Sylvain nodded. Matthew tried not to hop up and down like Oscar when presented with the opportunity of a walk. Matthew had always loved Paris, loved every inch of its cobblestoned streets, loved its grand boulevards and its narrow alleys, loved the squalid glamour of Montmartre and the indisputable elegance of Place Vendôme. It had been a long time since he had been there, though. Not since he and Cordelia—
“I think it is time to go in,” Sylvain said, tossing his still-lit cigarillo over the side of the railing. Matthew watched it fall toward the water, a tiny gleaming star. “Unless we wish to miss the performance of thejolieMademoiselle Doyle.”
Sylvain started along the promenade deck, then paused, clearly waiting for Matthew to catch up with him.Matthew joined him, trying to puzzle the beautiful French boy out in his mind. Sylvain was clearly seeking Matthew out, but was that only because most of the people onboard were either married couples or much older than them both? Sylvain had called Melody pretty, but that did not necessarily mean he was only attracted to women. Matthew knew that fact better than most.
As they passed by the bulwarks, Matthew noted two shadowed figures absorbed in conversation by the railing, the moonlight a deep glow behind them. It was, to Matthew’s surprise, two of his dinner companions, both smoking cigars. Orville Cole and Bart Morrow. The smoke that rose from the cigars was oddly herbaceous, with a strong smell of leaves. Matthew wondered what the two men could possibly find to talk about.
In the Verandah Room, an assortment of chairs, love seats, sofas, and armchairs had been pulled around to form an audience for the stage. The heavy velvet curtains were pulled back, showing a small space that usually, no doubt, featured a string quartet or a single singer. Now it was crowded with the props that made up what looked like the set ofThe Tempest—a mossy rock, a twisted tree, a painted scrim showing clouds and ocean.A strange choice of play for a sea voyage, Matthew thought.
A crowd had already gathered; Matthew and Sylvain found an unoccupied sofa, upholstered in flowery green, and occupied it, each at one end. Leaving a good distance between themselves as gentlemen ought, Matthew noted, half-amused.
Sylvain stretched an arm along the back of the sofa and turned to face Matthew. “I find people on long voyages usually travel for one of two reasons,” he said. “And you do not seem like someone who is running away. So you must be someone who is looking for something.”
“Nothing concrete,” said Matthew, after a bemused pause. “I am no adventurer in search of mythical treasure, if that’s what you’re asking.”
Sylvain smiled. Matthew got the sense he didn’t laugh often, but his smile was brilliant. It lit up his black eyes like a lamp into a dark room. “I think most of us are in search of far more mundane things.”
Peace, Matthew thought.A sense of purpose. But Sylvain was a stranger; he could not say those things to him. “So what are you in search of, then?” he inquired. “Or are you, rather, running away?”
The other boy raised an eyebrow, but did not answer— the lights in the room had begun to dim. There was movement onstage, and when the footlights came up, twoactors were revealed against the backdrop: a middle-aged man and a younger, dark-haired woman, clearly playing Prospero and Miranda. As they launched into dialogue Matthew thought again how odd it was for the actors to have selected a play that began with a violent shipwreck.
As he watched, he wished he had thought to put on a Night Vision rune. He couldn’t see the actors quite clearly enough—were they also Downworlders? Did they know what Melody was? He felt a faint flash of purely selfish annoyance; he had traveled all this way around the world without being caught up in any sort of Shadowhunter activity. It felt unfair for it to happen on the last leg of his voyage. And who really cared if Melody was a vampire? Unless she broke the Accords, which would mean murdering someone, nothing about the situation required action on his part.
The actress playing Miranda swept off stage. Prospero was monologuing now. He wasn’t very good at expressing Shakespeare, but that was not a breach of the Accords either, although privately Matthew thought it should be. A moment later Melody Doyle appeared, dressed in diaphanous rags of chiffon. So she was Ariel, the air spirit—usually the part was played by a boy, but Matthew didn’t mind the switch.
“My brave spirit!” Prospero bellowed. Matthew winced. Surely it was illegal even in Toledo to murder Shakespeare like this. “Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil would not infect his reason?”
Melody did not reply. Matthew leaned forward, a little puzzled. Surely Ariel had a line at this moment. In fact, judging from Prospero’s face, that was definitely the case.
At last, Melody said, in a breathy voice, “Not a soul but felt a fever of the mad, and played…” She paused. “And played…”
She swayed a little on her feet. Matthew exchanged a quick look with Sylvain, whose dark eyebrows were drawn together in either puzzlement or worry. “Miss Doyle,” he murmured, under his breath. “She does not seem… well.”
The room had gone awkwardly quiet. Prospero was leaning down to hiss something in Melody’s ear; a moment later, she was making her way offstage, stumbling a little, as if drunk.
Prospero swung toward the audience and launched into a long speech from an entirely different part of the play. Matthew, torn between the anguish of his artistic soul and concern for the vampire girl, wondered if he should do something. But to do something would be to reveal himself as a Shadowhunter, which did not seem wise.
A moment later, a new Ariel, this one a young man with curly hair, hurried out onto the stage. Taking a position opposite Prospero, he picked up where Melody had left off. “… played some tricks of desperation. All but mariners plunged in the foaming brine and quit the vessel, then all afire with me. The king’s son, Ferdinand,” he cried, holding his hands out to indicate the fate of the burning, sinking ship, “was the first man that leaped; cried:‘Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.’”
Matthew turned to Sylvain to reply to his comment about Melody. But the other side of the sofa was empty. Sylvain was gone.
“Veryodd,” Matthew murmured to himself, though he was not quite sure which peculiar aspect of the evening he was commenting on. “Very odd indeed.”
TWO
Matthew was dreaming of green grass and Christopher when a klaxon brought him gasping out of sleep. His nerves were screaming, heart pounding, as the clangor went on and on, but Shadowhunter reflexes had already brought him to his feet.
Matthew had often had misgivings about what the Angel Raziel had gifted to his chosen warriors. But in times like this, he was grateful. He hardly had to think as he stripped off his nightclothes, threw on a black shirt and trousers, kicked his feet into boots, and slid a dagger and a seraph blade into his belt. He left his shirt loose to cover the weapons and ran to the door of his stateroom, where Oscar was already pacing and barking anxiously.
They raced out into the corridor together. The sound of the ringing alarm bells seemed to cut through the fog of night. Matthew hastily traced a hearing rune onto his inner wrist, where the cuff of his shirt would hide it, and listened hard. Distant noises sprang into focus. He could hear past the alarm now, hear running feet on the promenade deck, voices raised in distress.
Oscar seemed to be able to hear them too. He took off, sprinting, and Matthew matched his pace. He passed Oscar on the steps, and burst out onto the deck with his dog at his heels.
The alarm had stopped ringing. It was almost a quiet night, without the sound of wind. At the far end of the promenade, Matthew could see a small group of people gathered. Several of them held lamps, which cast a moving light over the scene in front of them.
The captain was there, looking grim behind his mustache, and doing his best to hold back a curious crowd. Several of the players from the theater company were gathered around as well, including the man who had played Prospero. Matthew did not see Melody, but he did recognize Sylvain, who was kneeling by a body on the ground.
A moment later Matthew had pushed through the crowd and dropped down beside Sylvain. Only then did herecognize the man sprawled on the wood of the promenade deck. It was the American businessman, Bart Morrow, pale as death, his blank eyes rolled up to the sky. He was soaking wet, his hair and clothes choked with seawater.
