Chain of Gold (22 page)

On the stairs in front of No. 30, a girl sat crying. She was a very fashionable girl, in a walking dress of blue foulard with lace trimmings and acres of flounces about the skirt. She wore a headband trimmed with silk roses, and they wobbled as she cried.

Cordelia checked the address she had written down, hoping it would have changed. Alas, definitely No. 30. She sighed, squared her shoulders, and approached.

“Pardon me,” she said, as she reached the steps. The girl was blocking them completely; there was no way to politely edge past. “I'm here to see Anna Lightwood?”

The girl's head jerked up. She was very pretty: blond and
rosy-cheeked, though she'd been crying. “Who are you, then?” she demanded.

“I, ah…” Cordelia peered more closely at the girl. Definitely a mundane: no Marks, no glamour. “I'm her cousin?” It wasn't quite true, but it seemed the right thing to say.

“Oh.” Some of the suspicion went out of the girl's face. “I—I am here because—well, because it's just too, too awful—”

“Might I inquire as to the problem?” Cordelia asked, though she rather dreaded finding out what it was, as it seemed the sort of thing where she might have to come up with a solution.

“Anna,” the girl wept. “I loved her—I love her still! I would have given it all up for her, all of it, polite society and all its rules, just to be with her, but she has thrown me out like a dog on the street!”

“Now, Evangeline,” drawled a voice, and Cordelia looked up to see Anna leaning out of an upstairs window. She was wearing a man's dressing gown in rich purple-and-gold brocade, and her hair was a cap of loose, short waves. “You can't say you've been thrown out like a dog when you've got your mama, two footmen, and a butler coming for you.” She waved. “Hello, Cordelia.”

“Oh, dear,” said Cordelia, and patted Evangeline gently on the shoulder.

“Besides, Evangeline,” said Anna. “You're to be married Wednesday. To a baronet.”

“I don't want him!” Evangeline sprang to her feet. “I want you!”

“No,” said Anna. “You want a baronet. Not to live in my messy little flat. Now go on, Evangeline, there's a good girl.”

Evangeline burst into a fresh spate of tears. “I thought I was the one,” she wept. “After all the other girls—I thought they didn't mean anything—”

“They didn't,” Anna said cheerfully. “And neither did you. Do come up, Cordelia, the water's already boiled.”

Evangeline let out a wail that made Cordelia jump back in fear
for her life. She leaped to her feet, her blond curls flying. “I shall not stand for this!” she announced. “I'm coming back in!”

Anna looked alarmed. “Cordelia, please stop her, my landlady hates fusses—”

There was the sound of hoofbeats pounding along the road, growing rapidly louder. A light carriage drawn by two matched grays hurtled up the street; a Junoesque woman in a flared skirt and redingote perched upon the driver's box seat. She pulled up briskly in front of the house and turned a furious face toward No. 30.

“Evangeline!” she roared. “Get into the carriage this instant!”

The fire went out of Evangeline. “Yes, Mama,” she squeaked, and darted into the carriage.

The plumes on Evangeline's mother's hat trembled as she gazed sternly at Anna, perched in her sash window, examining an unlit cigar. “You!” she shouted. “You are a disgrace! Breaking girls' hearts like that! An absolute disgrace, sir! If it were but a century ago, I should slap a glove in your face, decidedly!”

Anna burst out laughing. The door of the carriage slammed, and the horses broke into a gallop. The carriage wheels squealed as the conveyance rocketed around the corner and was soon out of sight.

Anna glanced down at Cordelia pleasantly. “Do come up,” she said. “I am on the second floor and will leave that door open for you.”

Feeling as if she had been winged by a typhoon, Cordelia made her way up the stairs and into a slightly shabby entryway. A lamp glowed in an alcove halfway up the inside steps. The rug was threadbare and the banister rail so splintered she feared to touch it, and she nearly tripped up the last three shallow steps.

Anna's door was, as she had said, wide open. The flat inside was much pleasanter than Cordelia had imagined, given the state of the hallway. Softly colored old Victorian wallpaper in dark green and gold, a haphazard scatter of furniture that didn't match but looked
glorious anyway, like warring armies who had found a peculiarly harmonious peace. There was a fearsomely large sofa of worn, deep gold velvet, some winged armchairs with tweedy pillows, a Turkish rug, and a Tiffany lamp of a dozen colors of glass. The mantel of the fireplace was decorated with a multitude of knives that had been stuck into it at odd angles, each with a jeweled, glittering hilt; atop a small table by the bedroom door was a large, vibrantly colored stuffed snake with two heads.

