Artificer of fraud; and was the first
That practiced falsehood under saintly show,
Deep malice to conceal, couched with revenge.
—John Milton, Paradise Lost
The last thing in the world Cordelia wanted to do the next morning was attend a meeting at the Institute in which awful accusations were launched at the Herondales.
Despite her more friendly parting with Lucie, she had barely slept through the night, awakened often by terrible dreams in which people she loved were threatened by demons, but she was unable to lift a blade to help them. Either the weapon would skitter away from her grasp, leaving her crawling after it on her hands and knees, or it would crumble to dust in her hand.
And each dream ended the same way—with Lucie, or James, or Matthew, or Alastair, or Sona, choking in their own blood on the ground, their eyes fixed on her, wide and accusing. She woke with the words of Filomena di Angelo ringing in her ears, each syllable a stab of pain in her heart.
You are the bearer of the blade Cortana, which can slay anything. You have spilled the blood of a Prince of Hell. You could have saved me.
“I can’t go,” she said to Alastair, when he came to her room to see why she had not yet come down to breakfast. Their mother, it seemed, had joined them—a rare occurrence these days—and, though she was not herself attending the meeting, was anxious that her children go—Cordelia to support her husband, of course, and both of them to repay all the kindness shown to them by the Herondales since they had arrived in London. “I can’t bear it.”
“Layla.” He leaned against her doorway. “I agree it will be miserable. But you are not going for yourself; you are going for James and Lucie. They will bear it better if you are there.” He flicked his eyes over her; she was wearing an old dressing gown that Risa had patched several times. “Put on one of the dresses you bought in Paris. Look magnificent and unassailable. Stare down your nose at anyone who insults the Herondales or offers support to the Inquisitor. You are James’s wife—if you do not go, people will whisper that you doubt him and his family.”
“They wouldn’t dare,” Cordelia gasped in fury.
Alastair grinned. “There you go. There is the blood of Rostam in your veins.” He glanced over at her wardrobe, which was standing open. “Wear the brown silk,” he said, and with that, brushed dust from his cuffs and headed downstairs.
The thought that her absence might be used as ammunition against the Herondales sent Cordelia shooting out of bed. She put on her coffee silk dress, with its gold embroidery, and wheedled Risa into putting up her hair with topaz pins. She dabbed a bit of rouge on her cheeks and lips, seized up the gloves James had returned to her, and walked downstairs with her head held high. If she could not bear a weapon, then this, at least, would do for armor.
Her despair was already beginning to turn into a far more bracing emotion—anger. In the carriage, on the way to the Institute, she fumed aloud (in between bites of an Eccles cake Alastair had thoughtfully smuggled from the breakfast table) that she could not believe anyone would truly credit the idea that the Herondales were in league with a Prince of Hell. It was an accusation wielded by Tatiana Blackthorn, of all people, and most of the Enclave had known Will and Tessa for decades.
Alastair was not impressed by this reasoning. “Your faith in the goodness of humanity is very admirable. But misplaced. Plenty of people resent the Herondales for their position. Charlotte was a controversial choice for Consul, and there’s a widespread belief, even among those who like them, that the Herondales got the London Institute position because of her.”
“You only know this because you have associated with low and resentful sorts of people like Augustus Pounceby,” Cordelia pointed out.
“True,” Alastair said, “but if not for my vile friends of yesteryear, I would not have the keen and penetrating insights into their thoughts that I do now. The point is, never underestimate people’s desire to make trouble if they think they might get something out of it.”
Cordelia sighed, brushing crumbs from her lap. “Well, I do hope you’re wrong.”
Alastair was not wrong. By twenty minutes into the meeting, with Bridgestock and Charlotte glaring at one another and the whole Enclave in an uproar, Cordelia had to admit that he might have downplayed things.
The meeting was held in the chapel, which already made Cordelia feel grim. Up on the altar stood Bridgestock, Charlotte, and Will. The Enclave filled the pews: Cordelia had scanned the room for her friends the moment they arrived, and cast as reassuring a glance as she could at Lucie and James, who sat in the front pew with Tessa and Jesse. Everyone else was there was well, even Anna, looking stern and furious between her father and Ari. (Cecily, it was to be presumed, was in the infirmary with Alexander.)
“The events in Cornwall have obviously disturbed me greatly,” Bridgestock declaimed, “and in combination with the claims of Tatiana Blackthorn, I must say that the failure to protect us from Belial has greatly shaken my trust in the Herondales’ leadership.” He cast a dark glance at Will. “Now, I am not necessarily saying that you are in league with demons,” said Bridgestock.
“What a compliment,” said Will coldly.
“But,” the Inquisitor went on smoothly, “Tatiana Blackthorn certainly told one truth—that Belial is Tessa’s father. A truth that has been concealed from all of us, all these years. Well,” he added with a sarcastic nod at Charlotte, “from most of us.”
