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

“Do sit and join us,” the woman said. “I am Leopolda Stain.”

Most of the people around Leopolda seemed to be fawning mundanes, like the group around Woolsey Scott. One man wore a black robe covered in symbols Anna did not recognize. Matthew and Anna sat down on the rug, against a pile of tasseled pillows that served as a sofa. Next to them was a woman wearing a gold turban scarf pinned with a sapphire.

“Are you two of The Chosen?” she asked Matthew and Anna.

“Certainly,” Matthew said.

“Ah. I could tell from the way Leopolda reacted to you. She is quite wonderful, is she not? She is from Vienna and knows simply everyone—Freud, Mahler, Klimt, Schiele . . .”

“Marvelous,” Matthew said. He probably did think it was marvelous—Matthew adored art, and artists.

“She’s going to help us,” the woman said. “Obviously, we’ve had such troubles here. Why, Crowley wasn’t even recognized here in London! He had to go to the Ahathoor Temple in Paris to be initiated to the grade of Adeptus Minor, which I’m sure you heard about.”

“The moment it happened,” Matthew lied.

Anna bit her lip and looked down to keep herself from laughing. It was always amusing to meet mundanes who had fantastical notions of how magic worked. Leopolda, she noticed, was smiling indulgently at the entire group, like they were adorable but somewhat dimwitted children.

“Well,” the woman continued, “I was an Adept of the Isis-Urania temple, and I can assure you that I was adamant that—”

This was interrupted by a man standing in the middle of the room and raising a glass of something green.

“My friends!” he said. “I demand that we remember Oscar. You must raise your glasses!”

There was a general noise of agreement, and glasses were raised. The man began to recite Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol.” Anna was struck by one of the stanzas:

Some love too little, some too long,

Some sell, and others buy;

Some do the deed with many tears,

And some without a sigh:

For each man kills the thing he loves,

Yet each man does not die.

She didn’t quite know what it meant, but the spirit of it haunted her. It seemed to have an even more pointed effect on Matthew, who slumped down.

“It is a rotten world that would allow a man like Wilde to die,” Matthew said. There was a hardness in his voice that was new, and a bit alarming.

“You’re sounding a bit dire,” Anna said.

“It’s true,” he replied. “Our greatest poet, and he died in poverty and obscurity, not so long ago. They threw him in jail because he loved another man. I do not think love can be wrong.”

“No,” Anna said. She had always known that she loved women the way she was expected to love men. That she found women beautiful and desirable, while men were good friends, brothers-in-arms, but nothing more. She had never pretended otherwise, and her close friends all seemed to accept this about her as a known fact.

But it was true that though Matthew and the others often joked with her about slaying the hearts of pretty girls, it was not something she and her mother had ever talked about. She recalled her mother touching her hair fondly in the carriage. What did Cecily truly think of her odd daughter?

Not now, she told herself. She turned to the woman in the turban, who had been trying to get her attention. “Yes?”

“My dear,” the woman said. “You must be sure to be here in a week’s time. The faithful will be rewarded, I promise you. The ancient ones, so long hidden from us, shall be revealed.”

“Of course,” Anna said, blinking. “Yes. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

While she was simply making conversation, Anna found that she would like to return to this place. She had come here dressed as she was, and she had received only approbation. In fact, she was sure that one of the vampire girls was examining her with a look that was not entirely wholesome. And Leopolda, the beautiful warlock, had not taken her eyes from Anna. Had Anna’s mind and soul not been full of Ariadne . . .

Well, it could only be left to the imagination.





As Matthew and Anna left the house that night, they did not notice a figure across the street, standing in the shadows.

Jem recognized Matthew at once, but was confused at first as to who was with him. The person resembled his parabatai, Will Herondale—not Will as he was now, but Will at seventeen, with his confident swagger and upturned chin. But that could not be. And the person was obviously not James, Will’s son.

It took him several minutes to realize that the young man was not a young man at all. It was Anna Lightwood, Will’s niece. She had inherited the dark hair and the profile from the Herondale side of her family, and clearly, she had inherited her uncle’s swagger. For a moment, Jem felt a pang in his heart. It was like seeing his friend as a young man again, as the two of them had been when they lived at the Institute together and fought side by side, as they had been when Tessa Gray first arrived at their door.

Was it really so long ago?

Jem shook the thought loose and focused on the present. Anna was in some sort of disguise, and she and Matthew had just been at a Downworlder gathering with a warlock he had come to observe. He had no idea what they were doing there.





A full week passed. A full week of Anna running for the post, looking from the window, walking partway to Cavendish Square before turning back. A lifetime. It was agony, and just as it was turning to acceptance, Anna was called downstairs early Friday morning to find Ariadne waiting for her in a yellow dress and a white hat.

“Good morning,” Ariadne said. “Why aren’t you ready?”

“Ready?” Anna said, her throat gone dry at the sudden appearance of Ariadne.

“To train!”

“I—”

“Good morning, Ariadne!” Cecily Lightwood said, coming in with Alexander.

“Oh!” Ariadne’s eyes lit up when she saw the baby. “Oh, I must hold him—I simply adore babies.”

The appearance of Alexander bought Anna enough time to scramble upstairs, catch her breath, splash water on her face, and collect her gear. Five minutes later, Anna was seated next to Ariadne in the Bridgestock carriage, rumbling toward the Institute. They were alone now, close to each other in the warm carriage. The smell of Ariadne’s orange-blossom perfume wafted up and wrapped around Anna.

“Did I disturb you?” Ariadne said. “I had simply hoped . . . that you might be free to train with me . . .” She looked worried. “I hope I did not presume. Are you angry?”

“No,” Anna replied. “I could never be angry with you.”

Anna tried to make it sound light, but a husky note of truth rang through.

“Good.” Ariadne looked radiantly pleased at that and crossed her hands on her lap. “I would hate to displease you.”

When they arrived at the Institute, Anna changed much more quickly than Ariadne. She waited in the training room, nervously pacing, taking knives from the walls and throwing them to steady her nerves.

Just training. Simple training.

“You have a good arm,” Ariadne said.

Ariadne was stunning in her dresses; the gear revealed something else. She was still feminine, with her long hair and lush curves, but unencumbered by pounds of fabric, she moved with grace and speed.

“How would you like to begin?” Anna said. “Do you have a preferred weapon? Or should we do some climbing? Work on the beam?”

“Whatever you think is best,” Ariadne replied.

“Shall we start with blades?” Anna said, taking one from the wall.

Whatever Ariadne had been doing in Idris, it did not involve much training. She had been accurate in that. When she threw, her arm was weak. Anna came up and guided her, forcing herself to maintain her composure as she took Ariadne’s hand in hers and guided the toss. She was surprisingly good at climbing, but once on the ceiling beam, she took a bad tumble. Anna jumped underneath and caught her neatly.