Chain of Gold (54 page)

It is there.
Jem gestured toward what looked like a miniature city of white houses. It was the necropolis of Alicante, where families of Idris were buried. Narrow lanes threaded among the mausoleums, paved with crushed white stone. Lucie had always loved the way the tombs looked like small houses, with doors or gates and sloping roofs. Unlike mundanes, Shadowhunters did not tend to decorate their graves with statues of angels. The names of the families who owned the tombs were carved over the doors, or etched on metal plates:
BELLEFLEUR
,
CARTWRIGHT
,
CROSSKILL
,
LOVELACE
, even
BRIDGESTOCK
. Death made unlikely neighbors. She found what she was looking for at last, a large tomb under a shaded tree, bearing the name
BLACKTHORN
.

She stopped and looked. It was a tomb like any other, save for the design of thorns that ran around the plinth. The names of those who had died marched up and down the tomb's left side like orderly soldiers. It was easy to find the newest.
JESSE BLACKTHORN, BORN
1879
, DIED
1896.

It had only been 1897 when she had met him in the woods, Lucie realized. He had been a ghost for such a short time. He had seemed so much older than her then; she had never given thought to how frightened he must have been himself.

Everybody thought Jesse had died long ago. Nobody knew what he had sacrificed since.

She touched the locket hanging around her throat and turned to Jem. “Can I have a moment alone here, please?”

Jem glanced down at her, clearly worried. It was hard to read his face, his closed eyes, but he had hesitated when she first asked him to bring her to Idris to pay respects in the graveyard and not to tell
her parents. He had only agreed when she'd said that if he didn't do it, she'd find a warlock who would take her.

He touched her hair lightly.
Do not dwell too much on death. Lucie means light. Look to the day, not the night.

“I know, Uncle Jem,” she said. “It will only be a moment.”

He nodded and vanished into the shadows, the way Silent Brothers always did.

Lucie turned back to the tomb. She knew it did not contain any part of Jesse, yet it comforted her to be there all the same. “I have told no one what I saw at Chiswick House, and I never shall,” she said aloud. “I haven't kept silence to protect Grace, or your mother. Only to protect you. I did not expect you to be such a true friend as you were, Jesse. I did not expect you to give your life for my brother's. I knew you had been angry at me only moments before, and more than anything I regret not being able to tell you I was sorry. I should not have used my power like that. It is still hard to imagine I have a power, and even now I do not quite understand it.” She touched his name with her fingertips, letters cut evenly into smooth marble. “Without you, I am not sure I will ever understand it.”

“You will.”

She looked up, and there he was. Jesse, leaning against the side of the tomb like a farmer's boy against a gate. Smiling his odd little smile, straight black hair in his eyes. Lucie dropped the flowers she was holding and reached out, without pausing to think, to grasp his hand.

Her fingers brushed through emptiness. Aside from a path of colder air, there was no solidity to him, as there had been before.

She drew her hand back, pressing it against her chest. “Jesse.”

“I find my strength is fading,” he said. “Perhaps there was more to this last breath business than I thought.”

“I am so sorry,” Lucie whispered. “This is my fault.”

“Lucie, no.” Jesse stepped forward; she felt the cold emanating from his body, and stared up at him. He seemed less human, and ironically more oddly beautiful, than he had before: his skin was smooth as glass, his lashes black and startling. “You let me be something I had never been before, even when I was living. A Shadowhunter. You let me be part of what you did. I never thought I would again be given the chance to make a difference.”

“You made every difference,” Lucie said. “Without your help, we could not have done what we did, even if the others don't know it. And you saved James's life. I will always owe you.”

Jesse's eyes were nearly black. “You need not owe the dead, Lucie.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Is your body still at Chiswick House? Is Grace watching over you?”

“Yes. She will come whenever she can, on the pretense of looking after the house, now that we cannot trust—” He broke off. “You have taught me to see things very differently, Lucie,” he said after a moment. “I had thought my mother's madness harmless. I did not realize she had dealings with demons until I saw that creature attack Grace.”

