Chain of Gold (32 page)

Anna scowled. “I had come here to horsewhip Charles, but it appears that he is elsewhere.”

“Charles Fairchild?” Cordelia echoed blankly. “I believe he's at home—he called a gathering at his house for high-ranking Enclave members. You could go horsewhip him there, but it would make for a very strange meeting.”

“High-ranking Enclave members?” Anna rolled her eyes. “Well, no wonder I don't know about it. So I suppose I'll have to wait until later to puncture him like the pustulant boil he is.” Anna began to pace within the small confines of the stairwell. “Charles,” she said. “Bloody Charles, everything in service of his ambitions—” She whirled, slamming her walking stick against a stair. “He has done a dreadful, dreadful thing. I need to go to the infirmary. She shouldn't be alone. I must see her.”

“See who?” Cordelia was bewildered.

“Ariadne,” said Anna. “Cordelia—would you accompany me to the sickroom?”

Cordelia looked at Anna in surprise. Elegant, composed Anna. Though at the moment her hair was mussed, her cheeks flushed. She looked younger than she usually did.

“Of course,” Cordelia said.

Fortunately, Anna knew the way to the infirmary: they did not speak as they climbed the stairs, both lost in thought. The infirmary
itself was much quieter than it had been the last time Cordelia was there. She did not recognize most of those who lay still and feverish in the beds. At the back of the room, a large screen had been pulled out to shield the patient there: Tatiana Blackthorn, presumably. Cordelia could see the silhouettes of Brother Enoch and Jem cast against the screen as they moved around Tatiana's bed.

Anna's attention was focused on a single patient. Ariadne Bridgestock lay quietly against the white pillows. Her eyes were shut, and her rich brown skin was ashen, stretching tightly over the branching black veins beneath her skin. Beside her bed was a small table on which lay a roll of bandages and several stoppered jars of different-colored potions.

Anna slipped in between the screens surrounding Ariadne's cot, and Cordelia followed, feeling slightly awkward. Was she intruding? But Anna looked up, as if to assure herself that Cordelia was there, before she knelt down at the side of Ariadne's bed, laying her walking stick on the floor.

Anna's bowed shoulders looked strangely vulnerable. One of her hands dangled at her side: she reached out the other, fingers moving slowly across the white linen sheets, until she was almost touching Ariadne's hand.

She did not take it. At the last moment, Anna's fingers curled and dropped to rest, beside Ariadne but not quite touching. In a low and steady voice, Anna said, “Ariadne. When you wake up—and you will wake up—I want you to remember this. It was never a sign of your worth that Charles Fairchild wanted to marry you. It is a measure of his lack of worth that he chose to break it off in such a manner.”

“He broke it off?” Cordelia whispered. She was stunned. The breaking off of a promised engagement was a serious matter, undertaken usually only when one of the parties in question had committed some kind of serious crime or been caught in an affair. For
Charles to break his promise to Ariadne while she lay unconscious was appalling. People would assume he had found out something dreadful about Ariadne. When she awoke, she might be ruined.

Anna did not reply to Cordelia. She only raised her head and looked at Ariadne's face, a long look like a touch.

“Please don't die,” she said, in a low voice, and rose to her feet. Catching up her walking stick, she strode from the infirmary, leaving Cordelia staring after her in surprise.

Lucie set her notebook aside. Matthew was drawing circles in the air with a forefinger and frowning lazily, as if he were a pasha looking over his court and finding them to be ill-mannered and unprepared for inspection.

“How are you, Luce?” he said. He had moved to sit beside her on the settee. “Tell the truth.”

“How are
you
, Matthew?” Lucie retorted. “Tell the truth.”

“I am not the one who saw the ghost of Gast,” said Matthew, and grinned. “Sounds like an unfinished Dickens novel, doesn't it?
The Ghost of Gast.
”

“I am not the one who nearly tumbled off a rope I should easily have been able to climb,” said Lucie quietly.

