Whoosh. Grace had upended the packet into the cauldron. A flash of flame licked toward the ceiling, then a puff of smoke. It smelled of vinegar. “You don’t have to tell me. I’m sure Cordelia is not fond of me.”

“I’m not going to discuss Cordelia with you,” said Lucie, coughing a little.

“Well, I wouldn’t like me, if I were her,” said Grace. “But we don’t have to discuss anything. I didn’t ask you here for chitchat.”

She gazed down at the cauldron. Fog and smoke collided together in the little room, surrounding Grace with a nebulous halo. Lucie rubbed her own gloved hands together, her heart beating quickly as Grace began to speak: “Hic mortui vivunt. Igni ferroque, ex silentio, ex animo. Ex silentio, ex animo! Resurget!”

As Grace chanted, the concoction began to boil more rapidly, the flames beginning to hiss, rising higher and higher, reaching the cauldron. A bit of the mixture bubbled over the side of the cauldron, splattering onto the ground. Lucie instinctively jumped back as green stalks burst out of the ground, growing stems and leaves and buds as they shot up almost as high as her knees.

“It’s working!” she gasped. “It’s really working!”

A quick spasm of delight passed over Grace’s normally expressionless face. She started toward the coffin, and Jesse—

As quickly as they had sprung up, the blooms withered and dropped from the stems. It was like seeing time itself speed faster. Lucie watched helplessly as the leaves fell away, and the stalks dried and crackled and snapped under their own weight.

Grace stood frozen, staring down at the dead flowers lying in the dirt. She glanced at the coffin—but Jesse had not moved.

Of course he had not moved.

Grace’s shoulders were stiff with disappointment.

“I’ll ask Christopher for fresher samples next time,” Lucie said. “Or more powerful reagents. There has to be something we’re not getting right.”

Grace went to stand over her brother’s coffin. She placed the palm of her hand against the glass. Her lips moved, as if she were whispering something; Lucie could not tell what. “The problem isn’t the quality of the ingredients,” she said in a cold, small voice. “The problem is that we’re relying too much on science. Activators, reagents—science is woefully limited when it comes to feats like the one we are attempting.”

“How would you know?”

Grace looked at her coldly. “I know you think I’m stupid because I never had any tutoring,” she said, “but I did manage to read a few books while I was in Idris. In fact, I made it through most of the library.”

Lucie had to admit that Grace was at least partially right—she’d had no idea Grace was interested in reading, or in anything really besides torturing men and raising Jesse from the dead. “If we don’t rely on science, what are you proposing?”

“The obvious. Magic.” Grace spoke as if she were instructing a child. “Not this—this child’s play, working spells we got from a book my mother didn’t even bother to keep hidden.” She practically spat the words with contempt. “We must draw power from the only place it can be found.”

Lucie swallowed. “You mean necromancy. Taking power from death and using it to work magic on the dead.”

“Some would consider that kind of magic evil. But I call it necessary.”

“Well, I would call it evil,” Lucie said, unable to keep her frustration from her voice. Grace seemed to have come to a decision without her, which was definitely not in the spirit of their partnership. “And I don’t want to do evil things.”

Grace shook her head dismissively, as though Lucie was making a fuss over nothing. “We must speak to a necromancer about this.”

Lucie hugged her elbows. “A necromancer? Surely not. The Clave would forbid it even if we could find one.”

“And there’s a reason for that,” Grace retorted sharply, gathering up her skirts. She seemed ready to stalk out of the shed. “What we have to do is not altogether good. Not … the way most people think of good, at any rate. But you already knew that, Lucie, so you can stop pretending to be so much better than me.”

“Grace, no.” Lucie moved to block the door. “I don’t want that, and I don’t think Jesse would want that either. Could we not speak to a warlock? Someone the Clave trusts?”

“The Clave may trust them, but I do not.” Grace’s eyes burned. “I decided we should work together because Jesse seemed to like you. But you have known my brother very little time, and never when he was alive. You are hardly an expert. I am his sister, and I will bring him back—whatever I need to do, and however I need to do it. Do you understand, Lucie?” Grace took a deep breath. “It is time to decide whether you care more about the precious sanctity of your own life than you care about giving my brother back his.”

* * *

Cordelia Carstairs winced as Risa fixed the tortoiseshell comb more tightly in place. It anchored a heavy coil of dark red hair, which the lady’s maid had convinced her to put up in an elaborate style she promised was very popular.

“You needn’t go to all this trouble tonight,” Cordelia had protested. “It’s just a sledding party. My hair’s going to end up a mess no matter how many pins and combs you poke into it.”

Risa’s disapproving look had prevailed. Cordelia assumed she felt that her charge should be making an effort to look good for her fiancé. After all, Cordelia was marrying James Herondale, a catch by any standards of society, Shadowhunter or mundane—handsome, rich, well-connected, and kind.

There was no point in saying that it didn’t matter how she looked. James wouldn’t care if she showed up in an opera gown, or stark naked for that matter. But there was nothing to be gained in trying to explain that to Risa. In fact, it was much too risky to explain it to anyone.

“Dokhtare zibaye man, tou ayeneh khodet ra negah kon,” said Risa, holding up a silver hand mirror for Cordelia. My beautiful daughter, look in the glass.

“It looks lovely, Risa,” Cordelia had to admit. The pearl combs were striking against her dark ruby hair. “But how will you ever top this tomorrow?”

Risa just winked. At least someone was looking forward to the next day, Cordelia thought. Every time she thought about her wedding, she wanted to jump out of the window.

Tomorrow she would sit for the last time in this room, while her mother and Risa wove silk flowers into her long, heavy hair. Tomorrow she would have to appear as happy a bride as she was an elaborately dressed one. Tomorrow, if Cordelia was very lucky, most of her wedding guests would be distracted by her clothes. One could always hope.

Risa smacked her lightly on the shoulder. Cordelia rose obediently, taking one last deep breath before Risa tightened the laces of her corset, pushing her breasts up and straightening her spine. The nature of the corset, Cordelia thought irritably, was to make a woman aware of every minute way that her shape differed from society’s impossible ideal.

“Enough!” she protested as the whalebone stays cut into her skin. “I did hope to eat at the party, you know.”

Risa rolled her eyes. She held up a green velvet dress and Cordelia stepped into it. Risa guided the long, fitted sleeves up her arms, adjusting the frothy white lace at the cuffs and neckline. Then came the process of fastening each of the tiny buttons that ran up the back of the dress. The fit was snug; without the corset Cordelia would never have managed it. The Herondale ring, the visible sign of her engagement, gleamed on her left hand as she lifted her arm so that Risa could arrange Cortana across her back.