“This was all settled years ago,” Charlotte said. “Tessa is a Shadowhunter in good standing, in addition to being a warlock. It is a situation unique to her, caused by a mundane with a specific ill intent, unlikely to ever be repeated. The identity of the demon who fathered her was not known to anyone, even to Tessa, until recently. And regardless, we do not believe warlocks to be in league with their demon parents.”
“With all due respect,” said Bridgestock, “most warlocks’ demon parent is an anonymous, minor demon, not one of the Nine Princes. Most Shadowhunters have never faced a Prince of Hell. But I have,” he thundered, which made Cordelia feel cross. He hadn’t so much faced Belial, had he, as passed out in his presence. “I cannot tell you of the depth of his vile evil. To think he is the parent of Tessa Herondale makes me shudder.”
“I remember these discussions,” said Charlotte. “Twenty-five years ago. I was there. So were you, Maurice. The ravings of Tatiana Blackthorn, who is by her own admission an ally of Belial, should not disinter this debate from its long-ago burial.”
After a moment of silence, Eunice Pounceby piped up, the flowers on her hat trembling with her agitation. “Perhaps they shouldn’t, Charlotte. But… they do.”
“What are you saying, Eunice?” Tessa asked. Though Cordelia knew her real age, Tessa still looked only about twenty. She was dressed plainly, her hands folded in front of her. Cordelia felt the sort of desperate pity for her she would have felt for a girl her own age, staring down the barrel of the Enclave’s anger.
“What Eunice is saying,” said Martin Wentworth, “is that while it may be true that we have all known Mrs. Herondale to be a warlock, for many years now, the fact that her demon parent is a Prince of Hell, and that you have all known and concealed it—well, it might be within the letter of the Law, but it does not inspire trust.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Bridgestock said, “It seems the London Enclave has lost faith in the Herondales to run our Institute. Indeed, had they but spoken earlier, I might not bear now the terrible branded sigil upon my arm.” He scowled.
“You do not speak for the Enclave,” said Esme Hardcastle unexpectedly. “Perhaps Tessa did know that her father was Belial. Why would she tell anyone, when the result would be this—this tribunal?”
To Cordelia’s surprise, Charles rose to his feet. “This is not a tribunal,” he said. His face looked strained, as if some unseen force were pulling his skin too tight. “This is a meeting we are holding to decide what our next steps will be.”
“We?” said Will. He was looking at Charles with a sort of hurt bewilderment—was Charles trying to be helpful? Cordelia wondered herself.… But the look on Charles’s face was so awful.
And he had not stopped speaking. He turned to look around the room, his mouth a hard line. “I’m the only one of my family who will have the courage to say it,” he said. “But the Inquisitor is right.”
Cordelia’s gaze shot to Matthew. His eyes were squeezed tight, as though he were trying to shut out everything around him. Henry, beside him, looked as if he were going to be sick. Charlotte stood motionless, but the effort it took her was clear.
“I have known the Herondales all my life,” Charles said. “But the revelation of this terrible secret has shaken us all. I wish to assure you all, I was not made aware of it, even if my mother knew. I believe the Herondales had a duty to share it, and that my mother had the same duty. My loyalty to family cannot account for this unconscionable omission.”
There was a terrible silence. Cordelia stared at Charles. What was he doing? Was he truly so loathsome that he would betray his own family? She glanced over at Alastair, who she expected to be glowing with rage, but he wasn’t even looking at Charles. He was looking across the room at Thomas, who sat with his fists clenched at his sides, as if he were barely holding himself back from lunging at Charles.
“Charles,” Gideon said wearily. “You speak to protect your own ambition, though the Angel knows what has so corrupted your heart. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate any alliance between the Herondales and Belial, though you are trying to imply otherwise—”
“I am not saying that,” Charles snapped.
“But you are implying it,” Gideon said. “It is a cynical ploy. At a time when the Enclave must come together, to defeat the threat Belial still poses, you are trying to divide us.”
“He speaks for those who did not know until yesterday,” Bridgestock cried, “that the Institute was inhabited by the offspring of a Prince of Hell! Has he truly never made an overture, never reached out to his blood—”
James shot to his feet. He looked as he did when he held his pistol in his hand, an avenging angel, with eyes like chips of gold. “If he were to reach out,” he snarled, “we would refuse him.”
Cordelia began to rise to her feet as well. She would defend them, she thought. She would swear up and down that no one had more cause to hate Belial than the Herondales did—she would speak out for James and Lucie—
A hand touched her arm. For a moment, she thought it was Alastair, urging her to sit back down. But to her surprise, it was Christopher. Christopher, who she had assumed was in the infirmary. He was looking at her with an uncharacteristic seriousness, his eyes dark purple behind his owlish glasses.
“Come with me,” he said quietly. “Quickly. No one will notice in all this fuss.”
