Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  Then at lunch, her mother and Alastair had occupied themselves by trading the latest gossip—Raziel knew where they’d found it out—that James had been discovered wandering about Tatiana Blackthorn’s gardens, having merrily smashed in all her windows and terrified her and her daughter by racing drunkenly about her lawn. Even Risa looked amused as she refilled the teapot.

  Cordelia was horrified. “That is not what happened!”

  “And how would you know?” said Alastair, sounding a bit as if he knew exactly why she did. But he couldn’t have guessed, could he? Cordelia couldn’t be sure; Alastair often seemed as if he knew a great deal more than he was letting on. She thought longingly of the distant past when the two of them had been able to settle their differences by hitting each other over the head with toy teakettles.

  So, thank goodness for tea with Anna, even if she had nothing decent to wear. Cordelia cast a last glance at herself in the pier glass between the vestibule windows. While her apple-green princess dress with pink embroidery was fashionable and pretty, all the flounces made her resemble an old-fashioned lamp, and her face above the lace collar looked jaundiced. With a sigh, Cordelia caught up her gloves and reticule from the hall table and headed toward the door.

  “Cordelia!” Sona hurried toward her, the heels of her boots click-clicking on the parquet floor. “Where are you going?”

  “To take tea with Anna Lightwood,” said Cordelia. “She invited me yesterday.”

  “That’s what your brother said, but I didn’t credit it. I want you to make friends, Layla.” Sona rarely used Cordelia’s pet name—given to her by Sona, after the heroine of the poem they both loved—unless she was worried. “You know that I do. But I am not sure you should visit Miss Lightwood.”

  Cordelia felt her back stiffen. Alastair had come to observe the conversation between his sister and mother. He was leaning against the doorway to the breakfast room, smirking. “I accepted the invitation,” she said. “I will go.”

  “At the ball the other night, I overheard much talk about Anna Lightwood,” said Sona, “and none of it was complimentary. There are those in the Enclave who see her as improper and brash. We have come here to make friends and form alliances, not to alienate the powerful. Are you certain she is the best choice for a social call?”

  “She seems proper enough.” Cordelia reached for her new straw hat, decorated with a silk posy and ribbons.

  Alastair spoke from the doorway. “There may be those in the older generation who disapprove of Anna, but in our set she is one of the most popular Shadowhunters in London. It would be unwise for Cordelia to turn down her invitation.”

  “Really?” Sona looked curious. “Can that be true?”

  “It is.” Alastair pushed back a lock of his pale hair. Cordelia could remember when his hair had been black as a crow’s wing, before he had started dying it. “Anna’s uncle is the head of the Institute. Her godmother is the Consul. Without a question, the most prominent families to know in London are the Herondales, the Lightwoods, and the Fairchilds, and Anna is tied to all of them.”

  “Very well,” said Sona, after a pause. “But Alastair, you go with her. Pay a short call and observe the proprieties. Afterward, if you like, the two of you can go shopping in Leadenhall Market.”

  Cordelia half expected a protest from Alastair, but he only shrugged. “As you say, Mother,” he said, brushing past Cordelia on his way to the door. He was already dressed to go out, Cordelia thought with mingled surprise and amusement, in a deep gray flannel coat that suited his dark eyes. The shape of his weapons belt was just visible beneath the line of his coat; the Enclave had suggested that all Shadowhunters arm themselves as a precaution when going out, even in daylight. Cordelia herself had Cortana strapped to her back, glamoured so that it would be invisible to mundanes.

  Perhaps Alastair really did know more than he was letting on.

  * * *

  The late afternoon sun shone brightly on Grosvenor Square as Matthew’s father, Henry, answered the door at the Consul’s house.

  James ceased what he suspected might have been overly loud knocking as the door swung open. Henry smiled when he saw James: he had a plain but kindly face, ginger hair that had faded to brown streaked with gray, and a hint of Matthew’s grin.

