Invisible string~ Matthew Fairchild {1}

Eight

Matthew helped Amelia into the carriage, then hopped in after her. The trap jerked forward.

"So what kind of salon is this?" Asked Cordelia.

"An exclusive one," Anna replied. "One where the most famous Downworlders go to."

"I never thought of Downworlders as being interested in the arts," Cordelia said. "But I suppose there's no reason they shouldn't be. It's just things that Shadowhunters don't do. We don't create like that."

"We can, we are just discouraged from doing so," said Matthew. "Do not confuse conditioning with a native inability."

"Do you create, Matthew? Do you draw, or paint, or write?"

"I do not. But Amelia here is quite the poet."

Amelia jumped at her sudden involvement in the conversation. "Wha—"

"I stumbled upon one of your poems a while back," said Matthew. "You're quite talented."

"I didn't know you wrote poetry," said Anna thoughtfully.

"Nobody really knows," Amelia said.

"Well, I would love to read a poem of yours sometime," Anna said, flashing her cousin a smile.

"What does it mean, 'Hell Ruelle?" Cordelia asked.

Amelia smiled at the younger girl, thankful for the change in subject. "In this world, men own virtually everything, but salons are a world owned by women. Once, a woman seated and entertained her guests in her ruelle, which is the space between a lady's bed and the wall. Eventually, any artistic gathering presided over women became known informally as a ruelle."

"But doesn't Malcolm Fade own this one?"

"He owns the building," said Anna. "As for who runs it... you'll see soon enough."

"Where exactly are we going?" Cordelia asked.

"You're curious. I like that," said Amelia with a grin. "We are going to Berwick Street, in Soho."

Cordelia looked through the carriage window, and it was obvious that Soho was a place that the red haired girl had never been before. She was completely in awe, and Amelia couldn't blame her. Even after seeing Soho many times, she was still struck by its eccentric beauty; it was the home of all the artists, dreamers, people like her. It amazed her.

If she wasn't a Shadowhunter, Amelia would live right here, in the heart of creativity. Here, she could dream. She could almost see herself in the position of the people walking in the streets. Here, she would be free to do whatever she wanted. She could publish her poems for all the world to see.

The carriage jerked to a stop. Anna got out first, then Matthew, who helped Cordelia down, then Amelia. Matthew linked arms with her, leading her through the crowded neighborhood, while she was stuck in her own head.

"What are you thinking about?" Matthew asked gently.

She sighed wistfully. "What it would be like to live here."

"That would be amazing, wouldn't it? To live among the people who think like you. That would be a nice change."

"What's a lapidary?" Cordelia asked, interrupting their reverie.

"A lapidary phrase is one worth carving into stone," said Amelia.

"A wise saying," Matthew continued, "that is worth preserving forever. Such as 'we are dust and shadows,' or alternatively, any words that come out of my mouth."

"They sell... phrases?" Cordelia asked skeptically.

"Objects with phrases carved in them. For example, words of love etched into your wedding band. Or words of sorrow and regret on your grave. For my own headstone, I was hoping for something a bit more grand."