Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved [Estella] against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it.
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Ariadne had never awoken in another person’s bed before, and as she blinked sleep from her eyes, she wondered if it was always so strange. She was disoriented, first by the shafts of light through the windows, at different angles and different shades than the light into her own bedroom. And then the thought that she was in Anna’s bedroom came to her, and for a moment she allowed herself to simply be in the place, in the moment. She was sleeping where Anna slept, where she put her head down every night, where she dreamed. She felt a sort of intimate separation from Anna, as if they were two hands pressed to opposite sides of the same glass. She remembered their hands intertwining in the Whispering Room, Anna slowly threading Ariadne’s hair ribbon through her fingers.…
And then of course reality came crashing down, and Ariadne scolded herself for allowing this much romantic feeling. It was only because she was just awake, she told herself.
Anna had sworn off love, so she had said, and Ariadne had to believe her. She had cut away a part of herself, for protection, and Ariadne could not rescue that part of her, could not bring it back.
The water in the jug on the washstand had a thin scrim of ice on it. Ariadne washed her face hurriedly, plaited her hair, and pulled on the dress she’d been wearing when she arrived; it was rumpled and stale, but she hadn’t brought anything else with her. She’d have to buy some new things.
Cautiously she emerged into the living room, not wanting to wake Anna if she was still asleep. Not only was Anna not asleep, she had company. At the breakfast table sat Anna’s brother Christopher, and, of all people, Eugenia Lightwood. The three of them appeared to be in the final throes of breakfast. Eugenia, who Ariadne thought of as pleasant, but not someone in whom she would necessarily confide, gave her a little wave and a smile. Whatever Anna had told her about the circumstances of Ariadne’s presence, she seemed unbothered.
“Ah, Ariadne. I didn’t want to wake you,” Anna said, her voice bright. “Do you want a bit of breakfast? It’s only tea and toast, I’m afraid. Christopher, shove over and make some room.”
Christopher dutifully did so, scattering crumbs as he shifted sideways on a tufted sofa that had been drawn up to make one side of the table’s seating. Ariadne sank down next to him, took a slice of toast from the rack, and began to butter it. Anna, looking placid, poured her a cup of tea.
“I’ve never understood toast racks,” murmured Eugenia. “All they do is make sure one’s toast gets cold as soon as possible.”
“Anna,” Christopher said, “I’ve been doing some work lately and—well, with your permission, I’d like to inscribe just a couple of small runes onto the bottom of your kettle before you put it on the fire, in order to—”
“No, Christopher,” Anna said, patting him on the shoulder. “Ariadne, as you can see, I have assembled a team for our mission today.”
Ariadne blinked. “What mission?”
“The mission to gather your things and move you out of your parents’ house, of course.”
Ariadne blinked a few more times. “We’re doing that today?”
“It’s so exciting,” Eugenia said, her dark eyes sparkling. “I do love a mission.”
“Your mother, as we all know,” said Anna, “will be very distraught at her only daughter moving away, and so we will be there to soften the transition. Eugenia, you see, is inherently trusted by Mrs. Bridgestock”—Eugenia put a hand to her chest and bowed—“and will put her at ease. I, on the other hand, am a destabilizing presence and will throw your mother off her game so that she cannot begin copiously weeping, or reminiscing about your early childhood, or both.”
“Both seem likely,” sighed Ariadne. “And Christopher?”
“Christopher, apart from providing the reassurance of an authoritative male presence—”
“What ho!” put in Christopher, looking pleased.
“—is my little brother and must do what I say,” Anna finished.
Ariadne ate some toast thoughtfully. It was a clever plan, really. Her mother was nothing if not fastidious in her observation of etiquette and would be polite to a fault to unexpected visitors. Between them, the assembled Lightwoods would keep her busy such that, even if she noticed Ariadne removing her things from the house, she would never be so rude to guests as to make a scene while they were present.
The other cleverness about the plan, she thought, was that it prevented Anna and Ariadne from having to think about Ariadne’s waking up in Anna’s bed, or how either Anna or Ariadne felt about any of that.