  “Come in, come in, James,” he said, rolling backward. He had been terribly injured twenty-five years ago in the Battle of Cadair Idris, and he had never walked again. He had taken a standard Bath chair for invalids and bent his inventive spirit upon it—it was fitted now with a smaller version of the wheels one might find on an automobile. A curved appendage with an electric light hung over one of Henry’s shoulders. Over the other shoulder, a clawed attachment allowed him to reach for objects placed high overhead. A shelf beneath the seat carried books.

  Christopher adored his godfather and spent hours in Henry’s laboratory, working on all sorts of inventions as well as improvements to the Bath chair. Some had been very useful, like the steam-powered elevator they had installed so that Henry could easily reach his cellar laboratory; others, like Henry and Christopher’s attempt to create a demon-repelling ointment, had not.

  Henry had a kind spirit and had welcomed James as Matthew’s parabatai even before the two of them had gone through the ceremony in the Silent City. “Matthew’s in the back garden,” he said now, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “He said something about reading a book surrounded by the uncritical beauties of nature.”

  James had to concede this did sound like Matthew. “Is he alone?”

  “Unless you count Oscar.” Oscar Wilde was Matthew’s dog, who James had found wandering on the streets of London and presented to Matthew. The dog adored Matthew uncritically, much like the beauties of nature.

  James cleared his throat. “There was something I found—an odd sort of dirt—I wondered if you could take a look at it for me? You know, in your laboratory.”

  Most people would have treated this as a strange request. Not Henry Fairchild. His eyes lit up. “Indeed! Give it here.”

  James passed over the small vial of dirt he had filled from the contents of his pocket the night before.

  “I shall take a look at this as soon as possible. I am leaving soon to see Charlotte in Idris, but I shan’t be gone too long.” Henry winked at James and rolled away toward the lift that would take him to the laboratory.

  James made his way past the drawing room, dining room, kitchen—where he bowed to the cook, who waved a spoon at him, in greeting or threat he wasn’t sure—and out through the back door, which led to the garden. He and Matthew had spent hours training there: it was a welcoming square green space with a massive London plane tree at its center. Matthew was standing in its shade, reading a book. He was absorbed enough that he didn’t hear the door shut, or notice James coming toward him across the grass until James had nearly reached him.

  He looked up, and his green eyes widened. “James,” he said, and the word sounded like an exhale of relief. He quickly schooled his face into a frown. “I don’t know whether to embrace you as a brother or strike you down as a foe.”

  “I vote the first one,” said James.

  “I suppose it isn’t really fair to be angry about last night,” Matthew mused. “I imagine you have little control over what happens when you go into the shadow realm. But—once your father had finished shouting at us all in Welsh for breaking his window and letting you leave—the news came through that they’d tracked you to Chiswick House, and I did wonder.”

  “Wonder what?” James perched himself on the arm of a white garden bench.

  “Whether you’d used the shadow realm to go and see Grace,” said Matthew. “I mean, what else is there in Chiswick? Nothing interesting.”

  “I didn’t go there voluntarily,” said James.

  “Then tell me what happened,” said Matthew, tucking his novel into the crook of a tree. “Actually, wait.” He held up a hand just as James had started to speak. “Wait—wait—”

 
; “I shall murder you if this keeps up,” said James.

  Matthew grinned, and there was the sound of barking. Boisterous hellos bounced off the garden walls. Thomas and Christopher, having paused to greet a tail-wagging Oscar, were running down the back steps of the house. “James!” Christopher called as they got closer. “What happened last night? Where’d you disappear to?”

  “There you go, James,” Matthew said smugly. “Now you don’t have to tell the story more than once.”

  “Yes, what happened to you last night?” said Thomas. “You just vanished, you know. Matthew was about to rip the Institute apart brick by brick to see if you’d fallen into the crypt when your father tracked you to Chiswick.”

  “Why Chiswick?” Christopher wondered aloud. “Nothing interesting happens there.”

  “It has now,” said Matthew cheerfully.