“I see that you're examining Percival,” said Anna, gesturing at the serpent. “Spectacular, isn't he?”

She stood in front of the sash window, looking out as the sun sank behind the rooftops of London. Her dressing gown fell open about her long body, and beneath it Cordelia could see that she was wearing dark trousers and a sheer white gentleman's shirt. It was unbuttoned to below her clavicle; her skin was only a shade darker than the whiteness of the shirt, and her hair, curling at the back of her neck, was the same black as James's. Herondale black, the color of the wing of a crow.

“He's certainly brightly colored,” said Cordelia.

“He was a love gift. I never do court dull girls.” Anna turned to look at Cordelia, the dressing gown sweeping around her like wings. Her features were not what Cordelia would ever have called pretty—she was striking, stunning, even. “Pretty” seemed too small and imprecise a word for Anna.

“Did that woman call you ‘sir'?” said Cordelia curiously. “Did she think you were a man?”

“Possibly.” Anna flicked her cigar into the fireplace. “Best to let people believe what they want to believe, in my experience.”

She threw herself onto the sofa. No braces held up her trousers, but unlike the men for whom they were tailored, she had hips, and the trousers hung from them, clinging close to her slight curves.

“Poor Evangeline,” said Cordelia, undoing the strap that held
Cortana and leaning her sword against the wall. Settling her skirts about her, she sat down in one of the armchairs.

Anna sighed. “This is not the first time I have tried to break it off with her,” she said. “The last few times I was gentler, but as her wedding day drew near, I felt one must be cruel to be kind. I had never wanted her life ruined.” She leaned forward, her focus on Cordelia. “Now, Cordelia Carstairs—tell me all your secrets.”

“I think I'd better not,” said Cordelia. “I don't know you very well.”

Anna laughed. “Are you always so straightforward? Why did you come to tea if you didn't want to gossip?”

“I didn't say I didn't want to gossip. Just not about myself.”

Anna's smiled deepened. “You're a vexing little thing,” she said, though she didn't sound vexed. “Oh! The kettle.”

She leaped up in a swirl of glimmering brocade and busied herself in the small kitchen. It had brightly painted walls and a small window that looked out onto the brick facade of the building opposite.

“Well, then, if you want to gossip but you don't want to tell me about yourself, why don't you tell me about your brother? Is he as awful as he used to be at school?”

“Did you go to school with Alastair?” Cordelia was surprised; surely Alastair would have mentioned it.

“No, James and Matthew and the rest of the Merry Thieves did, and Matthew says he was a miserable blighter and gave them all the pip. No offense meant. I admit, Thomas never says a bad word about him. Sugar? I haven't any milk.”

“No sugar,” said Cordelia, and Anna whirled back into the parlor with tea in a chipped cup and saucer. She handed it to Cordelia, who balanced it awkwardly on her knees.

“Alastair is rather awful,” she admitted, “but I don't think he means to be.”

“Do you think he's in love?” Anna said. “People can be awful when they're in love.”

“I don't know who he'd be in love with,” Cordelia said. “He's hardly had time to fall in love with anyone, since we've just arrived in London, and I doubt everything that's happened has put anyone in a falling-in-love mood—”

“What did your father do, exactly?” Anna said.

“What?” Cordelia nearly spilled her tea.

“Well, we all know he did something dreadful,” said Anna. “And that your mother's come here to try to ingratiate herself back into Shadowhunter society. I hope everyone won't be too stiff-necked about it. I quite like your mother. She reminds me of a queen out of a fairy tale, or a peri from
Lalla Rookh
. You're half-Persian, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Cordelia said, a little warily.

“Then why is your brother so blond?” Anna asked. “And you so redheaded—I thought Persians were darker-haired.”

Cordelia set her cup down. “There are all sorts of Persians, and we all look different,” she said. “You wouldn't expect everyone in England to look alike, would you? Why should it be different for us? My father is British and very fair, and my mother's hair was red when she was a little girl. Then it darkened, and as for Alastair—he dyes his hair.”

“He does?” Anna's eyebrows, graceful swooping curves, went up. “Why?”

“Because he hates that his hair and skin and eyes are dark,” said Cordelia. “He always has. We have a country house in Devon, and people used to stare when we went into the village.”

Anna's eyebrows had ceased swooping and taken on a decidedly menacing look. “People are—” She broke off with a sigh and a word Cordelia didn't know. “Now I rather feel sympathy toward your brother, and that was the last thing I wanted. Quick, ask me a question.”

“Why did you want to get to know me?” Cordelia said. “I'm
younger than you, and you must know loads more interesting people.”

