Chain of Gold (56 page)

James had taken off his jacket, which had several burn holes in it, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. They had all done what they could to clean up when they arrived at the tavern, but there was
still soot on his collar, and in Matthew's and Cordelia's hair, and the kingfisher-blue dress was, Cordelia suspected, utterly ruined.

Matthew was turning a glass in his hand, looking thoughtfully at the pale amber contents.

“Matthew, you should really drink some water,” said Christopher. “Alcohol won't help with the dehydration after you inhaled all that smoke.”

Matthew raised an eyebrow. Christopher seemed undeterred—Cordelia had noticed when Christopher first came in that he seemed a little different: less shy and owlish, more assured.

“Water is the devil's brew,” said Matthew.

Cordelia glanced at James, but he only said, “That is why you are always dyspeptic, Math.” His expression was unreadable. The Mask had slipped briefly at Blackthorn Manor, she thought, when he had saved her life. It was back now.

She wondered if he was thinking of Grace. The pain in her chest had gone from a sharp pain to a dull throb that ached with every heartbeat.

Footsteps sounded on the steps and Lucie burst in, nearly staggering under the weight of a pile of clothes: two suits for James and Matthew, and a plain cotton dress for Cordelia.

She was greeted with a round of applause. When Cordelia, James, and Matthew had first stumbled out of the greenhouse in Chiswick, they had realized that not a one of them could return home in their singed state. Even Will would be apoplectic, James had to admit. “We have got to start keeping spare clothes at the Devil for such occurrences as this,” James had said.

“There had better not be any more occurrences such as this,” Matthew had glowered.

They had flagged down a hansom cab to Fleet Street, where they had been the recipients of many curious stares from patrons of the Devil Tavern. Matthew and Cordelia had taken refuge in the upstairs room, while James had tracked down a few of the Irregulars
and sent them to Thomas and Christopher with messages saying to come immediately and bring new outfits for all three. Thomas and Christopher, unfortunately, had been unable to lay hands on anything: they had come running, but without any extra clothes. An Irregular had been dispatched immediately to Lucie, which, Cordelia pointed out, was what should have been undertaken in the first place. Lucie knew how to get things done.

Lucie dumped the clothes into her brother's lap and glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said, “that you burned down Blackthorn Manor without me!”

“But you weren't around, Luce,” James protested. “You went to see Uncle Jem.”

“It's true,” Lucie said. “I just wish I had been with you. I never liked the manor when we were growing up. Besides, I've always wanted to burn down a house.”

“I assure you,” said James, “that it is overrated.”

Lucie plucked the dress from James's lap and gestured for Cordelia to follow her into the adjoining bedroom. She set about helping Cordelia undo the hooks at the back of her blue dress. “I will mourn this one,” said Lucie, as it crumpled to the floor in a charred heap, leaving Cordelia standing in her petticoat and combination. “It was so pretty.”

“Do I smell like burnt toast?” Cordelia inquired.

“A bit, yes,” Lucie said, handing Cordelia the cotton dress. “Try this. I borrowed it from my mother's wardrobe. A tea gown, so it ought to fit.” She regarded Cordelia thoughtfully. “So. What happened? How did James come to burn down Blackthorn Manor?”

Cordelia told her the story as Lucie deftly helped brush the ash out of her hair and pin it back up in something resembling a passable style. When she was done with the tale, Lucie sighed.

“So it was at Grace's request,” she said. “I thought—I hoped—well, never mind.” She set the brush down on the vanity table.
“Grace is still marrying Charles, so it can only be hoped James will forget her.”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. She, too, had thought and hoped. She, too, had been wrong. The dull ache in her chest increased, as if she were missing a piece of herself, some vital organ she could barely breathe without. She could feel the hard shape of
Layla and Majnun
still secured under her jacket. Perhaps she should have thrown it into the flames of the manor.

They went back into the main room, where the Merry Thieves appeared to be arguing among themselves. Thomas had joined Matthew in brandy drinking; the other two had not.

“I still cannot believe you burned down a house,” Thomas said, toasting James.

“Most of you never saw inside that house,” said Lucie, perching herself on the edge of the sofa, near James. “I peeked in the windows when I was a little girl. All the rooms full of dry rot and blackbeetles, and the clocks all stopped at twenty to nine. No one will think it burned down for any reason save neglect.”

“Is that what we're claiming?” asked Christopher. “To the Enclave, I mean. There is the meeting tomorrow to consider.”

James templed his fingers under his chin. The bracelet on his right wrist gleamed. “I should be willing to confess to what I did, but I wish to leave Matthew and Cordelia out of it, and I cannot speak of the reason I went in the first place. It would be breaking my promise to Grace.”