Alastair, looking over at the both of them, shrugged as if to say he had no more idea than she did what Christopher wanted. “Christopher,” Cordelia whispered. “I must speak for them—”
“If you truly wish to help James,” Christopher said, and there was an intensity in his voice that Cordelia had rarely heard, “come with me. There is something you must know.”
Ari sat through the meeting in a state of numb shock. She already knew her father did not like the Herondales; his strange note-keeping had made that clear. Yes, they had saved London, and perhaps the whole Shadow World, but to Maurice Bridgestock this only made them celebrities who had been rewarded with a cushy position. Not, like him, dedicated public servants devoted to the needs of the Clave.
It seemed to her that Will and Tessa had had twenty years of showing themselves to be fine stewards of the London Institute, and her father’s resentment struck her as petty and small, unworthy of him. But it turned out it hadn’t been small at all: it had instead loomed so large that when he espied weakness in their position, he moved against them.
She had been sitting with the Lightwoods, of course, tucked in among them, with Gabriel on her left and Anna on her right. When her father thrust his finger at those he was accusing, he was pointing at Ari. (Her mother, interestingly, was not there; Ari wondered at her absence.)
She would have taken Anna’s hand, but Anna sat tensed, her arms folded tightly against her chest. As always, in the face of a threat, she turned to stone.
Eventually, as the shouting reached a fever pitch, a recess was called for everyone to calm down. As people began to cluster into small groups—the Herondales and Lightwoods together, Matthew moving to join his parents—she saw Alastair (though where was Cordelia?) cross the room to Charles, who was standing obstinately alone, and fall into conversation with him. Well, it wasn’t quite a conversation—whatever Alastair was saying, it was low and furious, accompanied by urgent gestures. Charles stood looking off into the air, as if Alastair was not there. By the Angel, Ari thought. How could I even have pretended to be engaged to that man?
And then she saw her father. As he stepped down from the altar and ducked through a side door, she rose to her feet. With a light touch to Anna’s shoulder, she darted into the aisle between the pews and hurried out of the room, taking the same side door.
Beyond it was a stone-bound corridor, in which her father was pacing. He looked smaller than he had up on the altar, the focus of all eyes. He muttered as he paced, though she could catch only a few of the words—“Belial” and “have to see the truth” and, one of his favorite words, “unfair.”
“Father,” she said. “What have you done?”
He looked up. “This isn’t any of your concern, Ariadne.”
“You must know that none of what you have said is true.”
“I know no such thing,” he snapped.
“If there is a lack of faith in the Herondales, it is only because you have created it.”
He shook his head. “I would have thought you would give me more credit than that,” he said. “I am not the villain in a play where the Herondales are the heroes. Tessa Herondale is the child of a Greater Demon. And they lied about it.”
“In the face of blind prejudice, one curls in on oneself,” Ari said quietly. “It is not something you would understand. Will acted to protect his wife, James and Lucie to protect their mother. Against the hatred you are whipping up right now. A hatred born out of fear, out of the blind belief that the blood in Tessa’s veins, in her children’s veins, matters more than every act of heroism or kindness she has ever performed.”
His face crumpled into a look that mixed fury with a terrible sort of pity. “They have drawn you in,” he rasped. “The Herondales, who came from nowhere to rule over us, magic users all. And the Lightwoods, the children of Benedict, who famously consorted with demons, so much so that eventually it killed him. Whatever was twisted up in his heart is there, you know, in the blood of his children and his grandchildren. Including that half-woman who has taken you under her wing—”
“Don’t speak about Anna in that way,” Ari said in a clear and calm voice. “She has shown me more kindness of late than any of my own family.”
“You left,” he said. “You took your things, the things we have given you over the years, and you went to live with that Lightwood creature. You could still come home, you know.” His voice had taken on a wheedling quality. “If you swear you will never see any of these people again. The Herondales, the Lightwoods—they are a sinking ship. It would be wise for you to disembark while you still can.”
Ari shook her head. “Never.”
“It’s a dangerous path you’re on,” her father said. “One that ends in ruin. It is out of kindness that I wish to save you—”
“Kindness?” Ari said. “Not love? The love you owe a daughter?”
“A daughter is not defiant. A daughter is obedient. A daughter cares for her parents, protects them—”
“As James and Lucie are protecting Tessa?” Ari shook her head. “You cannot see it, Father. You are too blinded by your hatred. The Herondales are not criminals. They are not, for instance, blackmailers.”
It was an arrow shot blindly, but Ari saw it hit its mark. Her father flinched and stared at her in horror.
“The letter,” he whispered. “The fireplace—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ari said blandly. “I only know this. The further you push this, Father, the more you, too, will come under scrutiny. Only be sure you can bear such scrutiny of your every action. Most men could not.”
Grace sat shivering against the wall of her cell. She had wrapped the blanket from her bed around her, but it had not stopped the shaking.
