Every Exquisite Thing (Ghosts of the Shadow Market #3)

Ariadne laughed aloud. “You didn’t like him?”

“I didn’t know him,” Anna said. “He was, quite literally, a worm.”

Clearly, Ariadne didn’t know that much about the Lightwoods. Usually, when one’s demon-loving relative develops a serious case of demon pox and turns into a giant worm with massive teeth, word gets around. People will talk.

“Yes,” Anna said, now examining the gilded edge of a writing desk. “He ate one of my uncles.”

“You are funny,” Ariadne said to Anna.

“I’m glad you think so,” Anna replied.

“Your brother’s eyes are quite extraordinary,” Ariadne noted.

Anna heard this a good deal. Christopher’s eyes were lavender in color.

“Yes,” Anna said. “He’s the good-looking one in the family.”

“I quite disagree!” Ariadne exclaimed, looking surprised. “Gentlemen must compliment you all the time on the shade of your eyes.”

She blushed and looked down, and Anna’s heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t possible, she told herself. There was simply no chance that the Inquisitor’s beautiful daughter was . . . like her. That she would look at another girl’s eyes and note their color as lovely instead of simply asking her what fabrics she wore to bring out their shade best.

“I’m afraid I am quite behind on my training,” Ariadne said. “Perhaps we could . . . train together?”

“Yes,” Anna said, maybe too quickly. “Yes . . . of course. If you . . .”

“You may find me clumsy.” Ariadne twisted her hands together.

“I’m sure I won’t,” Anna said. “But that is the point of training, in any case. It is a delicate thing, training, despite the obvious violence, of course.”

“You will have to be delicate with me, then,” Ariadne said, very softly.

Just as Anna thought she might faint, the doors opened and Inquisitor Bridgestock came in, with Cecily, Gabriel and Christopher in tow. The Lightwoods looked vaguely exhausted. Anna was conscious of her mother’s eyes on her—a sharp and thoughtful look.

“. . . and we have our map collection . . . ah. Ariadne. Still in here, of course. Ariadne is a fiendish reader.”

“Absolutely fiendish.” Ariadne smiled. “Anna and I were just discussing my training. I thought it would be sensible to partner with another girl.”

“Very sensible,” Bridgestock said. “Yes. A very good idea. You shall be partners. Anyway, Lightwood, we’ll look at the maps at some point. Now, Ariadne, come into the parlor. I’d like you to play the piano for our guests.”

Ariadne looked up at Anna.

“Partners,” she said.

“Partners,” Anna replied.

It was only on the way home that Anna realized that Ariadne had asked her to the library and not shown her a single book.





“Did you like young Ariadne Bridgestock?” said Cecily, as the Lightwoods’ carriage rumbled home through the dark streets of the city.

“I thought her very amiable,” said Anna, looking out the window at London sparkling in the vast night. She longed to be out there among the earthbound stars, walking in the streets of Soho, living a life of music and adventure and dancing. “Very pretty, too.”

Cecily tucked a stray lock of hair back behind her daughter’s ear. In surprise, Anna looked at her mother for a moment—there was a little sadness in Cecily’s eyes, though she couldn’t have guessed why. Perhaps she was simply tired after being bored by the Inquisitor all night. Papa, for instance, was quite asleep in the other corner of the carriage, and Christopher was leaning against him, blinking drowsily. “She isn’t nearly as pretty as you.”

“Mother,” Anna said in exasperation, and turned back to the carriage window.





Under the arches of the railway viaduct, near the south end of London Bridge, a large gathering was taking place.

It was midsummer, so the sun set over London at nearly ten o’clock. This meant the time to sell at the Shadow Market was reduced, and the whole place had a bit of a frenzied air. There was steam and smoke and flapping silks. Hands reached out, shoving wares under shoppers’ noses—gems and trinkets, books, pendants, powders, oils, games and toys for Downworlder children, and items that could not be classified. There was a hum of smells. The tang of the river and the smoke from the trains overhead mixed the remains of the day’s produce from the mundane market—squashed produce, bits of meat, the odor wafting from oyster barrels. Vendors burned incense, which tangled with spices and perfumes. The miasma could be overpowering.

Brother Zachariah moved through the crush of stalls, immune to the smells and the crowding. Many Downworlders drew back at the approach of the Silent Brother. He had been coming here for weeks now to meet Ragnor Fell. Tonight, he also glanced around to see if he spotted the vendor he had seen on one of his previous visits. The stall he was looking for could move on its own; it had feet like a chicken. The woman behind it was an elderly fairy woman with a wild mass of hair. She sold colorful potions, and Matthew Fairchild had purchased one and given it to his mother. It had taken all of Jem’s efforts to bring Charlotte back from death’s door. She had not been the same since, nor had Matthew.

The stall was not present tonight, nor, it seemed, was Ragnor. He was about to take a final turn around the Market before departing when he saw someone he knew bent over a stall of books. The man had a shock of white hair and striking purple eyes. It was Malcolm Fade.

“Is that you, James Carstairs?” he said.

How are you, my friend?

Malcolm simply smiled. There was always something a little sad about Malcolm: Jem had heard gossip about a tragic love affair with a Shadowhunter who had chosen to be an Iron Sister rather than be with the one she loved. Jem knew that for some, the Law was more important than love. Even as he was now, he could not understand it. He would have given anything to be with the one he loved.

Anything except that which was more sacred than Jem’s own life: Tessa’s life, or Will’s.

“How goes your quest?” said Malcolm. “Has Ragnor turned up any information for you about a certain demon you’ve been seeking?”

Jem gave Malcolm a quelling look; he preferred that not too many people knew of the quest he had undertaken.

“Malcolm! I have the book you wanted!” A warlock woman carrying a book bound in yellow velvet strode up to Malcolm.

“Thank you, Leopolda,” said Malcolm.

The woman stared at Jem’s face. Jem was used to this. Though he was a Silent Brother, his lips and eyes had not been sewn shut. He did not see or speak as humans did, but the fact that without runes he could have done so seemed to distress some people more than the sight of a Silent Brother who had bound himself less reluctantly to the quiet dark.

We have not met.

“No,” the woman replied. “We have not. My name is Leopolda Stain. I make a visit here from Vienna.”

She had a German accent and a soft, purring voice.

“This is Brother Zachariah,” Malcolm said.

She nodded. There was no hand extended, but she continued to stare.

“You must forgive me,” she said. “We do not often see Silent Brothers in our Market. London is a strange place to me. The Market in Vienna is not so bustling. It is in the Wienerwald, under the trees. Here, you are under this railway. It is quite a different experience.”

“Zachariah is not quite like other Silent Brothers,” said Malcolm.

Leopolda seemed to conclude the study she was making of Jem’s face and smiled.

“I must bid you a good night,” she said. “It is good to see you, Malcolm. It has been too long, mein Liebling. Too long. And it has been most interesting to meet you, James Carstairs. Auf Wiedersehen.”

She slipped away through the crowd. Jem watched her go. She had decided to call him James Carstairs, not Brother Zachariah, and the choice seemed deliberate. There were certainly many denizens of Downworld who knew his Shadowhunter name—it was no secret—but suddenly Jem felt like a butterfly under a pin, caught in the gaze of the lepidopterist.