[cw: blood & injury, ptsd flashbacks]

The great thing about designing and making your own clothes is that you can make them look and feel however you want. If you want to design your dresses so they have more concealed pockets than your average gear jacket and can be work sans corset without anyone noticing, you can do just that. If you want to make a ballgown where you can put the whole ensemble on without help, and take it off without help, you can do that, too.

This way, Sydney can stash a bar of chocolate down the bodice of her dress, so she's got caffeine and sugar around when she starts nodding off. She should probably abandon this shindig and go to bed. Eh. Fuck sleep.

As a general rule, Sydney doesn't much enjoy the social aspect of these functions. She likes to talk, sure, but the chatter common to these events, not so much. She loves to dance, however, and that more than makes up for it. Or at least, it used to. She's glad this is London. If it were Romania, she'd be lucky if she even got an invitation to the ball.

No pitying glances, at least, it seems the news hasn't spread as far as London yet.

Lucie approaches the girls at the edge of the dance floor, bringing with her a statuesque redhead in an utterly horrid lilac dress. Even before Lucie introduces her, Sydney knows she's Cordelia Carstairs. Sydney wasn't able to be at Cornwall Gardens when the Carstairs family arrived. She had conveniently been in the Institute library, comparing accounts of Zeus's varying shenanigans to those of the Zmeul Zmeilor, in order to avoid having to put up a facade of not liking Alastair Carstairs, who she doesn't actually hate. She had then not-so-conveniently passed out from Portal lag and general lack of sleep. Papa had found her and carried her to bed like a four-year-old. Fortunately, if he looked at Sydney's research, he found nothing suspicious in it.

"What a pretty dress," says Ariadne, pulling Sydney from her memories. "I believe that's the shade they call 'ashes of roses.' Very popular in Paris."

"Oh, yes," says Cordelia. "I did get this dress in Paris, as a matter of fact. On Rue de la Paix. Jeanne Paquin made it herself."

Rosamund Wentworth's lips thin out, and Sydney realizes that Cordelia has stepped in it quite elegantly.

"How fortunate you are," Rosamund says. "Most of us here in the poky little London Enclave rarely get to travel abroad. You must think us so dull."

"Oh," says Cordelia. "No, not at all -"

"My mother has aways said Shadowhunters aren't meant to have much of an interest in fashion," says Catherine Townsend. "She says it's mundane."

"And yet," Sydney interrupts, "Matthew and I remain popular."

"Do you?" Rosamund says icily. "You're hardly ever here."

Sydney just barely manages to not wince.

"You must be Sydney Herondale," says Cordelia, likely covering for her by accident.

"Da. And you're Cordelia Carstairs, right?"

"Yes. I'm very pleased to meet you. Lucie was telling me you just returned from a year of tour in Romania."

"Da. Targovishte, in Wallachia, specifically."

"I think that I would like to have a tour year, but I doubt Maman will let me. She would think it improper."

"Well, don't look at me. I perused archives of collected vampire scholarship and lost a duel to which I had been informally challenged."

"What were you doing in the company of vampire scholars?"

"Research."

"On what?"

"Dragons. The mythological kind, not Draconidae demons."

"Daisy?" James interrupts, addressing Cordelia. "Would you like to dance?"

Cordelia looks...well, Sydney can only describe it as starstruck or stunned.

"I don't," says Cordelia, "quite know how to waltz."

"Then I shall teach you," says James, and he whirls Cordelia out onto the floor.

Left alone, Sydney wanders away from the girls at the refreshment table, toward the window. She shouldn't be with the other girls, where someone might mistake her for someone to dance with, for marriage material. She's neither of those things anymore. Damn you, Adriana Stoica.

"Oh, dear," says Anna Lightwood, startling her. "What's got a lovely young lady like you moping at the windows? A ball is supposed to be a joyous occasion."

"Just afraid I'll be mistaken for a debutante," says Sydney, turning around. She's always brutally honest about herself: people get the truth of Sydney Herondale, the whole truth, and nothing but. (Can she really say that, now?)

"Are you not one?" Anna's eyebrows rise towards her glossy black hair. "Don't tell me you got married in Romania."

"No," Sydney answers, "I did not."

