, and both boys laughed.
“How is Barbara, Thomas?” asked Anna, as she picked up an apple. “Is she well after last night?”
“She seems quite recovered,” Thomas said, gesturing to where Barbara was walking down by the lake with Oliver. She was twirling a bright blue parasol and chatting animatedly. Thomas bit into a meat pie.
“If you were a truly dedicated brother, you would be at her side,” Anna said. “I would hope that if I collapsed, Christopher would weep inconsolably and be incapable of consuming meat pies.”
“Barbara doesn’t want me near her,” Thomas said, unperturbed. “She’s hoping Oliver will propose.”
“Is she?” said Anna, her dark eyebrows winging upward in amusement.
“Alastair!” Cordelia called. “Do come eat! The food is vanishing!”
But her brother—who was not, Cordelia noticed, chatting with boys from the Academy, but was standing alone by the lakeside—only cast her a glance that indicated that she was tiresome.
“Ah,” said Thomas, in a slightly too casual voice. “Alastair is here.”
“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He’s the man of our house at the moment, since my father is in Idris.”
Christopher had produced a small black notebook and was scribbling in it. Anna was gazing down at the lake, where several of the young ladies—Rosamund, Ariadne, and Catherine among them—had decided to take a turn. “He has my sympathy,” said Thomas, with an easy smile. “My father is often in Idris as well, with the Consul—”
I know, Cordelia thought, but before she could ask him anything, she heard Lucie calling her name. She looked up to see her future parabatai heading toward them, holding a straw hat in place with one hand and a basket in the other. Behind her was James, his hands in the pockets of his pin-striped trousers. He wore no hat, and the wind tugged at his already tousled black hair.
“Oh, lovely!” Lucie said, upon seeing Cordelia’s mountain of food. “We can combine our winnings. Let’s see what you have.”
Anna and Christopher made space as Lucie dropped to her knees and began unpacking yet more food—cheese and jam tarts, sandwiches and lemonade. James sat down by Christopher, glancing idly at his notebook. He said something in a low voice, and Thomas and Christopher laughed.
Cordelia felt her breath catch in her throat. She hadn’t really spoken to James since they’d danced the night before. Unless one counted him asking her to remove his stele from his jacket. She remembered the way his hands had been fisted at his sides. He seemed a different person now.
“What did it turn out to be, last night?” she said to Lucie. “The demon business in Seven Dials.”
James glanced over at her. His smile was easy—too easy, Cordelia thought. As if he were an actor on a stage, told to look as if he were enjoying himself. “Shax demons all up and down Monmouth Street. They had to call on Ragnor Fell to help glamour the place so the mundanes wouldn’t notice what was going on.”
Thomas frowned. “It’s odd,” he said, “after so long, we encountered that demon the other night, and now yesterday—”
“You encountered a demon?” Lucie demanded. “When was that?”
“Er,” said Thomas, his hazel eyes darting around. “I may have been wrong. It may not have been a demon. It may have been a textbook about demons.”
“Thomas,” said Lucie. “You are the most dreadful liar. I want to know what happened.”
“You can always get the truth out of Matthew,” said James. “You can wheedle anything out of him, you know that, Luce.” He glanced around the lake. “Where is Matthew? Isn’t he meant to be coming?”
He looked over at Cordelia, and she felt a sudden rush of anger. She’d been quiet—now that she’d managed to lure all these people to her Picnic Blanket of Machinations, how was she meant to bring up her father? But James’s words brought back the night before in a sharp flash of memory. He was asking her if she knew where Matthew was because she’d danced with Matthew, and she’d danced with Matthew because James had abandoned her and Matthew had stepped in.
Cordelia rose to her feet, nearly knocking over a bottle of ginger beer. She took a deep breath, brushed off her blue serge skirt, and said, “James, I’d like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you don’t mind.”
Everyone looked astonished, even Lucie; James only nodded.
“Lead the way,” he said.
* * *
There was a small Italian folly near the lake, complete with white pillars. Cordelia led James away from the crowd of picnickers in silence, passing a few groups of strolling mundanes; now she climbed the few steps of the folly to its central pavilion, turned, and faced him.
“Last night,” she said, “you were most appallingly rude to me, and I would like an apology.”
He looked up at her. So this was what it would be like to be taller than James, she thought. She didn’t mind it. His expression was calm, unreadable even. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, but it was entirely closed off, letting no one in. It was an expression she had seen on James’s face before: she had always thought of it privately as the Mask.
She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to apologize?”
Maybe it wasn’t better to be taller than him, she thought. When he looked up at her, he had to do it through his eyelashes, which were thick and black as the silk fringes on a scarf. “I am trying to think of the best way to do it. What I did—leaving you on the dance floor—was unforgivable. I am trying to think of a reason you ought to forgive me anyway, because if you did not, it would break my heart.”