  Before the conversation could degenerate further, James explained how he had gone into the world of shadows, how he had followed a light and found himself in the greenhouse. He described the warped Cerberus demon and how he had killed it. When he got to the part about Lucie and Cordelia, Matthew began to look less cheerful.

  “What on earth were they doing there?” he said.

  “They’d gone to check on Miss Blackthorn and see if she was all right,” said James, who wasn’t sure he believed this particular story himself. Lucie had had her bright-eyed storytelling face on. As for Cordelia—he realized with a slight jolt that he doubted he’d be able to tell if she was lying to him or not. He didn’t know her that well, though he felt as if he ought to.

  “Seems dangerous to be out and about at night after those attacks,” said Matthew. “Lucie—the girls shouldn’t be taking such risks.”

  “As if you’re going to stop going out at night,” Thomas pointed out. He and Christopher had sprawled on the grass while James was talking. Matthew was leaning against the plane tree, absently stroking Oscar’s head. “Here’s my question: Why Lightwood—I mean, Chiswick House? Why the greenhouse?”

  “No idea,” said James, keeping his thoughts about Cortana to himself; they were too vague and would only confuse things. “Perhaps because the demon was there?”

  “Demons do like to take up residence in ruins, especially those where there are remnants of black magic,” said Christopher. “And we all know what Grandfather Benedict was up to in that house. It’s why he turned into a worm.”

  “Ah,” said Matthew, “fond family memories.”

  “Well, the Clave agrees with you,” said James. “They believe the demon has been there since Benedict’s time. And while it seems entirely unconnected to the attacks, I do feel we have been seeing an unusual number of demons lately in rather unusual places.”

  “ ‘Demons in unusual places’ was Benedict’s motto,” said Matthew, tossing a stick for Oscar. “How do we know what the Clave thinks? Charles has been remarkably tight-lipped.”

  “Not to me,” said James. “He came to see me this morning.”

  Thomas’s expression darkened. “Don’t tell me he believes all that poppycock about you going to see Miss Blackthorn and being refused—?”

  “He does believe it,” said James, not wanting to hear the story again. He was already annoyed at himself for having let Charles get to him where Grace was concerned; of course Charles knew nothing significant about her. “Or at least, I was unable to give him another, better explanation. I cannot say I was wandering about the shadow realm. Better, I suppose, that they think I am a lunatic in love.”

  “But you barely know Miss Blackthorn,” said Christopher, nibbling a piece of grass.

  James’s eyes met Matthew’s. Matthew was looking at him with sympathy, but there was a clear statement in his green eyes. It’s time.

  “I do know Grace,” said James. “And I do love her.” He explained about the summers in Idris, Blackthorn Manor next door, and the hours he’d spent with Grace in Brocelind, painting pictures in words for her of London, the great city she had never seen. He explained that Tatiana Blackthorn loathed him, and spoke of Charles’s admonition that he stay away from the Blackthorns. By the time he was done, the first stars were beginning to come out in the darkening sky.

  Christopher was the first to speak. “I didn’t know that you were in love with someone, James. I’m sorry. I should have been paying attention.”

  “I didn’t know either,” said Thomas, “and I have been paying attention.”

  James said, “I am sorry I didn’t tell you before. Grace has always worried that her mother would find out and be furious. Even Lucie does not know.”

  Though, he realized, Cordelia did. It had not even seemed strange to tell her.

  Thomas was frowning. “My aunt Tatiana is mad. My father has often said so, that his sister was driven to madness by what happened to her father and her husband. She blames our parents for their deaths.”

  “But James has never done anything to her,” said Christopher, his eyebrows knitting together.

  “He’s a Herondale,” said Thomas. “That’s enough.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Christopher said. “It is as if one was bitten by a duck and years later one shot a completely different duck and ate it for dinner, and called that revenge.”

  “Please do not use metaphors, Christopher,” said Matthew. “It gives me the pip.”

  “This is bad enough without mentioning ducks,” said James. He had never fancied ducks since one had bitten him in Hyde Park as a small child. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I feel as if I have failed in helping Barbara.”