The tremors had begun that morning, when Brother Zachariah had come to her cell, after her breakfast of porridge and toast. She had sensed the concern in him, a pity that had terrified her. In her experience, pity meant scorn, and scorn meant that the other person had realized how horrible you were.
“The baby,” she whispered. “Christopher’s brother. Is he—”
He is alive and healing. Your mother has been found. She is in custody now. I would have told you last night, but I feared to wake you.
As if she had slept, Grace thought. She was glad Alexander had been found but doubted it would make a difference to Christopher. She had still lost him, forever. “She did not—damage him?”
The rune she put upon him burned him badly. Luckily, it was incomplete, and we were able to get to him in time. He will have a scar.
“It’s because that’s how Jesse died,” Grace said numbly. “Having runes put on. It’s her idea of poetic justice.”
Zachariah said nothing, and Grace realized with a jolt that there was more he had come to tell her. And then, with a sense of sick horror, what that more must be.
“You said my mother was in custody,” she said. “Do you mean—she is here? In the Silent City?”
He inclined his head. Given her history, it seemed crucial to keep her where all the exits are known, and guarded, and where no Portals can be opened.
Grace felt as if she were going to be sick. “No,” she gasped. “No. I don’t want her near me. I’ll go somewhere else. You can lock me in somewhere else. I’ll be good. I won’t try to get out. I swear it.”
Grace. She will only be here one night. After that she will be moved to the prisons of the Gard, in Idris.
“Does—does she know I’m here?”
She does not seem to. She has not spoken at all, said Zachariah. And her mind is closed to us. Belial’s doing, I would guess.
“She will find a way to get to me,” Grace said dully. “She always does.” She raised her head. “You have to kill her,” she said. “And burn the body. Or she will never be stopped.”
We cannot execute her. We must know what she knows.
Grace closed her eyes.
Grace, we will protect you. I will protect you. You are safest here, warded by our protections, closed behind these doors. Nor can your mother escape her cell. Not even a Prince of Hell could break out of that cage.
Grace had turned her face to the wall. He would not understand. He could not understand. She still possessed her power; therefore she was still of value to her mother. Somehow her mother would get her back. The Adamant Citadel had not held her. She was a great dark blight across Grace’s life, and she could no more be separated from Grace than venom from a body it had poisoned.
After some time, Brother Zachariah had gone away, and Grace had retched dryly into her empty bowl from breakfast. Then she had closed her eyes, but that only brought visions of her mother, of the forest in Brocelind, a dark voice in her ears. Little one. I’ve come to give you a great gift. The gift your mother asked for you. Power over the minds of men.
“Grace?” The hesitant voice was as familiar as it was impossible. Grace, hunched in her corner, looked up—and to her disbelief, saw Christopher standing at the barred door of her cell. “Uncle Jem said I could come and see you. He said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Christopher,” she breathed.
He looked at her, worry plain on his face. “Are you all right?”
It’s nothing, she wanted to say. She wanted to force a smile, not to burden him, for she knew men did not like to be burdened by women. Her mother had told her.
But she could not make the smile come. This was Christopher, with his blunt honesty and kind smile. Christopher would know she was lying.
“I thought you hated me,” she whispered. “I thought you would never be able to stand to see me again, because of my mother. Because of what she did to your family.”
He did not laugh at her, or recoil, only looked at her with a level gaze. “I suspected you might think something like that,” he said. “But Grace, I have never blamed you for your mother before. I will not start now. What she did was vile. But you are not vile. You have done wrong, but you are trying to make it right. And such trying is not easy.”
Grace felt tears burn against the backs of her eyes. “How are you so wise? Not about science, or magic, I mean. About people.”
At that, he did smile. “I am a Lightwood. We are a complicated family. Someday I shall tell you all about it.” He reached a hand through the bars, and Grace, relieved beyond measure that there might be a someday, took hold of his hand. It was gentle and warm in her own, scarred by acid and ichor, but perfect. “Now, I want to help you with your trying.” He looked down the hallway outside the cell.
“Cordelia?” he called out. “It’s time.”
Thomas felt his heart sinking lower and lower with each minute of the Enclave meeting. He hadn’t expected it to go well, but neither had he expected it to go quite this badly. Once Charles had announced that he was standing with Bridgestock against his own family, the debate quickly deteriorated into a screaming match.
Thomas longed to get to his feet, to shout out something cutting, something that would shame and damn Charles for his betrayal, something that would make the Enclave see how ridiculous, how vicious this all was. But words had never been his strength; he sat, with Eugenia white-faced and incredulous beside him, his head aching with the strain of it all. He felt clumsy and oversized and utterly useless.
As the adults around him muttered among themselves, Thomas tried to catch Matthew’s eye. Matthew, he imagined, must be sickeningly shocked by Charles’s words, but he seemed determined not to show it. Unlike James, or Anna, who sat stone-faced and unmoving, Matthew had flung himself back in his chair as if he were posing for a louche Parisian artist. He had his feet up on the back of the chair in front of him and was examining his cuffs as if they held the secrets of the universe.
