“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 upon 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, unbending. “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-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 upon 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.
“This is a love charm,” said the faerie woman, nodding to a vial filled with a delicately sparkling pink substance. “No use to you, fairest child of the Nephilim. Now this would blind your opponents in a battle.”
I imagine it would, said Brother Zachariah, studying the vial full of charcoal-colored sand.
Matthew was transparently pleased to hear about the potions. Zachariah was sure Henry’s boy had been regaled with tales of the elements over dinner time and time again.
“What’s this one?” Matthew asked, pointing to a purple vial.
“Oh, another one that would be of no interest to the Nephilim,” said the woman dismissively. “What need would you have of a potion that would make the one who took it tell you all the truth? You Shadowhunters have no secrets amongst each other, I hear. Besides which, you have that Mortal Sword to prove one of you is telling the truth. Though I call that a brutal business.”
“It is brutal,” Matthew agreed vehemently.
The faerie woman looked almost sad. “You come of a brutal people, sweet child.”
“Not me,” said Matthew. “I believe in art and beauty.”
“You might be pitiless one day, for all that.”
“No, never,” Matthew insisted. “I don’t care for Shadowhunter customs at all. I like Downworlder ways much more.”
“Ah, you flatter an old woman,” said the faerie, waving a hand, but her face wrinkled up like a pleased apple as she smiled once more. “Now come, since you are a darling boy, let me show you something very special. What would you say to a vial of distilled stars, guaranteeing the one who carried it long life?”
Enough, said the voices in Zachariah’s head.
Shadowhunters do not make bargains for their own lives, said Brother Zachariah, and towed Matthew away by his sleeve.
Matthew flailed and squawked a protest.
The woman’s potions were in all likelihood colored water and sand, said Zachariah. Do not waste your money, or make any other bargain with the fey. You must be careful at the Market. They sell heartbreak as well as dreams.
“Oh, very well,” said Matthew. “Look, Uncle Jem! That werewolf is running a book stall. Werewolves are surprisingly ardent readers, you know.”
He dashed over and began to ask artless questions of a lady werewolf in a prim dress, who was soon patting her hair and laughing at his nonsense. Brother Zachariah’s attention was suddenly arrested by the warlock he had been searching for.
Wait for me here, he told Matthew, and went to meet Ragnor Fell by the side of a fire built under one of the railway arches.
As the fire leaped, it birthed green sparks that matched the clever face of the warlock and lit his snowy white hair, curling around the sterner curl of his horns.
“Brother Zachariah,” he said, nodding. “A pleasure, but I wish I had better news for you. Ah well. Bad news comes like rain and good news like lightning, barely seen before a crash.”
A cheerful thought, said Brother Zachariah, his heart sinking.
“I went to several sources about the information you asked for,” said Ragnor. “I have a lead, but I have to tell you—I was warned that this quest might prove fatal: that it has already proved fatal to more than one person. Do you truly want me to follow up on the lead?”
I do, said Brother Zachariah.
He had hoped for more. When he had met Tessa on the bridge that year, she had seemed concerned as she talked to him. It had been a gray day. The wind had blown her brown hair back from the face that trouble could touch as time could not. Sometimes it seemed like her face was all the heart he had left. He could not do much for her, but he had once promised to spend his life guarding her from the very wind from heaven.
He intended to keep his word in that at least.
Ragnor Fell nodded. “I will keep searching.”
So will I, said Brother Zachariah.
Ragnor’s face changed to a look of deep alarm. Brother Zachariah turned and beheld Matthew, who had wandered back to the faerie woman’s stall of potions.
Matthew! Brother Zachariah called. Come here.
Matthew nodded and came reluctantly forward, smoothing his waistcoat.
The look of alarm on Ragnor’s face deepened. “Why is he coming over? Why would you do this to me? I had always considered you one of the more sensible Shadowhunters, not that this is saying much!”
Brother Zachariah studied Ragnor. It was unusual to see the warlock rattled, and he was usually very discreet and professional.
I thought you had a long and cherished history of mutual esteem with the Fairchilds, said Brother Zachariah.
“Oh, certainly,” said Ragnor. “And I have a long and cherished history of not getting blown up.”
What? asked Zachariah.
The mystery was explained when Matthew caught sight of Ragnor and beamed.
“Oh, hello, Professor Fell.” He glanced in Jem’s direction. “Professor Fell taught me at the Academy before I was expelled. Very expelled.”
Jem had been aware that James had been expelled, but he had not known Matthew was too. He had thought Matthew had simply chosen to follow his parabatai, as anyone would if they could.
“Is your friend with you?” asked Ragnor Fell, and twitched. “Is Christopher Lightwood upon the premises? Is our Market shortly to be engulfed in flames?”
“No,” Matthew said, sounding amused. “Christopher is at home.”
“At home in Idris?”
“In the Lightwoods’ London home, but it is far away.”
“Not far enough!” decided Ragnor Fell. “I shall decamp to Paris forthwith.”
He nodded at Brother Zachariah, visibly shuddered at Matthew, and turned away. Matthew waved forlornly after him.
“Good-bye, Professor Fell!” he called. He looked up at Brother Zachariah. “Christopher did not mean to cause any of the accidents, and the large explosion was entirely my fault.”
I see, said Brother Zachariah.
Brother Zachariah was not sure he did see.
“You must know Gideon quite well,” Matthew remarked, his quicksilver mind flashing onto another topic.