Grief, Cordelia would realize during that night and the next day, was like drowning. Sometimes one would surface from the dark water: a period of brief lucidity and calmness, during which ordinary tasks might be accomplished. During which one’s behavior was, presumably, normal, and it was possible to hold a conversation.
The rest of the time, one was pulled deep below the water. There was no lucidity, only panic and terror, only her mind screaming incoherently, only the sensation of dying. Of not being able to breathe.
She would remember the time later as flashes of light in the dark, moments when she surfaced, when the making of memories was possible, if incomplete.
She did not remember getting from the courtyard into her bedroom—James’s bedroom—at the Institute. That was a drowning time. She remembered only suddenly being in the bed, a bed that was much too big for her alone. Alastair was leaning over her, his eyes red, drawing healing runes on her left arm with his stele. “Tekan nakhor,” he said, “dandehaat shekastan.” Don’t move; your ribs are broken.
“Why are we here?” she whispered.
“The Enclave seems to think we might as well trust Belial’s bargain,” said Alastair, misunderstanding her. “What other choice do we have? We have to assume we’re safe from the Watchers for the next day and a half. I have to go home,” he added. “You know I do, Layla. I have to bring Mother here, to be with us. She’ll need help getting out of London.”
Make someone else go, Cordelia wanted to say. Don’t leave me, Alastair.
But the dark was coming down, she was being swallowed up in it. She tasted bitter water, salt on her lips.
“Be careful,” she whispered. “Be careful.”
She was in the corridor, unable to remember how she got there. The Institute was full of people. The whole Enclave had been notified of what had happened, an emergency meeting called. Many Nephilim were moving to the Institute, not wishing to be alone in their homes. Patrols had searched houses and office buildings for a working telephone or telegraph to no avail: they were, as Belial had promised, entirely cut off from the outside world.
Martin Wentworth came up to Cordelia, shamefaced, as did Ida Rosewain. “So sorry to hear,” they said. “About James. About Matthew. About Christopher.”
Cordelia nodded, accepted their apologies. Wished they would leave her alone. She looked for Anna but couldn’t find her. Couldn’t find Lucie, either. She went to her room to sit by the window, waiting for Alastair’s return.
The little girl who had been the last mundane possessed by Belial had died. She had been brought into the infirmary by Jesse, and been tended to carefully, but her body had been too damaged to survive. Lucie said that Grace had wept over her; Cordelia could not find it within herself even to be surprised.
Night was day, and day was night. There seemed no difference here in Belial’s London: the heavy clouds were constant, and while sometimes strange light shone, it came irregularly, with no notice paid to the time. Watches and clocks were still, or the hands spun unceasingly; the Institute’s inhabitants charted the time as best they could using an hourglass taken from Will’s office.
Understanding that she might never return to Cornwall Gardens, Sona had not been able to decide what to bring and what to leave behind. Cordelia found herself stacking an odd assortment of ornaments and books, clothes and keepsakes, on a dresser in one of the Institute’s spare rooms. When she was done, her mother held out her arms from the bed. “Come here,” she said. “My poor baby girl. Come here.”
Cordelia wept in her mother’s arms, holding on tightly until the waves took her down again.
As she passed through the drawing room, Cordelia saw Thomas. He was with Eugenia, both of them talking intently, yet he seemed alone. He was the last of the Merry Thieves left in this world, Cordelia realized with a dull horror. The last of four. If they did not get James and Matthew back somehow, he would always be alone.
Charles led the meeting. His face was calm, but Cordelia could see he felt utterly unprepared for the situation. His hands shook like fluttering paper, and he was drowned out quickly by a chorus of voices from those in the Enclave who were older, and more determined, than he was.
“We are not remaining in London and endangering our families,” roared Martin Wentworth. “We have been given a chance to escape. We should take it.”
Cordelia was stunned to find herself objecting loudly during the meeting. She heard her own voice as if from a distance, protesting that they should not leave London. They were Shadowhunters. They could not abandon the city to Belial. But it didn’t matter—no matter how vociferously she and her friends protested, the decision was made. Belial could not be trusted, Cordelia argued. And what if James and Matthew escaped, returned to London? How could they be allowed to find it deserted, under demonic control?
“They will not return,” Martin Wentworth said somberly. “What a Prince of Hell takes, he does not give back.”
Cordelia could not breathe. She looked across the room, met Lucie’s eyes. Lucie’s gaze held hers, keeping her above the waves.
It was past midnight. They were all in the library, lamps lit but turned low. Maps and books were spread out before them. Anna read fiercely, as if she could burn up the pages with her eyes.
Cordelia lay in the too-big bed again, hating it. Surrounding her were objects that reminded her of James. His clothes, old books, even the carvings he had made in the wood of his nightstand. TMT at the DT, he had scratched into the paint. The Merry Thieves at the Devil Tavern. A reminder? The title of a play, a poem, a thought?
When the door opened, she was too exhausted even to be surprised as Lucie came in, with Jesse beside her. As Jesse watched from the door, Lucie crossed the room and lay down on the bed next to Cordelia.
“I know you miss them as much as I do,” she said.
Cordelia put her head on Lucie’s shoulder. Jesse looked at them both, then quietly slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Do you think we can do it?” Cordelia whispered, into the shadowy dark.
“I have to believe we can,” Lucie said. “I have to.”
Morning was as dark as night. Sona took Cordelia’s hand. “You are grieving,” she said, “but you are a warrior. You have always been a warrior.” She looked over at Alastair, who stood by the window, gazing out at the blackened sky. “You will help her to do what is necessary.”
“Yes,” Alastair said. “I will.”