Matthew's eyes narrowed. They were extraordinary eyes, so dark you could only tell they were green if you stood close to him. And Lucie had, many times. They were close now, close enough that she could see the slight scruff of golden hair along his jawline, and the shadows under his eyes.

“That reminds me,” he said, and rolled up his sleeve. There was a long graze along his forearm. “I could use an
iratze
.” He aimed a winning smile at her. All Matthew's smiles were winning. “Here,” he added, and held out his stele to her. “Use mine.”

She reached to take it from him, and for a moment, his hand
closed gently around hers. “Lucie,” he said softly, and she almost closed her eyes, remembering how he had put his coat around her in the street, the warmth of his touch, the faint scent of him, brandy and dry leaves.

But mostly brandy.

She looked down at their entwined hands, his more scarred than hers. The rings on his fingers. He began to turn her hand over in his, as if he meant to kiss her palm.

“You are a Shadowhunter, Matthew,” she said. “You should be able to scale a wall.”

He sat back. “And I am,” he said. “My new boots were slippery.”

“It wasn't your boots,” said Lucie. “You were drunk. You're drunk now, too. Matthew, you're drunk most of the time.”

He released her hand as if she had struck him. There was confusion in his eyes, and visible hurt as well. “I am not—”

“Yes, you are. You think I can't recognize it?”

Matthew's mouth hardened into a narrow line. “Drink makes me amusing.”

“It does not amuse me to watch you hurt yourself,” she said. “You are like a brother to me, Math—”

He flinched. “Am I? No one else has such complaints about what I do, or my desire for fortification.”

“Many are afraid to mention it,” said Lucie. “Others, like my brother and my parents, do not see what they do not want to see. But I see, and I am worried.”

His lip curled at the corner. “Worried about me? I'm flattered.”

“I am worried,” said Lucie, “that you will get my brother killed.”

Matthew did not move. He remained as still as if he had been turned to stone by the Gorgon in the old stories. The Gorgon was a demon, Lucie's father had told her, though in those days there were no Shadowhunters. Instead gods and demigods had walked on the earth, and miracles had showered down from the heavens like
leaves from a tree in autumn. But there was no miracle here. Only the fact that she might as well have stabbed Matthew in the heart.

“You are his
parabatai
,” said Lucie, her voice shaking slightly. “He trusts you—to be at his back in battle, to be his shield and sword, and if you are not yourself—”

Matthew stood up, nearly upending the chair. His eyes were dark with fury. “If it were anyone else but you, Lucie, saying these things to me—”

“Then what?” Lucie also rose to her feet. She barely reached Matthew's shoulder, but she glared at him anyway. She had always given as good as she got in the soup ladle battles of their childhood. “What would you do?”

He slammed his way out of her room without replying.

In the end, James brought Grace to the drawing room.

It was quiet in there, and deserted: there was a fire on, and he helped her into a chair close to it, bending to draw off her gloves. He wanted to kiss her bare hands—so vulnerable, so familiar from their days and nights in the woods—but he stepped back and left her alone to warm herself by the flames. It was not a cold day, but shock could make one shiver down to one's bones.

The light from the flames danced over the William Morris wallpaper and the deep colors of the Axminster rugs that covered the wooden floor. At last Grace rose to her feet and began to pace up and down in front of the fire. She had pulled the last pins from her hair, and it streamed over her shoulders like icy water.

“Grace?” Now, in this room, with only the sound of the ticking clock breaking the silence, James hesitated, as he had not had time or pause to do in the infirmary. “Can you speak of what happened? Where was the attack? How did you escape?”

“Mama was attacked at the manor,” said Grace, her voice flat. “I
do not know how it happened. I found her unconscious at the bottom of the front steps. The wounds in her shoulder and arm were the wounds of teeth.”

“I am so sorry.”

“You don't have to say that,” said Grace. She had begun to pace again. “There are things you don't know, James. And things I must do, now that she is sick. Before she wakes.”

“I am glad you think she will recover,” said James, coming close to her. He was not sure if he should reach to touch her, even as she stopped pacing and raised her eyes to his. He did not think he had seen Grace like this before. “It is important to have hope.”