“I am sorry,” Lucie whispered. “For all of it.”

His voice gentled. “It was never your fault. My mother needs help. Grace plans to make sure she gets it. Do not be sorry, Lucie. You brought light into my lightless world, and for that I am grateful.”

“I am the one who is grateful,” she said. “And I will find a way to help you, Jesse. I swear to bring you back if I can, or lay you to rest if I cannot.”

He shook his head. “You cannot promise something so grave.”

“I can promise it. I do promise it. I am a Herondale, and we keep our promises.”

“Lucie—” Jesse began. His brow furrowed. “I hear something. Who is with you?”

“Je—Brother Zachariah,” Lucie said. She supposed she should not be surprised ghosts could hear the Silent Brothers.

Late afternoon was sliding into dusk. The demon towers sparkled with sunset, turning the colors of a tree in autumn: red and gold, copper and flame.

“I must go,” Jesse said. “James Carstairs is a Silent Brother. He might be able to see me. I would not want to bring you trouble.” He gave her a long, last look. “Promise you will not try to help me.”

“Jesse,” Lucie whispered, and reached out her hand; she felt the slightest pressure on her fingers, and it was gone. Jesse had faded into nothingness, like mist dissolving in rain.

Grace was standing by the window. The sun had set, but the glow of streetlamps was visible through the glass. It outlined Grace's hair, the curve of her cheekbones, the hollows at her temples. Had she always been standing there? She must have been—of course she had been. James's arm was braced against the back of the armchair. He felt dizzy. Maybe he was not as recovered as he had thought.

“James?” Grace came closer to him, the rustle of her green dress loud in the quiet room. “Will you help me? Will you destroy the automaton?”

James looked at her in astonishment. She was Grace—his Grace, who he loved and always had loved. “Loyalty binds me, Grace,” he said in a low voice. “And even if it did not, I am yours and you are mine. I would do anything for you.”

Something like pain flashed in her eyes; she glanced away. “You know I must still marry Charles.”

James's mouth felt dry. He had forgotten. Grace marrying
Charles. Had she mentioned that when she'd come into the room? He no longer recalled.

“If I were to marry you—” She shook her head. “My mother would find ways to torment you and your family forever. She would never stop. I could not bring that down upon you.”

“You don't love Charles.”

She looked up at him. “Oh, James,” she said. “No. No, I don't.”

His father had always told him there was no higher emotion than love: that it trumped all doubt and all distrust.

He loved Grace.

He knew he did.

Grace slipped her hand into his. “We have no more time,” she murmured. “Kiss me, James. Just once before you go.”

She was so much smaller than he that he had to lift her into his arms to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a flash as his lips touched hers he remembered soft lips that had fastened hungrily on his, a body arced against him, soft curves and tumbling hair. The maddening, shattering desire that had blinded him to everything but how Cordelia felt in his arms, to the sweet, soft heat of her.

Grace drew back. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. She was not in the least mussed as he set her down; Cordelia had been barefoot, her bodice tugged sideways, her hair come completely out of its pins. But that had all been pretense, he understood now. He and Cordelia had been performing for the sake of strangers who had come into the room. And if he had wanted Cordelia in that moment, then that was natural: physical desire was not love, and he was sure she had felt nothing for him. Cordelia was his friend; she had even asked him to help her find a husband.

“We will have to tell the Clave,” he said. “Your mother cannot be left to practice black magic in freedom. Even if this automaton is destroyed, she will still have plotted to kill Shadowhunters. She might do so again.”

Grace's smile faded. “But, James—” She searched his face for a moment, then nodded her head. “Wait until my engagement to Charles is formally announced. As soon as I am truly and safely away from my mother, the Clave can be told.”

He felt a dull relief. He was about to kiss her again when there was a knock on the door. Grace withdrew her hand from James's, as he said, “Just a moment.”

He was too late—the door had been flung wide, and Matthew stood on the threshold. Beside him was Cordelia, pretty in a kingfisher-blue gown and matching jacket, looking from James to Grace with wide, surprised eyes.

