“Five,” said a drawling voice from the corridor outside. Cecily started and turned. There was a shadow in the doorway, a shadow that as it moved forward became Gabriel Lightwood, all tousled brown hair and green eyes as sharp as glass. He was as tall as Will, perhaps taller, and more lanky than his brother. “I don’t take your meaning, Mr. Lightwood.” “Your throw,” he said with an elegantly outflung arm. “I rate it at five points. Your skill and technique may, perhaps, require work, but the native talent is certainly there. What you require is practice.” “Will has been training me,” she said as
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