“It is certainty. My mother will not die,” said Grace. “All these years she has lived on bitterness, and her bitterness will keep her alive now. It is stronger than death.” She reached to caress his face. He closed his eyes as her fingertips traced the contour of his cheekbone, light as the touch of a dragonfly's wing.

“James,” she said. “Oh, James. Open your eyes. Let me look at you while you still love me.”

His eyes flew open. “I have loved you for years. I will always love you.”

“No,” said Grace, dropping her hand. There was a great weariness on her face, in her movements. “You will hate me soon.”

“I could never hate you,” James said.

“I am getting married,” she said.

It was the sort of shock so immense one hardly felt it.
She's made some kind of mistake,
James thought.
She's confused. I will fix this.

“I will be marrying Charles,” she went on. “Charles Fairchild. We have been spending quite a bit of time together since I came to London, though I know you have not noticed it.”

A pulse had started to pound behind James's eyes, in time with the ticking of the grandfather clock. “This is madness, Grace. You asked
me
to marry you last night.”

“And you said no. You were very clear.” She gave a slight shrug. “
Charles
said yes.”

“
Charles
is engaged to Ariadne Bridgestock.”

“That engagement is broken. Charles told Inquisitor Bridgestock he was ending it this morning. Ariadne did not love Charles; she will not care whether they marry or not.”

“Really? Did you ask her?” James demanded fiercely, and Grace flinched. “None of this makes sense, Grace. You've been in London less than a week—”

Her eyes glittered. “I can get a great deal accomplished in less than a week.”

“Apparently. Including harming Ariadne Bridgestock, who has never done anything to you. Charles is a cold person. He has a cold heart. But I would have expected better from
you
than to be a party to something like this.”

Grace flushed. “You think Ariadne is desperate? She is beautiful and rich, and Charles is prepared to tell everyone
she
broke it off with
him
.”

“While she was unconscious?”

“Clearly, he will say it was before she fell ill,” Grace snapped.

“And if she dies, how convenient for you,” said James, pain like a white flare behind his eyes.

“I told you that you would hate me,” said Grace, and there was something almost savage in her expression. “I tell you, she does not want Charles, and if she dies, yes, she will need him even less than she does now!” She gasped for breath. “You cannot see it. I am more desperate than Ariadne could ever be.”

“I cannot see what you will not tell me,” said James in a low voice. “If you are desperate, let me help you—”

“I
offered
you the chance to help me,” she said. “I asked you to marry me, but you would not have it. Everything you have here, it is all more important to you than I am.”

“That's not true—”

She laughed sharply. “To love me, James, you must love me above all other things. We will forever be my mother's target if we marry—and then our children will be—and how could that be worth it to you? I already know it is not. When I asked you to marry me last night, it was only a test. I wished to see if you loved me enough. Enough to do anything to protect me. You do not.”

“And Charles does?” James's voice was low. “You barely know him.”

“It doesn't matter. Charles has power. He will be the Consul. He does not need to love me.” She faced him across the worn pattern of the carpet. “I must do this now, before my mother wakes. She would forbid it. But if she wakes and it is done, she will not go against the Clave and Consul. Don't you see? It is impossible between us, James.”

“It is only impossible if you make it so,” said James.

Grace drew her shawl around her shoulders as if she were cold. “You do not love me enough,” she said. “You will realize that soon and be grateful I have done this.” She held her hand out. “Please return my bracelet to me.”

It was like the lash of a whip. Slowly James reached for the clasp of the silver circlet. It had rested there so long that when he removed it, he saw a strip of paler flesh circling his wrist, like the pallor left behind when a wedding ring was removed. “Grace,” he said, holding it out to her. “You don't need to do this.”

She took the bracelet from him, leaving his wrist feeling unnaturally bare. “What we had was the dream of children,” she said. “It will fade like snow in summer. You will forget.”

His head felt as if his skull were cracking; he could barely breathe. He heard his own voice as if it came from a long distance away. “I am a Herondale. We love but once.”