Ghosts of the Shadow Market

by Cassandra Clare

  “We ran into Inquisitor Bridgestock while we were walking,” she said. “The Bridgestocks have just arrived from Idris. They’ve asked us to dine with them this evening.”

  “Dinner with the Inquisitor,” Anna said. “What a thrilling way to spend an evening.”

  “It is necessary,” her mother said simply. “We must go. Can you keep an eye on Christopher while we are talking? Make sure he doesn’t set anything on fire. Or anyone.”

  “Yes,” Anna said automatically, “of course.”

  It would be a dreadful affair. Clave business accompanied by overcooked beef. There were so many other things she could be doing on a fine summer night in London. What if she could walk the streets, finely dressed, a beautiful girl on her arm?

  Someday, the lady would not be imaginary. The clothes would not be borrowed and ill-fitting. Someday she would stride down the street and women would fall at her feet (not failing to notice her perfectly polished brogues) and men would tip their hats to a lady-killer more accomplished than they.

  Just not tonight.

  * * *

  It was still sunny when the Lightwood family got into their carriage that evening. There were costermongers out and flower sellers and bootblacks . . . and so many lovely girls, walking in their light summer dresses. Did they know how lovely they were? Did they look at Anna and see the way she looked at them?

  Her brother Christopher bumped gently against her as they rode.

  “This seems like a long route to the Institute,” he noted.

  “We’re not going to the Institute,” Anna said.

  “Aren’t we?”

  “We’re having dinner with the Inquisitor,” her father said.

  “Oh,” Christopher said. And with that, he was off in his own thoughts, as ever—inventing something in his mind, working out a calculation. In this, Anna felt close to her brother. They were both somewhere else in their minds at all times.

  The Bridgestocks lived in Fitzrovia, just off Cavendish Square. Theirs was a fine three-across town house. The paint on the shiny black door looked like it could have still been wet, and there were electric lights outside. A servant showed them into a dark and close reception room where the Inquisitor and his wife greeted them. They took little notice of Anna except to say what a charming young lady she was. She and Christopher sat politely on stiff chairs and added a decorative element to a dreary occasion.

  The dinner gong finally sounded, and everyone shuffled through to the dining room. Anna and Christopher were seated at the far end of the table, and there was an empty place set across from her. Anna ate her asparagus soup and stared at a painting of a ship on the wall. The ship was in the throes of a storm, the masts on fire, and on the verge of disintegrating into the sea.

  “Did you hear they are building a Portal in the Gard?” the Inquisitor asked Anna’s parents.

  “Oh dear,” Mrs. Bridgestock said, shaking her head, “is that a good idea? What if it were to let demons through?”

  Anna envied the ship in the painting and all who sank in her.

  “Of course,” the Inquisitor droned on, “there’s also the matter of money. The Consul has rejected the proposal to create an official currency of Idris. A wise decision. Very wise. As I was saying earlier—”

  “I’m so sorry for my lateness,” said a voice.

  In the doorway of the dining room stood a girl, probably Anna’s age, in a midnight-blue dress. Her hair was jet-black, like Anna’s, but fuller, more luxurious, deep as night sky against her soft brown skin. But what captured Anna were her eyes—eyes the color of topaz—large, the lashes thick.

  “Ah,” the Inquisitor said. “This is our daughter, Ariadne. These are the Lightwoods.”

  “I was meeting my tutor,” Ariadne said as a servant pulled out her chair. “We were delayed. I do apologize. It sounds like I came in just as you were debating the new currency. Shadowhunters are an international group. We must blend seamlessly with many international economies. Having our own currency would be a disaster.”

  On that, she plucked up her napkin and turned to Anna and Christopher and smiled.

  “We have not met,” she said.

  Anna had to force herself to swallow, then to breathe. Ariadne was something beyond the realm of humanity or Shadowhunter. The Angel himself must have made her.

  “Anna Lightwood,” Anna said.

  Christopher was pushing peas onto the back of his fork, unaware that a goddess had seated herself across from him.

  “And this is my brother Christopher. He can be a bit distracted.”

  She gave him a nudge.

  “Oh,” he said, noticing Ariadne. “I’m Christopher.”

  Even Christopher, now that he had seen Ariadne, could not help but be mesmerized by her. He blinked, taking in the sight.

  “You’re . . . you’re not English, are you?”

  Anna died several deaths inside, but Ariadne simply laughed.

  “I was born in Bombay,” she said. “My parents ran the Bombay Institute until they were killed. I was adopted by the Bridgestocks in Idris.”