Christopher looked puzzled. “Then are we meant to invent a reason?”

“You could always say you burned it down to improve the view from Herondale Manor,” said Matthew. “Or perhaps to raise the property value.”

“Or you could claim to be an incorrigible pyromaniac,” said Lucie cheerfully.

Thomas cleared his throat. “It seems to me,” he said, “that many people will be harmed if you tell the story of what happened tonight. Whereas if you keep the story to yourselves, an evil old house full of dark magic items will have been destroyed, along with a dangerous automaton. I would strongly urge you not to say anything.”

Matthew looked startled. “Really? Our True Thomas, who so often counsels honesty?”

Thomas shrugged. “Not in every situation. I do think the Clave will need to be told of Tatiana's dangerous proclivities eventually. But it seems the loss of Blackthorn Manor will leave her harmless for a while.”

“Once Grace and Charles formally announce their engagement,” said James quietly. “We can do it then.”

“I am happy to keep silent for now,” said Cordelia. “It was, after all, Grace's request, and we ought to protect her.”

James shot her a grateful look. She glanced down, twisting the fabric of her gown between her fingers.

“It is a pity, actually, that no one will ever know how James, Cordelia, and Matthew are heroes for foiling a demonic plan to attack Idris,” said Lucie.

“We will always know,” said Thomas, and raised his glass. “To being secret heroes.”

“To standing by each other no matter what,” said Matthew, raising his own, and as they all cheered and toasted, Cordelia felt the iron band around her heart loosen, just a little.

“O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!

Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?

And whence such fair garments, such prosperity?”—

“O didn't you know I'd been ruined?” said she.…

—“I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”—

“My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be,

Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined,” said she.

—Thomas Hardy, “The Ruined Maid”

Cordelia had never attended a
meeting of the entire Enclave before. Her family had moved so frequently until this summer, and she was still underage. Luckily, as many young Shadowhunters had been directly involved with the incidents under discussion, the age limit had been waived for the meeting. They had all jumped at the chance to attend; Lucie had even brought her writing materials with her, in case she was inspired.

The Sanctuary had been set up to be a meeting place, with rows of chairs facing a lectern. Golden statues of Raziel were set in each
alcove, and Tessa had hung tapestries showing the crests of every London Shadowhunter family on the walls. James and Christopher had both been seated at the front of the room. Every chair was filled and many were standing; the room was stuffed to bursting. Cordelia had come with her family, but had split off from Alastair and Sona so she could sit with Lucie and Matthew.

Will Herondale stood up at the lectern, handsome in a gray coat and waistcoat with pin-striped trousers; he appeared to be having a friendly argument with Gabriel Lightwood as Tessa looked on. Inquisitor Bridgestock was not far away, glowering.

Lucie was quick to point out to Cordelia all those in attendance who had recovered from the poison: Ariadne Bridgestock was there, looking calm and very beautiful in a deep aubergine dress, with a matching bow in her dark hair. Cordelia could not help but remember Anna reaching for Ariadne's hand as Ariadne lay deathly still, her eyes swollen shut.

Please don't die.

Rosamund Wentworth was also there, as were Anna and Cecily Lightwood, who were playing with little Alexander at the edge of the dry fountain. Alexander appeared to be tossing something shiny and likely breakable into the air.

Sophie and Gideon Lightwood, freshly back from Idris, were smiling over at Cecily and little Alex, but Sophie's eyes were sad. Thomas and his sister Eugenia sat close by. Eugenia resembled a sharper version of Barbara: she was small but angular, with dusky hair upswept in a Gibson girl pompadour.

Seated at the very edge of the group of Shadowhunters, near Mrs. Bridgestock, was Tatiana Blackthorn, rigidly upright in her chair; she had not removed her hat, and the ornate stuffed bird atop it glared menacingly. She was thinner than ever, her hands tightly clenched in her lap, her face rigid with fury.

Grace sat some distance from her mother, beside Charles, who
was chattering away in her ear. She and Tatiana did not look at each other. Cordelia knew from James that Grace had gone to stop her mother from taking desperate action the night before: it seemed to have worked, but she could not help but wonder what had happened between them—not to mention whether they knew yet of the fate of Blackthorn Manor.

The most surprising guest was Magnus Bane, sitting across the room with his legs elegantly crossed. He seemed to sense Cordelia looking at him and glanced over with a wink.

“I idolize him,” said Matthew sorrowfully.

Lucie patted his hand. “I know.”

Matthew looked amused; Cordelia sensed something had changed in his interactions with Lucie. She couldn't quite put a finger on it. It was as if a certain tension had gone out of them.