“I should go,” Grace said. Her cheeks were flushed, but otherwise she looked perfectly composed. Cordelia couldn't help staring at her—she knew Lucie had encountered her on the grounds of Chiswick House, and that Lucie would not say more than that Grace had been eager for Thomas and Lucie to be gone.

Cordelia had not seen Grace together with James since the fight at Battersea Bridge. She had not thought it would hurt like this.

She had prepared carefully for this long-awaited visit. She had picked out one of her favorite new dresses in bright blue; she had worn her nicest gold earbobs, and she had brought with her a translated copy of
Layla and Majnun
. It was not as beautiful in English as it was in the original Persian, but it would be perfect for reading with James.

Now, as she stared at James and Grace, she was glad the book was hidden inside her jacket.

“Miss Blackthorn,” Cordelia said, inclining her head politely. Beside her, Matthew stood stiffly. He said nothing as Grace murmured a goodbye and left the room, a cloud of tuberose scent trailing in her wake.

Cordelia told herself not to be foolish. Everyone else had apparently paid James a visit to see how he was, why not Grace?

“James,” Matthew said, the moment Grace was gone. “Are you all right?”

James seemed a little stunned to see them. He was in shirtsleeves and a pair of pin-striped trousers; Cordelia could see the marks of fading bruises on his face and arms. A healing cut ran along his collarbone. His hair, a wild dark mess as always, tumbled into his eyes, and as always Cordelia fought the urge to push it back.

“I'm fine. Better even than fine,” James said, rolling his sleeves down and fastening the cuffs. Cordelia caught a glimpse of silver gleaming on his wrist.

Grace's bracelet. Cordelia felt as if she were burning inside.

Matthew stared. “Has Grace ended things with my brother?”

“No.” James's quick smile faded. “They are still marrying.”

“Then perhaps she is planning to kill Charles?” said Matthew.

“Matthew, cease sounding hopeful at the prospect of homicide.” Throwing open his wardrobe, James took out a gear jacket and flung it on. “She is not marrying Charles because she loves him. She is marrying him to free herself from her mother. She believes Charles's influence and power will protect her.”

“But surely
you
could protect her,” Cordelia said, in a low voice, unable to help herself.

If the remark made an impression on James, she could not tell. The Mask seemed back in full force. She could not read his face. “Tatiana wants Grace to make a powerful alliance,” said James. “She may not be entirely pleased, but if Grace were to marry me, it would be war. Grace will not brook that.” He did up the buttons on the jacket. “She has made me understand that everything she has done, she has done because she loves me. Now I must do something for her.”

In the back of her head, Cordelia heard Alastair's voice.
Everything he does is so he and I can be together.

Since they had returned home from Highgate, Alastair hadn't mentioned Charles or anything connected to him. He had spent most of his time at home, often in Cordelia's room as her leg healed, reading out loud to her from the day's newspapers. He did not go out at night. She and Alastair were certainly a pair, weren't they, Cordelia thought. Miserable in love.

“James,” Matthew said tensely, “after what she did to you—you owe her nothing.”

“It is not a debt,” James said. “It is because I love her.”

It was as if someone had taken a small, sharp knife to Cordelia's heart and sliced it into pieces that formed the shape of James's name. She could barely breathe; she heard his voice in her head, low and sweet:

Daisy, my angel.

Shaking his head, James stalked out of the room. After exchanging a single glance, Cordelia and Matthew followed. They hurried down the corridor after James, through the Institute, occasionally weaving to avoid colliding with furniture.

“What's going on?” Matthew demanded, avoiding a decorative suit of armor. “What did she ask you to do?”

“There is an object in Blackthorn Manor that must be destroyed,” said James, and quickly told them the tale of Tatiana's madness, the clockwork automaton and the warlock spell that waited to animate it. That he must destroy it, while Grace did all she could to stay her mother's hand.

There was something different, not just in James's expression, but in the way he spoke. He had not said Grace's name with that intonation since she had become engaged to Charles. Cordelia's nails bit into her palm. She wanted to be sick; she wanted to scream. She knew she would do none of those things.
She did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it.