Matthew, turn around, Thomas thought urgently, but his attempt at Silent Brother–like communication failed him. Alastair glanced over, but Thomas’s view of him was cut off by Walter Rosewain, who had risen to his feet (almost knocking off his wife Ida’s hat) and begun shouting, and by the time Rosewain sat down again, Matthew had slipped out of his pew and was gone.
Quickly, Thomas caught James’s eye. Despite the strain of the situation, James nodded, as if to say, Go after him, Tom.
Thomas didn’t need to be told twice. Anything was better than sitting here, helpless to change the course of events. Thomas would always rather have something to do, some tool in his hand, some path to follow, no matter how narrow or dangerous. He rose and hurried out of the pew, stepping on several feet as he did so.
He raced through the Institute to the foyer, not bothering to pause and catch up his coat. He pushed his way out into the cold, only to see Matthew’s borrowed carriage already rolling out the Institute gates. Bloody hell.
Thomas wondered if his parents would mind if he helped himself to their carriage and gave chase. They probably would, if he was being honest with himself, but—
“We can take my carriage.” Thomas spun in surprise to see Alastair standing behind him, calmly holding Thomas’s coat. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “Clearly I was going to follow you. There’s nothing I can do in there, and Cordelia’s already gone.”
Gone where? Thomas wondered, but there was no time to process the thought: he took his coat from Alastair and shrugged it on, grateful for the warmth. “I’m going after Matthew,” he said, and Alastair gave him a dark look that clearly said, Yes, I knew that. “And you don’t like Matthew.”
“After what Charles has just done, your friend Matthew will be desperate for a drink,” Alastair said. There was nothing accusing or contemptuous in his tone; it was matter-of-fact. “And I have much more experience looking after drunks than you do. Even talking them out of drinking, sometimes. Shall we go?”
Thomas started to object, though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was objecting to, but the Carstairs carriage had already rolled into the courtyard, the driver swaddled against the cold in a thick blanket. Alastair had hold of Thomas’s sleeve and they were marching down the steps; a moment later, they were in the carriage as it began to lurch across the ice-slippery courtyard.
On the way to the terrible Christmas party at the Institute, Thomas had told himself to enjoy the time he had in the carriage with Alastair. Though Alastair had been in an odd mood that night, with a sort of suppressed excitement to him, as if he were considering whether or not to spill a secret.
He hadn’t, of course, spilled anything; still, Thomas had enjoyed being in such an intimate space with him. And, he had told himself, it was all right to enjoy it, as long as he kept in mind that Alastair was not going to be a permanent fixture in his life. That Alastair was most likely leaving as soon as his sibling was born.
He tried to enjoy it now, but his stomach was too knotted up over James and his family, over Matthew, over everything that had happened. The carriage bounced over a rut in the road; Thomas steadied himself and said, “He’s stopped drinking, you know.”
Alastair looked out the window. He blinked against the wintery light and said, “He’s still a drunk. He’ll always be a drunk, even if he never drinks again.” He sounded weary.
Thomas stiffened. “If you’re going to say that sort of thing to him—”
“My father stopped drinking a dozen times,” said Alastair. “He would go weeks, months, without a drink. Then something would happen—a disappointment, a minor setback—and he would begin again. Have you ever wanted something,” he said, looking at Thomas with a sudden directness, “something you knew you should not have, but that you could not keep away from? Something that occupied all your waking and dreaming thoughts with reminders of how much you wanted it?”
Thomas was once again conscious of the intimacy of the space he shared with Alastair. He remembered Barbara giggling about kissing Oliver Hayward in his carriage: the shared private space of it, the pleasure of misbehaving. He was also sure he was probably turning tomato red above his collar. “Matthew needs to hear that there is hope.”
“I didn’t say there was no hope,” Alastair said quietly. “Only that it is a difficult journey. It’s best for him to know that, so he can be prepared for it.” He rubbed at his eyes with a gesture that made him seem younger than he was. “He needs a plan.”
“He has one,” said Thomas, and he found himself explaining Christopher’s treatment plan, weaning Matthew off alcohol gradually and deliberately. Alastair took this in with a thoughtful look.
“It could work,” he said. “If Matthew abides by it. Though I gather you fear he won’t, or we wouldn’t be following him with such urgency.”
Thomas could hardly argue that point; besides, they’d arrived at Matthew’s address. Leaving the carriage, they headed upstairs, where Thomas used his key to let them into Matthew’s room, praying to the Angel as he did so that Matthew had not yet done anything dangerous, self-destructive, or embarrassing.
He was surprised to find Matthew sitting in an armchair by the fire, one hand on Oscar’s head, his legs crossed, reading a letter. He looked mildly over at Thomas and Alastair as they spilled into his flat.
