Grace looked astonished. “What is she doing here?”

Lucie followed her gaze and saw—to her surprise—Ariadne Bridgestock, sitting at one of the tables by herself. She looked very pretty in a dark green gown, her black hair held back by a yellow silk bandeau. “I’ve no idea,” she said. “Has she ever mentioned the Ruelle before?”

“No. We hardly talk,” said Grace. “I am keeping rather too many secrets to be anyone’s confidante right now.”

“We ought to go speak to her, don’t you think?”

“We ought to go find Malcolm,” said Grace. “We can’t keep him waiting—Lucie!”

For Lucie was already halfway across the room. She slid into a chair across from Ariadne, who looked up in surprise as she recognized her visitor. “Lucie, dear. I heard you frequented this place.”

“‘Frequented’ seems an exaggeration,” Lucie said. “But what of you? What brings you tonight?”

Ariadne tucked a dark curl behind her ear. “Everyone made it sound so exciting. Since my engagement ended, I’ve realized how—restricted—my life has been. I’ve seen so very little, even of London.”

Lucie smiled to herself; though Ariadne was looking at her with sincerity, she couldn’t help but wonder how much this interest in the Ruelle had to do with a certain blue-eyed Lightwood. “It’s quite a quiet night this evening. You may not be seeing the Ruelle at its liveliest.”

Ariadne shrugged philosophically. “Well, I can always come another time.” She looked around. “I was hoping to see the famous Hypatia Vex, at least, but she isn’t here either.”

“She’s opening her new magic shop in Limehouse soon.”

“And the rumor is she’s got a new admirer. One of the werewolves told me. I hope you girls have a good time,” she added, with a glance toward Grace, “and if you haven’t tried absinthe before, you might want to start with a very little bit.”

Lucie thanked Ariadne for the advice and returned to the main part of the room to find Grace examining a guillotine that had been brought in, minus its blade, and propped next to a marble bust of a beheaded man. “How odd,” Lucie said, eyeing the statue. “A bust without a head is really more just a neck, isn’t it?”

“Thank goodness you’re back,” said Grace. “Can we go meet the warlock now?”

The door to Fade’s office, at the end of the narrow corridor, was ajar. Lucie pushed it open with her gloved fingertips; inside, Malcolm Fade sat in a brocade chair gazing thoughtfully into the glowing fireplace, an unlit burled-wood pipe in his hand.

He glanced over at them. There were lines of tension around his eyes and mouth. Lucie had always thought he looked young, twenty-four or -five perhaps, but at the moment it was impossible to put an age to his face. His dark amethyst eyes regarded them coolly.

“Come in,” he said. “And lock the door behind you.”

They did as he asked before taking their seats, side by side on a tapestry sofa.

“Did you get the information from the Adamant Citadel?” Malcolm asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

“Yes,” Grace said, her gray eyes serious. “I can tell you about Annabel. But you may not like it.”

“Yes, well, you might not like everything that I know either,” he replied, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t worth knowing.”

“I’m not sure I should tell it to you,” Grace said, without emotion. “It is often true that people resent the bearer of bad news.”

“Grace,” Lucie hissed. “This is why we’re here.”

“Perhaps you should listen to Miss Herondale,” Malcolm told Grace. “I shall tell you one thing I know: I know who it is you’re trying to raise from the dead. It’s your brother, isn’t it? Jesse Blackthorn. I should have recalled the story earlier. He died receiving his first rune. A tragedy, but not one unheard-of among the Nephilim. What makes you think it entitles him to another chance at life?”

“My brother is not fully dead,” Grace said, and Lucie looked at her in surprise: there was real emotion in her words. “My mother preserved his body using dark magic. Now he is trapped between life and death, unable to experience either the joy of living or the release of dying. He hovers between two worlds. I have never heard of anyone else forced to endure such a torment.”

Malcolm did not look entirely surprised. “I had heard there might be a warlock involved in that story. That Tatiana Blackthorn had hired someone to assist her in—unorthodox magic.”

This was not news to Lucie. She recalled the first time Jesse had told her about his death, and what had happened after. I know she brought a warlock into the room in the hours after I died, to preserve and to safeguard my physical body. My soul was cut free to wander between the real world and the spirit realm.

It had not occurred to her, though, that Malcolm would be aware of it, or know which warlock Tatiana had hired. And the warlock who had preserved Jesse, who had arranged for him to remain in this half-alive state—well, who better to know how to bring him back?

“Which warlock?” she demanded. “Do you know?”

Malcolm templed his fingers. “We had an agreement,” he said. “Tell me what you know of Annabel. Then we will discuss what I know, and not before.”

Grace hesitated.

“If what you need to tell me is that Annabel wishes to hear nothing from me, then say it,” said Malcolm. His voice was calm, but his face was strained, his fingertips pressed so hard together they had gone white. “You think I have not already thought of that, resigned myself to it? Hope is a prison, truth the key that unlocks it. Tell me.”

Grace was breathing very fast, as if she had been running up a hill. “You wanted to know what news I have from my mother, from the Adamant Citadel?” she said to Malcolm. “Well, here it is: she is dead. Annabel Blackthorn is dead. She was never an Iron Sister.”

Malcolm flinched back in his chair, as if he’d been shot. It was very clear he had been braced to hear one thing—that Annabel wanted nothing to do with him—and entirely unprepared for this. “What did you say?”

“She never became an Iron Sister,” Grace repeated. “That was a lie you were told, to let you believe she still lived, to make you think she didn’t want to be with you. Nearly a hundred years ago, the Clave tortured her until she was nearly mad—they planned to ship her to the Citadel to rave out her remaining days. But her family murdered her before she ever arrived there. They murdered her because she loved you.”

Malcolm didn’t move, but the blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving him a living statue with burning eyes. Lucie had never seen anyone look quite like that—as if they had been dealt a mortal blow but had not yet fallen. “I do not believe you,” he said, his hand closing tightly around his pipe. “They—they could not have lied to me about this. About her.” There was an intonation to Malcolm’s voice when he said “her” that Lucie knew: it was the way her own father spoke of her mother. As if there could be no other “her.” “And how could you know what happened? No one would tell you these things, or tell them to your mother.”