Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

They had turned the room that had once been James’s room into a planning room, in which, James had said grandly, gesturing about with a pencil behind his ear, they would plan adventures. They had traveled to Constantinople and Shanghai and Timbuktu already in their minds and imaginations; now they would go there in reality. They would see the world, together, and to that end they had pinned up maps and train timetables and the addresses of Institutes all over the world.

“But what will happen when you have children, with all this gallivanting?” Will had grumbled in mock despair, but James had only laughed and said they would take them along wherever they went, perhaps in specially designed luggage.

“You’re a cruel mistress, Daisy,” he said now, and kissed her. Cordelia shivered all over; Rosamund had once told her kissing Thoby was boring, but Cordelia could not imagine becoming bored with kissing James. She shifted closer to him on the blanket, as he brought up one hand to gently cup her face—

“Oi!” Alastair yelled over good-naturedly. “Stop kissing my sister!”

Cordelia drew back from James and laughed. She knew Alastair didn’t actually mind—he was at home now in their group of friends, at home enough to tease. Never again would he worry whether he was welcome at a meeting in the Devil Tavern, or at a party or late-night gathering at Anna’s. Attitudes toward her brother had changed, but even more than that, he had changed. It was as if he had been locked in a room, and Thomas had opened the door: Alastair now seemed to feel free to express the love and affection for his friends and family he had always tamped down and hidden away. He had truly astonished Sona and Cordelia with the attention he paid to his new baby brother. As long as Alastair was there, Zachary Arash never needed to fear being alone for a second: Alastair was always holding him, always tossing him into the air and catching him while he squealed. He rarely came home from a day out without a rattle or a toy to keep the baby entertained.

One night after dinner at Cornwall Gardens, Cordelia had passed the drawing room in her mother’s house and seen Alastair sitting on the sofa with the baby—a swaddled mass of blankets with two pink fists visible, waving as Alastair sang, in a low voice, a Persian melody Cordelia half remembered: You are the moon in the sky, and I am the star that circles around you.

It was a song their father had sung to them when they were very small. How things came full circle, Cordelia could not help but think, in the last ways one would expect.



* * *



“Bakewell tarts,” said Jesse. “Bridget’s outdone herself.”

He and Lucie were unpacking a picnic hamper the size of Buckingham Palace onto a blue-and-white-checked blanket that Lucie had laid upon the lawn under a cluster of sweet chestnut trees.

Bridget had outdone herself—every time Lucie thought the basket must be empty, Jesse brought out another treat: ham sandwiches, cold chicken and mayonnaise, meat pies, strawberries, Bakewell tarts and Eccles cakes, cheese and grapes, lemonade and ginger beer. Ever since Bridget had recovered from her injury at Westminster, she had been wildly active in the kitchen: in fact, she’d seemed to have more energy than ever. The gray threads had disappeared from her head; Will had remarked that it was as if she were aging backward. Even her songs had become more frequent, and more gruesome.

“I’m hiding a few. Otherwise Thomas will eat them all,” Jesse said, setting aside several of the Bakewell tarts. As he moved, a thick black Mark on his right forearm flashed. Home. It was a rarely used Mark, symbolic rather than practical, like the runes for grief and happiness.

He had gotten it the day he returned from Idris, after his trial by Mortal Sword. Though most of the Clave’s concerns about Will and Tessa’s loyalties had been put to rest by their testimonies—and the death of Belial—the question of Jesse, and Lucie’s actions in raising him, had remained an open one. The Clave had wanted to speak with them both, but Jesse had been insistent: he wanted to stand trial by Mortal Sword alone. He wanted it known that he was Tatiana’s son, and that she had kept him half-alive until Lucie had done what she’d done—that Lucie was innocent of necromancy. He no longer wished to pretend to be Jeremy Blackthorn. He wanted to be known as who he was, and face whatever consequences came.

After all, he said, a trial would reveal how hard he had fought against Belial, how he had never cooperated with him or any demon. Lucie knew he also hoped his testimony would help not only her but also Grace, and while Lucie had respected his wishes and not accompanied him to Alicante—she had spent the two days he was gone tearing out bits of her hair and writing a novella entitled Heroic Prince Jethro Defeats the Evil Council of Darkness—she suspected it had.