“Thomas,” Matthew said. “I see you’ve come to discover whether I have or have not plunged myself into a hogshead of brandy. And you’ve brought Alastair, noted handler of drunks.”
“Well?” said Thomas, who saw no point bluffing. “Have you been drinking?”
Matthew looked at Alastair. Thomas had known Matthew might see his bringing Alastair here as a betrayal of sorts, and he’d been braced for it. But Matthew looked rather more like a general who had finally met his enemy on the battlefield only to discover that they both agreed the long years of bloodshed had not been worth it.
“Only what Christopher has given me,” Matthew said. “I suppose you will have to take my word for it. Or decide if I seem drunk to you.”
“It isn’t really about seeming drunk, though, is it?” said Alastair, unbuttoning his coat. “My father had to drink, in the end, simply to seem normal.”
“I am not your father,” said Matthew frostily.
“You are much younger. You have been drinking a much shorter time. Your chances are much better,” said Alastair, rolling up his sleeves. Thomas did not have time to ponder how Alastair’s forearms looked as if they belonged on a statue by Donatello, because Alastair was already striding across the room to the shelves where Matthew’s bottles of spirits were kept.
“Thomas says you have given up drinking for good,” Alastair said. “Yet you still have all this booze here, I see.” He selected a bottle of whiskey and uncorked it thoughtfully.
“I haven’t touched it since I came back from Paris,” said Matthew. “But I do still have visitors. For instance, the two of you, although I’m not sure if this is a visit or a rescue mission.”
“Visitors don’t matter,” Alastair said bluntly. “You need to get rid of this stuff. All of it.” Without warning, he strode to the open window and began emptying the bottle out of it. “Free liquor for the mundanes,” he added. “You’ll be popular.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Yes, I hear mundanes prefer their drinks poured on their heads from four stories up. What exactly do you think you’re doing? Thomas, make him stop.”
Alastair was shaking his head. “You can’t have this stuff around you all the time. It will just make every moment a battle, where you could have a drink but must, over and over, choose not to.”
“You think I have no willpower at all?” Matthew said. “That I cannot withstand a little temptation?”
“You will withstand it,” said Alastair grimly, “until you don’t.” He went back to the shelf to collect a second bottle. At the window, he turned to look at Matthew. “Having all this here is like asking an addict to live in an opium den,” he said. “You are never going to be able to drink casually. Alcohol will always mean something to you that it does not mean to other people. Getting rid of this stuff will make it easier. Why not have it be easier?”
Matthew hesitated a moment, and Thomas knew him well enough to read the look in his eyes: Because I do not deserve to have it be easy, because the suffering is part of the punishment. But Matthew would not say such things in front of Alastair, and perhaps it was better that he did not.
“Math.” Thomas sat down in the chair opposite Matthew’s. Oscar thumped his tail on the ground. “Look, I understand wanting to flee that foul meeting—after Charles said the things he said, I—”
“I think the Inquisitor is blackmailing Charles,” Matthew said.
Alastair (who had made it through the whiskey and was on to pouring out gin) and Thomas exchanged a look of surprise.
“I just assumed Charles was being his usual lickspittle self today,” Alastair said. “You don’t need to make excuses for him. We all know what he’s like.”
Matthew waved the paper he’d been reading. “The Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. Ari found this in his fireplace. Read it, Tom.”
Thomas took the letter from him. He looked up after a quick skim to find Alastair peering at him. “Well, all right,” Thomas said. “So the Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. But Charles isn’t named.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out who the letter was for,” Matthew said. “Well, Anna and Ari and I. The wording of it has led us to a few possibilities: Augustus, Thoby…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to think it was Charles. But now I’m sure of it.” He looked over at Alastair. “I ought to have gotten up in the middle of the meeting. Denounced him. But—he is my brother.”
“It’s all right,” Thomas said. “If Bridgestock’s blackmailing him into voicing support, that means Charles doesn’t actually believe what he’s saying in the first place. It’s Bridgestock and a few cronies who are trying to lay blame on Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa. Denouncing Charles wouldn’t fix the root of the problem.”
Alastair, standing by the window, said, “I just—”
Thomas looked up. “What is it?”
“Should I assume,” Alastair said, “that Charles is being blackmailed about… me?”
“Not specifically,” Matthew said, and Thomas saw Alastair relax minutely. “But it would be, more generally, because he loves men, rather than women.”
“Bridgestock is foul,” said Thomas furiously. “And Charles—is his shame so all-consuming as that? He couldn’t possibly believe that your parents would care, or that the Enclave who have known him all his life would shun him.”
“He thinks it would ruin his political career,” said Alastair. “He is meant to be the next Consul. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“I, for one, hadn’t heard,” said Matthew dryly.