“Welcome, everyone.” Will's voice echoed through the room; the lectern had been carved with runes to amplify his voice. “I've just received word that the Consul has been delayed but is on her way. It would be ideal if everyone could be patient a bit longer and refrain from breaking any of the valuable objects in the Sanctuary.”

He shot a meaning glance at Cecily, who made a sisterly face at him.

“In the meantime—”

Will broke off in surprise as Charles joined him at the lectern. He wore a stiffly formal frock coat, his red hair slicked back and gleaming. “I'd just like to thank everyone for placing their trust in me as acting Consul,” he said, his voice echoing off the walls. “As you all know, the antidote to this awful disease was developed in my father's laboratory at Grosvenor Square.”

Cordelia glanced over at Alastair. To her pleased surprise, Alastair rolled his eyes. In fact, if Charles had been hoping for a round of applause, it did not come: the room was silent.

Charles cleared his throat. “But of course there are many
brave Shadowhunters who should be acknowledged, in addition to myself. Christopher Lightwood, of course, as well as Cordelia Carstairs and James Herondale.”

Tatiana Blackthorn shot to her feet. The bird on her hat trembled, but in that moment she did not seem ridiculous, as she often did. She seemed menacing. “James Herondale is a fraud!” she cried in a hoarse voice. “He has ties to demons! No doubt he worked in concert with them to orchestrate these attacks!”

Lucie made a choking sound. A murmur of astonishment raced around the room. Inquisitor Bridgestock looked absolutely flabbergasted. Cordelia looked over at James: he sat frozen, utterly expressionless. Christopher had his hand on James's shoulder, but James had not moved.

Matthew's hands closed into fists. “How dare she—”

Tatiana seemed to tower over the crowd. “Deny it, boy!” she shouted at James. “Your grandfather was a demon.”

Cordelia tried not to look at any of the Merry Thieves, or Lucie, either. Surely Tatiana couldn't know about Belial? Surely she was only repeating what the whole Clave was already aware of—that Tessa was a warlock, and therefore, James had demon blood.

James kicked his chair back and stood, turning to face the room. Behind him, Will and Tessa stood stunned; Tessa was gripping Will's shoulder, as if entreating him not to move. “I will not deny it,” he said, in a voice that dripped contempt. “Everyone knows it. It is true, it has always been true, and no one here has tried to hide it.”

“Don't you see?” Tatiana raged. “He conspired with the enemy! I have been collecting evidence of his plots—”

“Then where is that evidence?” demanded Will. He was flushed with anger. “Damn it, Tatiana—”

“It was in my house,” she hissed. “In my house in Idris, I gathered it all, but then this boy, this demon's spawn, burned my house to the ground! Why else would he do that, save to protect his secret?”

Cordelia felt as if her heart had stopped. She dared not look at any of the others—not Lucie, or Matthew, or Thomas. She could not even look at James.

“Tatiana,” Gabriel Lightwood said, rising to his feet, and Cordelia thought,
Of course, he is her brother
. “Tatiana, this makes no sense. Why have we heard nothing about this fire if it transpired? In fact, how do you know about it?”

Tatiana's face twisted with rage. “You've never believed in me, Gabriel. Even when we were children, you didn't believe anything I said. You know as well as I do that there is a Portal between Blackthorn Manor and Chiswick House. I went through this morning to get some papers and found the manor a smoldering heap of ash!”

It was Gideon's turn to rise up. Recent grief had cut deep lines into his face; the look he turned on his sister was flinty. “That bloody house was a firetrap because you refused to look after it. It was going to burn down eventually. It is very ill done for you to try to drag James into this, very ill done!”

“Enough! All of you!” shouted Bridgestock. He had moved to the lectern, and his voice echoed loudly through the room. “James Herondale, is there any truth to what Mrs. Blackthorn says?”

“Of course there isn't—” Will began.

Tatiana's voice rose to a scream. “He told Grace he did it. Ask
her
what James said!”

“Oh God,” whispered Matthew. His hands gripped the arms of his chair, his fingers white. Lucie had dropped her pen and notebook: her hands were shaking.

Grace began to get to her feet. Her eyes were cast down. Someone in the crowd shouted that a trial by the Mortal Sword would clear things up; Tessa was still clutching Will, but looked sick to her stomach.

Cordelia chanced a look at James. He was the color of old ashes,
his eyes blazing, his head thrown back. He would not defend himself, she thought. He would never explain.

And then there was Grace. What if Grace intended to tell the truth? Charles would throw her over just as he had done to Ariadne. He had no loyalty. She would be easy prey for her mother, then. She had so very much to lose.