“Unfortunately,” Christopher said, “we will have to be quick about it. All three of us are expected at the Institute later this morning.”
Eugenia rolled her eyes. “It’s only Uncle Will wanting to assign us tasks for the Christmas party.”
“Is that still happening?” Anna said, surprised. “With all that’s been going on?”
“Nothing will stop the Herondales’ Christmas party,” Christopher said. “Even a Prince of Hell would balk before Uncle Will’s capacity for making merry. Besides—it’s good for everyone to have something to look forward to, isn’t it?”
Ariadne could not help but wonder what Eugenia thought about that. It was at an Institute party, during the summer, that Eugenia’s sister, Barbara, had collapsed, and not long after she had died, the victim of demon poison.
But if Eugenia’s mind was on that, she did not show it. She remained cheerful and determined all the way out of the flat and down into the Lightwoods’ carriage.
It was once in the carriage, jouncing along Percy Street toward Cavendish Square, that Ariadne realized that if they were going to retrieve her things today, there would be no place she could bring her trunks other than back to Anna’s flat. But that must surely have occurred to Anna already? Ariadne tried to catch her eye, but Anna was caught up in a conversation with Eugenia about neighborhoods where Ariadne might find the right sort of flat for a single young woman to occupy.
So Anna did not expect Ariadne to keep her things at Anna’s for long. Certainly not long enough for the situation to become awkward. Though Anna showed no signs of awkwardness; she was lovely and bright as ever. She wore a spectacular waistcoat, striped pink and green like ribbon candy, which Ariadne felt sure she’d nicked from Matthew. Her eyes were as dark blue as pansy flowers. And soon you’ll be telling yourself the angels sing when she laughs, Ariadne thought to herself sternly. Be less sentimental.
Soon enough they had arrived at the Bridgestock house. At the front door Ariadne hesitated, thinking of a thousand things that could go wrong with their plan. But Anna was looking at her expectantly, apparently with full confidence that Ariadne was capable of handling the situation. It was a look that stiffened Ariadne’s spine and hardened her resolve. With a smile plastered on her face, she used her key to open the door, stepped into the entryway, and called out with forced cheerfulness, “Mother, just look who I ran into this morning!”
Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs. Flora wore the same dress she had worn the day before, and had clearly spent a sleepless night; her eyes were deeply shadowed, her face lined with tension. As her gaze fell upon her daughter, Ariadne thought she saw a flash of relief on her features.
Could she have been worried about me? Ariadne wondered, but her mother had caught sight of Anna, Christopher, and Eugenia spilling into the entryway, and was already forcing her expression into a smile.
“Eugenia, dear,” she said warmly, descending the stairs. “And young Master Lightwood, and Anna, of course—” Was it Ariadne’s imagination that there was a certain coldness in the way Flora Bridgestock looked upon Anna? “How are your dear parents?”
Eugenia launched immediately into a long story involving Gideon and Sophie’s search for a new housemaid after the last one had been discovered to be wildly riding omnibuses all around town while a group of local brownies did all the tidying up.
“Dreadful,” Ariadne heard Flora say, and, “What trying times,” as Eugenia herded her skillfully into the drawing room, Anna and Christopher in her wake. She had underestimated Eugenia, Ariadne thought. She would make an excellent spy.
Ariadne exchanged a quick look with Anna and then hurried up the stairs to her room, where she seized a trunk and began to fill it with her possessions. How hard, she thought, to pack away a life, so quickly! Clothes and books, of course, and old treasures: a sari that had been her first mother’s, a pata that had belonged to her first father, a doll her adoptive mother had given her, one of its button eyes missing.
From downstairs, she heard Anna say loudly, “Christopher has been entertaining us all morning with his latest work in science! Christopher, tell Mrs. Bridgestock what you were telling us earlier.”
That meant Flora was getting fidgety, Ariadne knew. She had only a little more time.
She had just finished folding her gear and was placing the pata on top of the pile of clothes in her trunk when Anna appeared at her door. “Almost ready?” she said. “Eventually your mother will try to get a word in edgewise around Christopher, you know.”