Anna rose, and her silk robe fluttered. “I must get changed,” she said, vanishing into the bedroom. She closed the door, but the walls were thin: Cordelia could hear her perfectly well when she spoke again. “Well, at first, it was because you're a new girl in our set, and I was wondering if you were good enough for our Jamie or our Matthew.”

“Good enough for them in what sense?”

“Well, marriage of course,” said Anna. “Anything else would be scandalous.”

Cordelia sputtered. She heard Anna laugh. She had a soft, rich laugh, like melting butter.

“You are too much fun to tease,” she said. “I meant good enough to know their secrets—and Christopher's and Tom's as well. They are my special favorites, those four, you must have noticed. And, well, the current crop of girls in London is rather dire—of course, Lucie's a delight, but she'll never look at any of the boys as anything but brothers.”

“Seems sensible,” Cordelia murmured, “especially in James's case.”

“They need a muse,” said Anna. “Someone to be inspired by. Someone to know their secrets. Would you like to be a muse?”

“No,” said Cordelia. “I would like to be a hero.”

Anna poked her head out of the door and looked at Cordelia for a long time from under her dark lashes. Then she smiled. “I suspected as much,” she said, vanishing back into the bedroom. The door banged shut. “That's
really
why I asked you here.”

Cordelia's head was spinning. “What do you mean?”

“We are in danger,” called Anna. “All of us, and the Clave will not see it. I am afraid if steps are not taken, it will be too late for Barbara and Piers and—and Ariadne.” There was a slight tremor in her voice. “I need your help.”

“But what can I—” Cordelia began, and broke off as she heard the downstairs front door bang open.

“Anna!” A deep male voice echoed up the stairwell. It was soon joined by the tread of running feet, and Matthew Fairchild burst into Anna's parlor.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)

Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss

Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder

Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

—Francis Thompson, “In No Strange Land”

Matthew wore a brocade waistcoat
, and a new silk hat was clutched in his hand, though his head was bare, his curls tousled. Shimmering stones glittered in his tiepin and at his cuffs, and his signet ring gleamed on his hand. “Anna, you won't believe—” He broke off as he saw Cordelia. “What are you doing here?”

Cordelia was not sure such a rude question deserved an answer. “Having tea.”

His gaze scanned the room. His eyes were a most peculiar color, clear green in some lights, darker in others. “I don't see Anna,” he said, sounding astonished and a little suspicious, as if he suspected Cordelia of having hidden Anna in the teapot.

“She's in her bedroom,” said Cordelia, as coolly as she could manage.

“Alone?” Matthew inquired.

“Matthew!” called Anna from the bedroom. “Don't be awful.”

Matthew went to lean against Anna's bedroom door, turning his head to speak to her through the crack. It was clear he didn't care whether Cordelia overheard him. “I have already had a maddening day,” he said. “James has been slandered by Tatiana Blackthorn and my rotten older brother is backing her up to the hilt; James has gone off to rendezvous with Grace. I am here to get squiffy and try to forget what a foolish thing my
parabatai
is doing.” He glanced at his watch. “Also, I have to be at Fleet Street by midnight.”

Anna reemerged, looking spectacular in a black velvet coat, matching trousers, and a white silk shirt tied at the collar. A monocle dangled around her neck and her boots were shimmering black. Between her and Matthew it was hard to say who looked the more as if they had wandered out of an illustration in
Punch
regarding the glamorous youth of today.

“A dreadful tale,” Anna said. “Shall we go?”

“Certainly,” said Matthew. “Cordelia, it was lovely, if surprising, to see you.”

“There is no need to say farewell,” Anna said, drawing on a pair of white gloves. “Cordelia will be coming with us. That was why I invited her here in the first place.”

“I thought you wanted to have tea!” objected Cordelia.

“No one ever just wants to have tea,” said Anna. “Tea is always an excuse for a clandestine agenda.”

“Anna, Cordelia is a proper young lady,” said Matthew. “She may not wish to risk her reputation by sallying out with Downworlders and reprobates.”

“Cordelia wants to be a hero,” said Anna. “One cannot do that by staying at home stitching samplers.” Her eyes gleamed. “I was at the Enclave meeting today; you were not. I know how the Enclave has decided to handle our current situation, and I do not think it
will help those who are stricken, or prevent the attack at the lake from happening again.”

When Matthew spoke, the brashness had gone out of his voice. “I thought Barbara was getting better. Thomas said—”

“The Silent Brothers have put all the wounded to sleep,” said Cordelia, who had heard this from Alastair. “They hope that they will heal, but…”

“Hope is not a solution,” said Anna. “The Clave insists this was a random demon attack, which took place not in daylight but under cloud cover. They have set patrols in Regent's Park.”