“It was his dream,” Alastair said, “and I suppose it is hard to give up on one’s dreams.” Thomas sensed that Alastair was doing his best to be fair. “He thinks that without his career, he would be purposeless. He believes he cannot be a family man, cannot have children, that his only legacy will be as Consul. He fears to lose that. I believe a blend of shame and fear drives him.” He sighed. “I’d honestly like to believe Charles was being blackmailed. Rather than that he would turn on his own family for Bridgestock’s approval. He can be an insufferable weasel, but I never believed him a monster.”
“I have to believe he can be reasoned with,” Matthew said. “It is why I came here. To get the letter. To be sure.” He sighed. “I’ll talk to Charles as soon as I can.”
Alastair folded his arms. “If you like, when you do, we’ll come with you.”
Matthew looked over at Thomas, surprised. Thomas nodded his agreement: of course they would go with Matthew. “That might be best,” Matthew said, pushing past a clear reluctance. “It is unlikely Charles will listen just to me. But you, Alastair—you have insight into him that we do not.”
“You know,” Thomas said, feeling bold, “you two think you have nothing in common, but here, we’ve found something. You’re both experts on the same pompous git.”
Matthew chuckled quietly. Alastair gave Thomas a wry look, but Thomas thought he seemed a little pleased.
It was a bad situation, surely, he thought, and he didn’t think Charles would respond well to the three of them confronting him. But if it could bring Matthew and Alastair together, then perhaps another miracle was also possible.
James was alone in his room, and evening was coming on. The time just after the meeting had been excruciating. He and Will and Lucie and Tessa all gathered in the parlor (Jesse had gone back to his room, giving them space to be together), where the Herondales had spent so many happy evenings reading and chatting or just being quiet in each other’s company. They were quiet now, too, with Lucie curled up at Will’s side, as she had when she was a little girl, and Tessa gazing blankly into the fire. Will did his best to reassure them all, but he could hardly hide his anger and uncertainty. And James—James sat closing and unclosing his hands, yearning to do something for his family, utterly unsure of what it might be.
He had excused himself to his room eventually. He wanted desperately to be alone. Actually, he wanted desperately to be with Cordelia. She had an uncanny ability to inject reason and even humor into the darkest situation. But Cordelia was no doubt back at Cornwall Gardens. He did not think she had stayed until the end of the meeting. He supposed he could not blame her, and yet—
I do not know what I will do about James.
He had felt a flicker of hope, after overhearing her conversation with Matthew, that at least I do not know what I will do was not I do not love him at all. And yet—Cordelia was a steadfast friend. He had truly expected, after the horror of the meeting had ended, to see her there among the crowd; surely she would be there in friendship, in fellowship, even if not as a wife.
Her absence had been like a blow. He wondered now if it had been the blow of realization, of acceptance. That he had really lost her. That it was over.
There was a knock on the door. James had been pacing back and forth; he turned now and went to answer it. To his surprise, Jesse stood in the doorway.
“A runner came, with a message,” he said, holding out a folded paper to James. “I thought I would bring it to you. God knows I’d like to be of some sort of use in this nightmare.”
“Thank you,” James said hoarsely. He took the paper and unfolded it, aware of Jesse’s eyes on him.
James—I must see you at Curzon Street immediately on a matter of great urgency. I will await you there. Cordelia.
He stood motionless. The words seemed to dance on the page in front of him. He read the note again; surely it could not say what it seemed to say.
“Is it from Cordelia?” Jesse asked—alerted, no doubt, by the look on James’s face.
James closed his hand over the letter, the paper crumpling in his fist. “Yes,” he said. “She wants to see me at Curzon Street. Immediately.”
He waited for Jesse to say something about curfew, or about how James ought to remain at the Institute with his sister and parents, or about the danger that lurked in the dark streets of London.
But Jesse said none of those things. “Well, then,” he said, and stepped aside. “You had better go—hadn’t you?”
Lucie had to knock on Jesse’s door several times before he opened it. When he did, it was apparent he’d fallen asleep in his clothes: he was barefoot, his shirt wrinkled, his hair an untidy mess.
“Lucie.” He leaned wearily against the doorway. “Not that I’m not glad to see you. But I assumed your parents would be needing you this evening.”
“I know,” she said. “And they did for a bit, but—” She shrugged. “They went off to bed. I think they rather wanted to be by themselves, at the end of it. Not that they wanted to get rid of me, just that they have their own little world that’s just them, and they retreat into it every now and then. I suppose that’s true for every couple,” she added, finding the thought rather surprising, “even if they are very old and one’s parents.”
Jesse laughed softly and shook his head. “I didn’t think anything could make me laugh tonight, but you do have a particular talent.”
Lucie closed the door behind her. The room was cold; one of the windows was propped slightly open. Jesse’s bed was scattered with papers—his mother’s papers from Chiswick, and his own scrawled notes on how to decode them.