Ariadne stood up, dusting her hands off on her skirt. She determinedly did not look around at her room, at the familiar furniture, the blanket her mother had knitted for her before she had even arrived from India. “I’m ready.”
Together, they carried the trunk down to the entryway, managing not to thump it against every stair. As they passed by the doorway to the drawing room, Ariadne saw her mother, looking up from the sofa at Christopher, glance over at her. Her face was pale and strained. Ariadne had to fight the urge to go to her, to ask if she was all right, to fetch her a cup of tea as she was used to doing in difficult times.
The carriage driver came rushing up the steps to take the trunk, and Ariadne headed back into the house. She could hear Eugenia regaling her mother with another domestic tale and wondered if it was possible that the Lightwoods could keep her distracted long enough for Ariadne to dart down to the conservatory and snatch up Winston’s cage.
Technically, he was hers, after all—a gift from her parents. And while Anna had not specifically agreed to house a parrot in her small flat, Ariadne—and therefore Winston—was only meant to be a temporary guest there, until she found her own place.
She was about to make a run for Winston when there was a loud screech from outside. Anna cried out a sharp warning. Ariadne spun back to the door to see a hansom cab, being driven hell-for-leather, come to a stop inches away from crashing into the Lightwoods’ carriage. The cab’s door opened, disgorging a man in a filthy traveling coat, a bent hat jammed sideways on his head. He flung a handful of coins at the cabdriver before heading straight for the Bridgestocks’ front door.
Ariadne did not recognize the coat, the hat, or the staggering limp, but she recognized the man, though there was half a week’s white stubble on his face, and he looked years older than the last time she’d seen him.
“Father?” she whispered. She had not meant to speak; the word had left her mouth on its own.
Anna looked at her in surprise. It was clear she, too, had not recognized the Inquisitor.
“Maurice?” Ariadne’s mother had raced to the door, Eugenia and Christopher behind her, wearing matching looks of surprise and concern. She caught at Ariadne’s hand—squeezed it once, hard—and flew down the steps to throw her arms around her husband, who stood stock-still, motionless as a gnarled old tree, even as his wife sobbed, “What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you let us know—”
“Flora,” he said, and his voice was harsh, as if he had worn it out by shouting or screaming. “Oh, Flora. It’s worse than you could imagine. It’s so much worse than any of us imagined.”
The next morning Cordelia’s greatest fear was having to encounter either James or Matthew upon emerging from her bedroom. She delayed as long as she could, fussing over getting dressed, though she could tell by the angle of the sun through the windows that it was already late morning.
She had slept poorly. Over and over, when she closed her eyes, she saw James’s face, heard his words. I was wrong about my marriage. I didn’t think it was real. It was real. The most real thing in my life.
He had told her he loved her.
It was all she thought she had ever wanted. But she found now that it rang hollow in her heart. She did not know what was driving him—pity, perhaps, or even a regret for the life they had shared together at Curzon Street. He did say he had been happy. And she had never thought Grace made him happy, only miserable, but it was a misery he seemed to have relished. And feelings showed themselves through actions; Cordelia believed James liked her, desired her even, but if he had loved her…
He would have sent Grace away.
After lacing up her boots, she went out into the suite, only to find it empty. The door to Matthew’s room was closed, and James was nowhere to be seen.
The green absinthe bottle was still on the table. Cordelia thought of Matthew—of his mouth on hers, and then the way he had whitened when he asked if James had gone into his room.
There was a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach as she went out into the blue-and-gold hall. She spied the hotel porter, just departing another room. “Monsieur!” she called out, and hurried over to him. At least she could try to eat something before she had to start her journey. “I wanted to ask about breakfast—”
“Ah, madame,” the porter exclaimed. “Do not trouble yourself. Your companion has already called for breakfast and it should be delivered very soon.”
Cordelia was not sure which companion he meant, James or Matthew. She wasn’t sure she wanted to breakfast with either of them, and certainly not both, but it seemed too much to explain that to the porter. She thanked the man and was about to turn away when she hesitated. “May I ask you one other question?” she said. “Did you bring a bottle of absinthe to our suite last night?”