“It was not random,” said Cordelia. “There were mundanes in the park, too—none were attacked.”

“And the demons came before the cloud cover did,” said Matthew. “When Piers fell screaming, the sun was still visible.”

“You begin to see the problem,” said Anna. “Several Enclave members made those points, among them my parents, but the majority prefer to think of this as the sort of problem they have faced before. Not something new.”

“And you think it's something new,” said Cordelia.

“I am sure of it,” said Anna. “And when a new supernatural threat enters London, who are the first to know of it?
Downworlders.
We should be asking questions in Downworld. There was a time when the Clave had connections with High Warlocks, with the leaders of the vampire and werewolf clans. With the Queen of the Seelie Court.” She shook her head in frustration. “I know Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa have done all they can, but these alliances have been left to fray and now Shadowhunters can only imagine relying on themselves.”

“I see,” said Matthew, whose eyes had begun to sparkle. “We shall be going to the Hell Ruelle, then.”

“Matthew and I occasionally attend an artistic salon in a building owned by the High Warlock of London,” said Anna. “Malcolm Fade.”

“Malcolm Fade?” Cordelia had heard of him. High Warlocks of cities were sometimes elected. Sometimes they simply claimed the title. Malcolm Fade had appeared in London somewhere around the turn of the century and announced that he would be High Warlock as Ragnor Fell was stepping down and no one had seen Magnus Bane recently.

Lucie had been electrified, especially when he came to pay a call on the Institute and chat with Will and Tessa. She said he had hair the color of salt and eyes the color of violets and she had been in love with him for almost a week, her letters full of nothing else.

“Every Downworlder who is anyone will be there,” said Anna. “It is time for us to do what we do best.”

“Drink?” said Matthew.

“Be charming,” said Anna. “Ask questions. See what we can learn.” She held out a gloved hand. “Come, come. Get up. Is the carriage downstairs, Matthew?”

“At your service,” said Matthew. “Are you quite sure you want to come, Cordelia? It will be scandalous.”

Cordelia didn't bother to reply, just retrieved Cortana as they left the flat. It was dark outside; the air was chilly and dank. A carriage with the Consul's coat of arms painted across the door waited for them at the curb. Someone had left a pile of roses with the heads snipped off on the front steps. Evangeline, or a different girl?

“So what kind of salon is this, exactly?” Cordelia inquired, as the carriage door swung open and Matthew helped her inside. One of the Consul's servants, a middle-aged man with brown hair, sat impassively up front in the box seat.

She had heard of salons, of course—gatherings where the great and the famous and the noble came together to appreciate art and poetry. It was rumored that more daring things happened at salons as well, in the shadows and the dark gardens, couples gathering to tryst where no one could see them.

Anna and Matthew scrambled up after her, Anna disdaining Matthew's helping hand. “An exclusive one,” said Anna, settling back on the velvet bench seat. “Some of the most famous Downworlders in the world attend.”

The carriage set off at a clip.

Anna said, “Some you may have heard of; some you may not. Some with reputations they don't deserve—and some with reputations they more than do.”

“I never thought of Downworlders as being interested in painting and poetry,” said Cordelia. “But I suppose there is no reason they shouldn't be, is there? It's just those aren't things that Shadowhunters do. We don't create like that.”

“We can,” Matthew said. “We are simply told we shouldn't. Do not confuse conditioning with a native inability.”

“Do you create, Matthew?” asked Cordelia, looking at him sharply. “Do you draw, or paint, or pen poetry?”

“Lucie writes,” said Matthew, his eyes like dark water. “I thought she wrote for you, sometimes.”

“Lucie worries,” said Cordelia. “She doesn't say so, but I know she worries, that all her writing will come to nothing, because she is a Shadowhunter and that must come first.” She hesitated. “What does it mean, ‘Hell Ruelle'?”

Anna's eyes gleamed. She said, “Official academic gatherings in Paris have always been controlled by men, but salons are a world ruled by women. One famous noble lady seated her artistic guests in her
ruelle
—the space between her bed, any lady's bed, really, and the wall. A
scandalous
spot. Informally, an artistic gathering presided over by a woman came to be known as a ‘ruelle.'  ”

“But you said Malcolm Fade ran this one, I thought.”

“He owns the building,” said Anna. “As for who runs it, you will see soon enough.”

Cordelia did not like having to wait to find things out. She
sighed and glanced at the window. “Where are we going?”