“I cannot help feeling as if somehow this is my fault,” Jesse said. “As if I have brought you bad luck. This information about Belial has gone unknown by the Enclave for so long, and then, the moment I arrive—”
“The two things have nothing to do with each other,” said Lucie. “Your mother didn’t tell the world about my demonic grandfather because of you; she did it because she hates us. She always has. And because Belial decided it was time for it to be known,” she added. “You always say it’s Belial’s bidding she’s doing. Not the other way around.”
“One does wonder,” said Jesse. “What good does it do him, having everyone know your mother’s parentage? Why now?”
Lucie clasped her hands in front of her. She was wearing a very plain, light tea dress, and the cold from the open window was making her shiver. She said, “Jesse. I want—I’d like you to put your arms around me.”
A light flared in his dark green eyes. He looked away quickly. “You know we can’t,” he said. “I suppose—if I put on gloves—”
“I don’t want you to put on gloves,” Lucie said. “I don’t want to fight off what happens when we kiss. Not this time. I want to follow it as far as I can go.”
Jesse looked stunned. “Absolutely not. Lucie, it could be dangerous—”
“I realized something,” she said. “Belial has always focused his attention on James. Pushed him to fall into shadow, forced him to see things he would never have wanted to see, feel what he would never have wanted to feel. I have been protected from Belial for all these years, because my brother stood in the breach.” She took a step forward. Jesse did not move away, though he stood rigid, his hands at his sides. “Now James cannot see Belial. All that effort with the mirror, the danger he undertook—it was to catch a glimpse of my grandfather’s doings. If there is a chance I can catch such a glimpse, I should try. I cannot let my brother shoulder all the risk.”
“I want to say no,” Jesse said roughly. “But if I do—you’ll find some other way to try, won’t you? And I won’t be there to protect you.”
“Let us protect each other,” she said, and put her arms around him. He stiffened but did not pull away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up at him. At a new bruise on his cheek, at his untidy hair. He had never been messy when he was a ghost—he had always been perfectly put-together, not a hair out of place. Not a scratch on his paper-pale skin. She had not imagined he would be so much more beautiful when he was alive, that it would seem the difference between a living rose and one made from porcelain or glass.
His body was warm against hers. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed the bruise on his cheekbone. Lightly, so it wouldn’t hurt, but he made a low noise and his arms came up to wrap around her.
And it was heavenly. He was warm and smelled of soap and Jesse. Wool, ink, winter air. She burrowed into him, kissed the side of his jaw. Slid her bare foot along his. As experiments went, this one was delightful, but—
“Nothing’s happening,” she said, after a moment.
“Speak for yourself,” Jesse muttered.
“I mean it. I don’t feel like I’m about to faint.” She raised her chin. “Maybe we need to be touching a bit more intensely. It could be more than just touching. It could be… desire.” She laid her hand against his cheek; his green eyes flared darkly. “Kiss me.”
She had thought he would object. He didn’t. He closed his eyes before he kissed her, and she felt the harsh intake of his breath. She had feared it would feel like something other than a real kiss, like an experiment or a test. But his lips on hers swept away self-consciousness and thought. He was practiced at kissing her now: he knew what she responded to, where she was sensitive, where to linger and where to press. Her lips parted: her fingers stroked his neck as his tongue stroked the inside of her mouth. It was not just her body, but her mind and soul that were lost in the kiss, lost in Jesse.
And she began to fall.
She clung to the feel of his body against hers as a lighthouse in a storm, something to keep her anchored. Her vision darkened. She seemed to be in two places at once: in the Institute, kissing Jesse, and somewhere between worlds—somewhere where points of light raced around her, swirling like paint on a palette.
The points of light began to resolve themselves. They were not stars, as she had thought, but grains of dark gold sand. They swirled, blown by an invisible wind, half-concealing what stood in front of her.
High walls. Towers that pierced the sky, shimmering like crystal. The demon towers of Alicante? Was she seeing Idris? Gates wrought from silver and iron rose up; they were covered with a strange calligraphy, like Marks rendered in an alien script.
A hand, long and white, reached out. It was not her own hand—it was massive, inhuman, like the hand of a marble statue. It laid itself against the gates, and rough words scored the inside of Lucie’s mind:
Kaal ssha ktar.
A grinding, wrenching sound. Images flashed through her head: an owl, with glowing orange eyes; a sigil, like Belial’s, but with something oddly different about it; the statue of an angel holding a sword, standing above a dying serpent.
Belial’s face, turned toward hers, his mouth stretched wide in a grin, his eyes the color of blood.
With a gasp, Lucie wrenched her gaze away. Light flared and died; she was back in Jesse’s room; he was holding her, his eyes panicked as they searched her face. “Lucie!” His fingers tightened on her arms. “Are you all right, did you—”
“See anything?” she whispered. “Yes—I did—but I don’t know, Jesse. I don’t know what any of it means.”