“The fact is,” Grace began, in a voice barely above a whisper, “the—the truth is that James—”

Cordelia bolted to her feet. “The truth is that James Herondale did
not
burn down Blackthorn Manor last night,” she said, in a voice so loud she thought they could probably hear her on Fleet Street. “James cannot have been in Idris. He was with me. In my bedroom.
All night.
”

The gasp of shock that went around the room would almost have been satisfying, under other circumstances. Sona slumped against Alastair, burying her head in his chest. Heads whipped around; curious eyes fixed on Cordelia. Her heart beat like a trip-hammer. Anna gazed at her with a dumbfounded look. Will and Tessa seemed thunderstruck.

Matthew put his face in his hands.

Bridgestock was staring at Cordelia in amazement. “Are you quite sure about this, Miss Carstairs?”

Cordelia lifted her chin. She knew that she was compromised now, in the eyes of all the Enclave. More than compromised, she was ruined. She would never be married. She would be lucky if she was received at parties. Shadowhunters were less strict than mundanes about such matters, but a young woman who spent the night alone with a young man, in her bedroom no less, was not marriage material.

“Obviously, I am sure,” she said. “Which aspect do you think I am confused about?”

Bridgestock flushed. Rosamund Wentworth looked as if today
had turned out to be her birthday. Cordelia did not dare glance at James.

Tatiana was spluttering. “Grace, tell them—”

In a clear voice, Grace said, “I'm sure Cordelia is correct. James must be innocent.”

Tatiana screamed. It was a horrible sound, as if she had been stabbed. “No!” she wailed. “If it wasn't James, it was one of you!” She stabbed her finger at the crowd, identifying the Thieves. “Matthew Fairchild, Thomas Lightwood, Christopher Lightwood! One of them, one of them is responsible, I know it!”

Murmurs of speculation swept through the crowd. Bridgestock was calling out for order. As the chaos mounted, the front doors of the Sanctuary opened, and Charlotte Fairchild, the Consul, marched into the room.

She was a small woman, her dark brown hair gathered into a simple knot. There was gray at her temples. She wore a high-necked white blouse and a dark skirt; everything about her was neat and small, from her boots to her gold-rimmed spectacles. “I'm sorry to arrive late,” she said, in the practiced tone of someone used to pitching her voice loudly to be heard over a room full of men. “I was planning to be here earlier, but I was required to remain in Idris in order to investigate a fire that claimed Blackthorn Manor last night.”

“I told you! I told you they did it!” Tatiana cried.

Charlotte pressed her lips together. “Mrs. Blackthorn, I spent several hours with a group of Alicante guards, picking through the wreckage of your home. There were many items present that were associated with and imbued with necromantic magic and demonic magic, both of which are forbidden to Shadowhunters.”

Tatiana's face folded up like old paper. “I had to have those things!” she wailed, in a voice like a broken child's. “I had to use those things, I had to have them, for Jesse—my son died and none
of you would help me! He died, and none of you would help me bring him back!” She gazed around the room with wet, hateful eyes. “Grace, why won't you help me?” she shrieked, and crumpled to the floor.

Grace picked her way across the room to Tatiana. She laid a hand on her adoptive mother's shoulder, but her face was stony. Cordelia could see no sympathy in it for Tatiana's plight.

“I can confirm what Charlotte says.” It was Magnus Bane, who had gotten gracefully to his feet. “In January Mrs. Blackthorn attempted to hire me to help bring her son back from the dead. I declined, but saw much evidence of her dedication to the study of the necromantic arts. What many would call
black magic
. I should have said something then, but my heart was wrung with pity. Many wish to bring back their beloved dead. Few ever get very far.” He sighed. “When such objects fall into the hands of the untutored, it can be dangerous. Certainly that explains the tragic and entirely accidental fire that destroyed Mrs. Blackthorn's manor house.”

There were yet more exclamations among the crowd. “Laying it on a bit thick, isn't he?” Lucie murmured.

“Hardly matters—as long as the Clave believes it,” Matthew said.

Will inclined his head to Magnus; Cordelia had the feeling that there was a friendship there that went back a long way. Amid the uproar, Charlotte gestured at Inquisitor Bridgestock to take Tatiana into custody.

A hand fell on Cordelia's shoulder. She looked up and saw James. Everything inside her chest seemed to tighten up, as if her heart were contracting. He was pale, two spots of color burning on his cheeks.

“Cordelia,” he said. “I need to talk to you. Right now.”

James slammed the door of the drawing room shut behind him and spun to face Cordelia. His hair actually seemed to have exploded, she thought, with a sort of bleak amusement. It was sticking out darkly in all directions.