“Non, madame.” The porter looked puzzled. “I brought one bottle yesterday morning. Six o’clock.”
Now Cordelia was the one puzzled. “Why would you do that?”
The porter looked even more surprised. “I bring a bottle every morning, just after sunrise. By request of Monsieur Fairchild. Brandy, or absinthe.” He shrugged. “When he was here before, he wanted it in the evening. This visit, early morning. No difference to me, I said, six o’clock every morning.”
“Thank you,” Cordelia managed to get out, and left the porter staring after her as she stumbled down the hall.
Once inside the suite door, she leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. Matthew had indeed lied to her. He had sworn not to drink, and he had not—in front of her. But the porter had brought him a new bottle of liquor each morning. Had he been drinking, then, at every moment that he wasn’t in her sight? It certainly seemed like he had been.
It was one lie too many, she thought; now she was truly broken beyond repair. She’d been lied to over and over again, by everybody she cared about. Her family had lied about her father’s drinking. James had lied—about Grace, about her, about the very premise of their marriage. Lucie, who was supposed to be her closest friend, who she knew better than anyone, had kept her relationship with Jesse Blackthorn hidden, and had fled London without a word or a warning to Cordelia.
She had thought Matthew would be different—precisely because he believed in nothing, because he had already given up on morality as most people saw it, on virtue and high-mindedness. He cared only about beauty and art and meaning, as bohemians did; this was why she had believed that he would not lie to her. Because if he were going to drink, he would say so.
But he had looked her in the eye and promised her that if she came to Paris with him, he would drink only lightly; he had allowed her to believe he had not touched drink at all. Yet the porter had been delivering brandy daily since the day they arrived. Cordelia had thought that even if Paris could not save her, at least it might save Matthew. But it seemed that one could not change oneself by changing one’s place, as much as one might dream of it; neither of them had left their troubles behind. They had only carried those troubles along with them.
When he came back into the suite, James found it undisturbed, as though no one had woken yet. The doors to both bedrooms were still closed. Shaking his head, he went and banged on Matthew’s door. When nothing happened, he banged on it again, a bit harder, and was rewarded with a low groaning noise from somewhere within.
“Breakfast,” he called. There was another, even lower groan from inside. “Get up, Matthew,” he said, his voice harsher than even he expected. “We need to talk.”
There was a series of thumping and crashing sounds, and after about a minute Matthew yanked the door open and blinked at James. He looked completely exhausted, and James wondered how late he had gotten back last night; he’d only known Matthew had returned at all because of his coat crumpled on the floor of the suite and another couple of empty bottles next to it. Certainly whenever Matthew had come back, it had been after James was asleep, which would have been very late indeed. James himself had lain on the couch, awake, for what felt like hours, staring into the dark in a state of utter despair. Magnus had slapped him on the back and wished him good luck before sending him through the Portal to get here—but no amount of luck, it turned out, would have helped.
In the space of what felt like a moment, he had lost not one but two of the most important people in his life.
When he finally did nod off, his sleep was strange and disturbed. He had had no dreams at all, that he could remember; there had been only a kind of harsh blank white noise. Strange, he thought, even stranger than the dark dreams Belial had sent him in the past. It had been a sound like the roar of the ocean but unpleasant and metallic, a sound that made him feel as if his heart had broken and poured out a shrill scream only he could hear.
Matthew was still wearing his clothes from the night before, even the red velvet waistcoat that matched Cordelia’s dress, but the clothes were crumpled and stained now. Behind him, the bedroom was a disaster. His trunk had been turned over, spilling out clothes, and empty plates and bottles lay scattered about like the bits of glass and crockery that washed up on the banks of the Thames.
Matthew’s eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a mass of tangled curls. “I,” he said, “was asleep.”
His voice was flat.
James counted to ten silently. “Math,” he said. “We have to go back to London.”
Matthew leaned against the doorway. “Ah. You and Cordelia are returning to London? Safe travels to you, then, or should I say, bon voyage? You do work quickly, James, but then, I suppose I rather ceded the battlefield to you, didn’t I?” He scrubbed at his eyes with a lace-cuffed sleeve, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “I will not fight you for her,” he said. “It would be undignified.”