When Jesse had returned from Idris, his name had been cleared and so had Lucie’s. He was now officially Jesse Blackthorn, and there was a new resolve in him. To be part of the Enclave, to hold his head high among them—after all, many of them had seen him fight bravely at Westminster, even knew he had helped. He patrolled, attended meetings, accompanied Lucie to her parabatai ceremony with Cordelia. The Home Mark, which was permanent, had been given to him by Will, who had also presented him with the gift of a stele that had once belonged to Will’s father (and had now been modified to create fire-messages, as all current steles were). They were both gifts, Lucie thought, the rune and the stele—a sort of welcome combined, she hoped, with a promise.

“You can’t tease Thomas for always being hungry when you’re always hungry,” Lucie pointed out.

“Even hours of training a day—” Jesse began indignantly, then narrowed his eyes. “Luce. What’s wrong?”

“There. On the bench,” she whispered.

She was aware of him turning to look: a row of park benches had been set up along the edges of a low fence, not far from a stone statue of a boy with a dolphin. On one of the benches sat Malcolm Fade, wearing a cream-colored linen suit and a straw hat pulled low over his eyes. Despite the hat, Lucie could tell he was looking at her with a focused concentration.

Her stomach did a small flip. She had not seen Malcolm since the Christmas party at the Institute, and it seemed as if a lifetime had passed since.

He crooked a finger in her direction, as if to say, Come and speak to me.

She hesitated. “I ought to go talk to him.”

Jesse frowned. “I don’t like it. Let me come with you.”

Part of Lucie wished she could ask Jesse to accompany her. She could not really see Malcolm’s face, but she felt the intensity with which he was looking at her, and she was not sure it was entirely friendly. Yet a larger part of her knew that she was the one who had bound herself to Malcolm with a promise. A promise that had now gone long unaddressed.

She glanced around; no one else in their group seemed to have noticed the warlock. Matthew was lying in the grass, face turned up to the sun, while Thomas and Alastair played fetch with Oscar; James and Cordelia had eyes only for each other, and Anna and Ari were down by the riverbank, deep in conversation.

“It’ll be all right—you’ll be able to see me. If I need you, I’ll signal,” Lucie said, dropping a kiss on Jesse’s head as she rose to her feet. He was still frowning as she set off across the grass toward Malcolm.

As she drew closer to the High Warlock, she noticed how different he looked since she’d last seen him. He had always been well put together, his outfits carefully considered for fit and fashion, but he seemed a bit shabby around the edges now. There were holes in the sleeves of his white linen jacket, and what looked like bits of flowers and hay stuck to his boots.

She sat down gingerly on the park bench, not close to Malcolm, though not so far away as to insult him. She folded her hands in her lap and gazed out over the park. She could see her friends on their bright picnic blankets; Oscar a pale gold shadow darting back and forth. Jesse, watching her with serious eyes.

“It’s a lovely day, isn’t it,” Malcolm said. His voice was remote. “When I left London, the ground was covered in ice.”

“Indeed,” Lucie said carefully. “Malcolm, where have you been? I thought I would have seen you after the Westminster battle.” When he said nothing, she went on. “It’s been six months, and—”

That seemed to surprise him. “Six months, you say? I was in the green land of Faerie. For me it has been a matter of weeks.”

Lucie was astonished. She had not heard of warlocks traveling to Faerie often—if at all. But it did explain the grass and flowers on his boots. She could ask him why he’d gone, she supposed, but she sensed the question would not be welcome. Instead she said, “Malcolm, my power is gone. You must have guessed—since Belial died, I can no longer command the dead.” He said nothing. “I am sorry—”

“I had hoped,” he interrupted, “that perhaps your power might have started to return. Like an injury healing.” He still looked out over the grass in front of them, as though searching for something there and not finding it.

“No,” Lucie said. “It hasn’t come back. I don’t think it ever will. It was tied to my grandfather, and it died with his death.”