  She spoke very plainly, in the tone of someone who has long accepted a set of facts.

  “What killed your parents?” Christopher asked conversationally.

  “A group of Vetis demons,” Ariadne said.

  “Oh! I knew someone at the Academy that was killed by a Vetis demon!”

  “Christopher,” Anna said.

  “You go to the Academy?” Ariadne asked.

  “Not anymore. I caused one of the wings to explode.” Christopher took a bread roll from a plate and happily began buttering it.

  Anna looked at the painting of the ship again, trying to will herself onto the deck and then into the black, pitiless waters. The most lovely girl in the world had just walked into her life and in thirty seconds her dear brother had managed to bring up the death of her family, a death at school, and the fact that he had blown up part of the Academy.

  But Ariadne was not looking at Christopher, even as he inadvertently placed his elbow into the butter dish.

  “Have you caused any explosions?” she asked Anna.

  “Not yet,” Anna replied. “But the evening is young.”

  Ariadne laughed, and Anna’s soul sang. She reached over and lifted her brother’s elbow from the butter, never taking her gaze from Ariadne. Did she know how beautiful she was? Did she know her eyes were the color of liquid gold, and that songs could be written about the way she turned out her wrist to reach for her glass?

  Anna had seen beautiful girls before. She had even seen a few beautiful girls who looked at her the way she looked at them. But that was always in passing. They went by on the street, or their gaze lingered a bit long in a shop. Anna had practiced the art of the prolonged stare, the one that invited them: Come. Tell me of yourself. You are lovely.

  There was something in the way Ariadne was looking at Anna that suggested . . .

  No. Anna had to be imagining it. Ariadne was being polite and attentive. She was not eyeing Anna romantically over the dinner table, over the roasted potatoes and the duck. Ariadne’s perfection had caused Anna to hallucinate.

  Ariadne continued to contribute to the conversation at the other end of the table. Anna had never been so interested in the economic policies of Idris. She would study them night and day if she could join Ariadne in discussing them.

  Every once in a while, Ariadne would turn back to Anna and look at her knowingly, her mouth twisting in a smile like a bow. And each time this happened, Anna would wonder again what was happening, and why that particular look made the room spin. Maybe she was ill. Maybe she had developed a fever from looking at Ariadne.

  The pudding came and went, and Anna vaguely remembered eating it. As the dishes were cleared and the women stood to leave the table, Ariadne came and hooked her arm through Anna’s.

  “We have quite a good library,” she said to Anna. “Perhaps I could show it to you?”

  Anna, with a show of supre
me self-control, did not immediately fall to the floor. She managed to say yes, the library, yes, she would love to see it, yes, library, yes, yes . . .

  She told herself to stop saying she wanted to see the library and looked over at her mother. Cecily smiled. “Go on, Anna. Christopher, would you mind accompanying us to the greenhouse? Mrs. Bridgestock has a collection of poisonous plants that I think you will quite enjoy.”

  Anna cast Cecily a grateful look as Ariadne led her from the room. Her head was full of Ariadne’s orange-blossom perfume and the way her tumble of dark hair was pinned up in a gold comb.

  “It’s this way,” Ariadne said, leading Anna to a set of double doors toward the back of the house. The library was dark and had a chill. Ariadne released Anna’s arm and illuminated one of the electric lights.

  “You use electricity?” Anna said. She had to say something, and that was as good a thing as any.

  “I convinced Father,” Ariadne said. “I am modern and possessed of all sorts of advanced notions.”

  The room was full of crates, and only some of the books had been unpacked and shelved. The furniture, however, had been placed. There was an ample desk, and many comfortable reading chairs.

  “We’re still settling in here,” Ariadne said, sitting herself prettily (she had no other way) on a deep red chair. Anna was too nervous to sit, and paced along the opposite side of the room. It was almost too much to look at Ariadne here in this dark, private place.

  “I understand your family has a very interesting history,” Ariadne said.

  Anna had to speak. She had to figure out a way to be around Ariadne. In her mind she donned her real clothing—the trousers, the shirt (the mental one had no stains), the fitted waistcoat. She slipped her arms through the sleeves. Thus attired, she felt confident. She managed to sit opposite Ariadne and meet her gaze.

  “My grandfather was a worm, if that’s what you mean,” Anna said.

  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.

  “It’s true,” 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.”

  Then Ariadne 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 with 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 faerie 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; neither, 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.

&nbs
p; “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.

  Can you tell me about her? he asked Malcolm, who had returned to examining the book in his hand.