"So what did you do there," says Anna, "that has you convinced you have to brood in the Shadows like James instead of dancing?" She exhales a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling.

Emil smoked a pipe, on occasion. During the early days of Sydney's recovery, he sat next to her bed and smoked, and did the crosswords out of mundane newspapers. He was so kind to her, even after she turned him down. Or maybe it was just guilt.

"As I was telling Cordelia," Sydney says lightly, "I traveled alone, ruined myself, perused the most lurid archives of collected vampire scholarship, and lost a duel to which I had been informally challenged."

"Ruined? And we didn't hear anything about it?"

"It happened in Romania. Nobody here needs to know."

"Wait...you returned from your tour year later than planned. There isn't a baby, is there?"

"No! No, I just...I did something incredibly stupid, which led to me getting injured."

"In the field, or a training accident?"

"Training accident. Don't worry about me, it really wasn't that bad."

"Alright, I'll leave you a - oh, bloody hell. Melbourne, your younger brother has just left Cordelia Carstairs stranded on the dance floor."

Sydney swears - in English, Welsh, and Romanian. "James, what in Raziel's name do you think you're doing? What did he even leave her for?"

"That tiny little silver-haired creature," says Anna, gesturing. "I do believe that is Grace Blackthorn. Ah, good, Matthew's stepping in to dance with Cordelia."

"Oh. Whew. I was thinking I might have to do it myself. Don't look at me like that, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing I've ever done.

"You're sure you're not going to take a turn around the floor? I could've sworn you used to like dancing."

"Nothing productive can come from dancing with me."

"You're beginning to sound like Matthew. He's got himself quite convinved he's unworthy of love, for no reason I can understand."

"Then perhaps," says Sydney, "Matthew needs to readjust his idea of what makes a person unworthy."

Eventually, they go their separate ways. Anna goes to talk to James, and Sydney settles into an armchair in the corner with a plate of shortbread cookies and enough tea to last her for a lifetime.

And that's exactly where she is when someone starts screaming across the room.

Sydney startles so bad she drops her tea. Instinct and trauma have her searching her own body for injury first. She's fine. She scrambles to her feet and bolts into the centre of the chaos, shoving people aside as she goes. She finds a circle of onlookers gathered around Oliver Haywad, cradling Barbara Lightwood in his arms. For a split second, Barbara's dress is soaked with blood. Then Sydney blinks, and it's gone.

"What happened?" Sydney asks, repressing the remembered screams echoing in her ears.

"We were dancing," Oliver says, addressing Sydney and Cordelia, who's just arriving on scene, "and she just collapsed."

"She needs air," says Cordelia, dropping to her knees. "Has anyone got a knife?"

"I have a dagger," says Anna, pushing through the crowd. "What needs to be done?"

"We need to cut her corset off. She has had a shock, and she needs to breathe."

"You might leave that to me." Anna kneels, lifts the girl, and cuts her free. "Ari - your wrapper."

Ariadne promptly hands it over. Anna swaddles Barbara in the wrapper, then hands her to Sydney.

"What on earth?" Sophie Lightwood pushes through the crowd. "Barbara! Did she fall?"

"She just collapsed," Oliver repeats. "We were dancing, she fainted -"

Barbara's eyes flutter and she sits up, blinking. "I'm alright," she says. "I'm alright now. I had a spell, a silly dizzy spell."

"You're sure?" Sydney asks. "You didn't feel anything before you went down? No pain?"

"A - a slight twinge," says Barbara. "In my ankle."

"May I?" Sydney asks, reaching out to touch Barbara's ankle.

Barbara nods.

Sydney lifts the edge of Barbara's skirt and tears at her thin silk stocking. "Ouch," she says, hissing in sympathy. "There's this ring of a bruise around your ankle."

"It must've happened when I fell."

"No, it looks more like something was gripping your ankle very hard."

Behind them, James goes stiff.

Thomas bends to hand Barbara a handkerchief. She dabs at her lip and it comes away stained with blood.

Sydney looks at James as Thomas lifts Barbara to her feet. He's pale and shaking, sweaty as if he's come down with a sudden fever.

"You're alright?" Sydney asks him. "You look awful."

"I'll be fine," he snaps.

Stunned, Sydney backs away.