“Berwick Street,” said Anna, and dropped a wink. “In Soho.”

Cordelia didn't know much of London, but she did know that Soho was where bohemians roamed. Dissolute writers and starving artists, penniless socialists and aspiring musicians, rubbed shoulders with a mix of shopkeepers, tradesmen, aristocrats who had fallen down in the world, and ladies who were no better than they should be.

It had always sounded wildly exciting, and exactly the sort of place her mother would never let her go.

“Soho,” she breathed, as the carriage rattled down a narrow, dark street on whose pavement the stalls of a public market had been set up. Naphtha beacons illuminated the faces of stall owners chatting and haggling with customers over chipped china plates and mugs and secondhand clothes. Gentlemen—well, they weren't gentlemen, most likely, Cordelia thought—tried on overcoats and jackets in the street, their wives fingering the material and exclaiming on the fit. Boswell's butcher had thrown its doors open and was selling cuts of meat—“Whatever will spoil before tomorrow, darling,” Anna said, noting Cordelia's curious stare—by gaslight, and there were bakers and grocers doing the same. They passed a tea shop and then the Blue Posts pub, its windows alive with light.

“Here,” said Anna, and the carriage stopped. They scrambled out and found themselves at the corner of Berwick and a small alley called Tyler's Court, leading away from the main thoroughfare. The air was full of the sound of people laughing and shouting, and the smell of roasting nuts.

After a brief, whispered conference with Matthew, Anna disappeared down the alley, her tall, black-clad form melding almost immediately with the shadows. Cordelia was left alone with Matthew. He had his hat tipped down over one eye and was regarding her thoughtfully.

Cordelia glanced about at the shop signs. She could see the silhouettes of women lounging in doorways. She thought of her mother's voice saying,
A fallen woman, you know
. As if the girl in question had merely overbalanced. Cordelia tried to imagine it. Kissing men for money, doing more than just kissing.…

“What are you thinking?” Matthew asked.

Cordelia wrenched her gaze away from a woman with rouged cheeks smiling up at a man in ill-fitting laborer's clothes. “What's a lapidary?” she asked, not because she actually wanted to know, but because the sign opposite her said
A. JONES, LAPIDARY
and Matthew was making her nervous.

“A lapidary phrase is one that is worth carving into stone,” said Matthew, “and preserving forever—a wise saying such as ‘we are dust and shadows,' or alternately, any words that come out of my mouth.”

Cordelia pointed at the sign. “They sell phrases there?”

“They sell objects with phrases carved into them,” Matthew said. “For instance, if you wished words of love to be etched into your wedding band. Or words of regret and sorrow on your grave. For my own headstone, I was hoping for something a bit grand.”

“You surprise me,” said Cordelia. “I am all astonishment.”

Matthew threw his arms up in the air, his face glowing in the naphtha beacons. “Perhaps a simple ‘O grave, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?' But does that truly capture the light I brought to the lives of friends and acquaintances, the sorrow they will feel when it is extinguished? Perhaps:

‘Shed not for him the bitter tear

Nor give the heart to vain regret;

'Tis but the casket that lies here,

The gem that filled it sparkles yet.' ”

Matthew's voice had risen; applause rose from the crowd outside the Blue Posts when he was finished. He lowered his arms just as Anna emerged from the alley.

“Do stop babbling rot, Matthew,” she said. “Now come along, the both of you, they're expecting us.”

It was deep night, the forest deep and dark. The beautiful Cordelia, astride her white palfrey, galloped along the twisting road that gleamed white in the moon's graceful light. Her shining scarlet hair blew behind her, and her radiantly beautiful face was set with steely determination.

Suddenly she cried out. A black stallion had appeared, blocking the road ahead of her. She pulled back on the reins, skidding to a halt with a gasp.

It was him! The man from the inn! She recognized his handsome face, his radiant green eyes. Her head swam. What could he possibly be doing out here in the midst of the night, wearing very tight breeches?

“My word,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “I was warned that the ladies in this neighborhood were fast, but I didn't think that was meant to be taken literally.”

Cordelia gasped. The nerve of him! “Pray, remove yourself from my path, sir! For I have an urgent errand this night, upon whose completion many lives depend!”

Lucie reached the end of her sentence—and her typewriter ribbon—and clapped her hands together in delight.
Pray, remove yourself from my path, sir!
Cordelia had such spirit! And sparks were about to fly between her and the handsome highwayman, who was in reality a duke's son, convicted of a crime he hadn't committed and forced to make his living on the roads. It was all so romantic—

“Miss Herondale?” said a soft voice behind her.