  “No,” Thomas said quickly. “We have only just started. I was thinking—perhaps you and I and Matthew should go to the Devil Tavern and look through the book collection. There are volumes there that the Clave will never find combing through the Institute’s library. We could see if there is any mention of these daylight demon creatures.”

  “What about Christopher?” said Matthew.

  Christopher held up a vial filled with a red substance. “I managed to acquire some blood that the Silent Brothers had taken from one of the patients last night,” he said proudly. “I intend to mix modern science and Shadowhunter magic to attempt to create an antidote for the demon poison. Henry has said I can use his laboratory while he is in Idris.”

  Thomas squinted. “That had better not be my sister’s blood.”

  “It’s Piers’s,” said Christopher, “though for the sake of pure science, it should not matter.”

  “And yet we are all relieved,” said James. “Matthew and I can go to Fleet Street—perhaps Thomas should help Christopher in the lab?”

  Thomas sighed. “I always end up helping Christopher in the lab.”

  “It is because you are remarkably good at dodging explosions,” said James, “and also, you can curse in Spanish.”

  “How does that help?” said Thomas.

  “It doesn’t,” said James, “but Christopher likes it. Now—”

  “James!” It was Henry, calling from the house.

  James sprinted away. Oscar had fallen asleep in the grass, his paws sticking up into the air.

  There was a short silence. Matthew took his book from the tree and brushed off the cover.

  “Grace,” Thomas said finally. “What is she like? I don’t think we’ve exchanged two words.”

  “Very shy,” said Matthew. “Very quiet, looks painfully frightened a great deal of the time, yet always admired at social events.”

  “That’s odd,” said Thomas.

  “Not really,” said Christopher. “Men like the idea of a woman they can rescue.”

  Both Matthew and Thomas looked at him in amazement. He shrugged.

  “I heard my mother say it once,” he said. “Seems true in this case.”

  “Do you think she’s in love with James?” said Thomas. “Because he seems gone on her. I hope it’s not unrequited.”

  “She had better love him back,” said Matthew. “He deserves it.”

  “We don’t always love peopl
e who deserve it,” said Thomas quietly.

  “Maybe not,” said Matthew. “But often we don’t love those who don’t deserve it, and very right, too.” His fingers gripped the book he held so tightly that they had gone pale.

  Thomas put his finger to his lips. James had returned, carrying a letter. The address had been written in a decidedly feminine hand: J. H., care of Matthew Fairchild. URGENT.

  “Someone sent you a letter here?” said Thomas curiously. “Is it from Grace?”

  James, who had already scanned the first few lines, nodded. “She didn’t want to risk getting me in hot water with the Enclave. She knew I’d either be here, or Matthew would find me and deliver the message.” He was quite sure his friends had been talking about him while he was gone, but he didn’t mind it: his relief at seeing Grace’s writing felt like a palpable thing. The loops and scrolls of her hand were as familiar to him as the forest outside Herondale Manor.

  “So what does she say?” said Matthew. “She adores your face and yearns to run her fingers through your messy raven hair?”

  “She wants me to meet her tonight, at ten,” James said. He slipped the letter into his pocket, his mind racing. “I had better go. I have no way to get a message back to her, and I’ll have to walk—the streets are entirely snarled up with traffic.”

  “You can’t walk all the way to Chiswick—” Thomas protested.

  James shook his head. “Of course not. She proposed a spot in London—a place Matthew and I used to do balancing exercises. I’ve described it to her before.”

  “Still.” Matthew looked hesitant. “Is it wise? My brother is an idiot, but if the Enclave wants you to stay away from the Blackthorns—”

  “I must,” said James, not wanting to explain; he knew his friends, and they would insist on coming with him if he did. Better to leave now and let them think his concern was a purely romantic one. He bent to rub Oscar’s head and said, “Thomas, Christopher, you handle the laboratory work. Matthew, I will find you when I return from meeting Grace, and we will go to the Devil.”