This, James thought, was the point at which Christopher or Thomas or Anna would have walked away. When Matthew was in a rare quarrelsome mood, it was generally best to let him settle on his own. But James never walked away, no matter how sharp Matthew’s words became.
He could see, even now, the faint tremble in Matthew’s hands, the hurt at the back of his eyes. More than anything he wanted to put his arms around Matthew, hug him tightly, tell him he was loved.
But what could he really say to comfort him now? Cordelia loves you? Three words that felt like spikes driven into his own heart. Three words whose truth he could not be sure of. He did not know what Cordelia felt.
He rubbed his temple, which had begun to throb. “It’s not like that, Math,” he said. “There is no battlefield. If I had had any idea before last week that you had feelings for Cordelia—”
“What?” Matthew broke in, his voice harsh. “You would have what? Not married her? Married Grace? Because Jamie, that’s what I don’t understand. You’ve loved Grace for years—loved her when you thought it was hopeless. Loved her—what does Dickens say? ‘Against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.’”
“I never loved her,” James said. “I only thought I did.”
Matthew slumped in the doorway. “I wish I could believe that,” he said. “Because what it looks like is that the moment Cordelia left you, you decided you couldn’t bear being left. I suppose no one ever has, have they? Everyone’s always loved you.” He said it with a flat matter-of-factness that was startling. “Except perhaps Grace. Perhaps that’s why you wanted her in the first place. I don’t think she’s capable of loving anyone.”
“Matthew—” James could feel the weight of the silver bracelet as though it circled his wrist still, though he knew perfectly well it was broken and back at Curzon Street. He wanted to protest, to explain his own innocence, but how could he do so when he hadn’t yet told Cordelia? Surely she was owed the truth first. And the thought of telling her, of garnering her pity, was still unbearable. Better to be hated than pitied—by Daisy, by Matthew, though the thought of being hated by his parabatai made him sick—
Something crashed loudly in the room behind him, as if a lamp had fallen and smashed. James turned around, in time to see a Portal open in the wall of the living room.
Magnus stepped through into the suite. He, of course, was perfectly dressed in a striped suit, and as he took James and Matthew in, he brushed a speck of dust off his immaculate shirtfront.
On the other side of the suite, the door flew open, and Cordelia appeared, already fully dressed in traveling clothes. She stared at Magnus in astonishment. “Magnus,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting—I mean, how on earth did you know where we were staying?”
“Because he sent me through the Portal last night,” said James. “I know where Matthew likes to stay when he’s in Paris.”
Matthew shrugged. “I am nothing if not predictable.”
“And the night manager here is a warlock,” Magnus noted. “I mean, who else could have picked out those curtains?” When no one replied, he gazed from James to Cordelia, both of them, James imagined, clearly strained with tension, and then at Matthew, rumpled and wine-stained.
“Ah,” Magnus said, rather glumly. “I see there are some interpersonal dramatics taking place here.” He held up a hand. “I do not know what they are, nor do I wish to know. James, you arrived last night, did you not?”
James nodded.
“And have you already told Cordelia and Matthew about Lucie—and about Jesse?”
James sighed. “Just that they were all right. The chance to elaborate did not present itself.”
Both Cordelia and Matthew began to ask about Lucie; Magnus raised his hand again, as if he were the conductor of a wayward orchestra. “You’ll hear the whole story back in London,” he said. “It’s imperative that we return now—”
“My mother.” Cordelia braced herself against the doorway. “Is she all right? Is the baby—”
“Your mother is well,” Magnus said, not ungently, but his expression was grim. “But the situation in London is serious, and likely to grow more so.”
“Is there another Prince of Hell with tentacles threatening the Institute, then?” Matthew asked wearily. “Because I have to say, if so, my instinct is to sit this one out.”
Magnus gave him a stern look. “The Inquisitor has returned, and the news he has brought is bleak. Tatiana Blackthorn has escaped from the Adamant Citadel and joined forces with Belial. You must return with me to London posthaste; there is much to be discussed.”