Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I wondered if it was possible to ride a carriage through a Portal,” he said, jumping down from the seat. “As it turns out, it is. Delightful.”


The carriage doors opened, and rather unsteadily, Will, Lucie, and a boy Thomas didn’t know clambered out. Lucie waved at Thomas before leaning against the side of the carriage; she was faintly green about the gills.

Will went around the carriage to unstrap the luggage, while the unfamiliar boy—tall and slender, with straight black hair and a pretty face—put a hand on Lucie’s shoulder. Which was surprising—it was an intimate gesture, one that would be considered impolite unless the boy and girl in question were close friends or relatives, or had an understanding between them. It seemed, however, unlikely that Lucie could have an understanding with someone Thomas had never seen before. He rather bristled at the thought, in an older-brother way—James didn’t seem to be here, so someone had to do the bristling for him.

“I told you it would work!” Will cried in Magnus’s direction. Magnus was busy magicking the unfastened baggage to the top of the steps, blue sparks darting like fireflies from his gloved fingertips. “We should have done that on the way out!”

“You did not say it would work,” Magnus said. “You said, as I recall, ‘By the Angel, he’s going to kill us all.’?”

“Never,” said Will. “My faith in you is unshakable, Magnus. Which is good,” he added, rocking back and forth a little, “because the rest of me feels quite shaken indeed.” He turned to Thomas, looking as if he’d entirely expected to find him loitering about the Institute steps. “Hello, Thomas! Good to see you’re here. Someone ought to run up and tell Tess we’ve arrived.”

Thomas blinked. Will hadn’t greeted Alastair, which Thomas thought was rather rude until he looked around and realized that Alastair was no longer there. He’d slipped away, sometime between the arrival of the carriage and now.

“I will,” Thomas said, “but—where’s James?”

Will exchanged a look with Magnus. For a moment, Thomas felt a spasm of real terror. He did not think, after Barbara, after everything that had happened, that he could bear it if James—

“He’s all right,” Lucie said quickly, as if reading the look on Thomas’s face.

“He’s gone to Paris,” said the strange boy. He too was looking at Thomas sympathetically, which Thomas found a bit much. He didn’t even know who this stranger was, much less desire his concern.

“Who are you?” he demanded shortly.

There was a moment’s hesitation, shared by Magnus, Will, Lucie, and the stranger—a hesitation that seemed to close Thomas out. He felt his stomach knot, just as Will said, “Thomas. I see we owe you an explanation; I think we owe one to all those close to us. Come into the Institute. It’s time we called a meeting.”



* * *



Cordelia froze. She thought for a moment she was still in the dream, that James was a vision, a horror her mind was conjuring up. But no, he was here, impossibly, he was here in their suite, his face blank but hell burning behind his gold eyes. And Matthew had seen him too.

Matthew let go of Cordelia. They stepped away from each other, but Matthew didn’t hurry; he wasn’t trying to pretend something else had been happening. And indeed, what would have been the point? It was humiliating; Cordelia felt foolish, exposed, but surely James didn’t care?

She put her hand out and took Matthew’s, curling her fingers around his. He was ice-cold, but he said, cordially enough, “James. I didn’t think to see you here.”

“No,” James said. His voice was even, his face expressionless, but he was white as chalk. His skin looked as if it had been stretched too tightly over his bones. “Clearly not. I had not thought—” He shook his head. “That I would be interrupting anything.”

“Did you get my letter?” Matthew said. Cordelia looked at him sharply; it was the first she’d heard of a letter to James. “I explained—”

“I got it. Yes.” James spoke slowly. His coat had been thrown over the chair behind him. He was in his shirt and trousers, one of his braces slipping off one shoulder. Part of Cordelia longed to step forward and fix it for him, to brush back the messy hair from his forehead. He was holding something—a green bottle, which he was turning over and over in his hands.

“Has something happened?” Cordelia asked. She thought suddenly, with a spasm of fear, of her mother. Of the baby due any day now. But surely she would have heard from Alastair if anything had happened? He knew where she was staying. “For you to journey all the way to Paris—”

“I would have come earlier,” James said, his voice low. “I would have come the night you left, if it were not for Lucie.”

“Lucie?” Cordelia’s mouth went dry. “What could possibly—is she all right?”

James sat forward. “She left London, the same night you did,” he said carefully, “because of Jesse Blackthorn. My father fetched me to help bring her home. She is quite all right,” he added, holding up a hand, “and eager to see both of you. As I have been.”

“Ran off because of Jesse Blackthorn?” Cordelia demanded. “Because of his death? Where did she go?”

James shook his head. “I cannot say. It is Lucie’s story to tell.”

“But I don’t understand,” Matthew said, a furrow appearing between his brows. “You said you would have come here the night we left, if not for Lucie—but we assumed—”

“That you would be with Grace.” It hurt to say it; Cordelia breathed around the invisible spike in her heart.

James smiled. Cordelia had never seen him smile like that before: a smile that was all bitterness, all inward-turning loathing. “Grace,” he said. “I have no desire to spend even a moment with her. I despise her. I shall endeavor never to see her again. Cordelia, Effie told me what you saw—”

“Yes,” Cordelia said. She felt as if she were some distance outside her body, looking down. Matthew, beside her, was taking short, shallow breaths. “You did not seem as if you hated Grace then, James. You took her in your arms. You said—”

“I know what I said.”

“That was the night I left,” Cordelia cried, “the same night. You cannot say you would have followed me here.”

James’s voice sounded scorched, bleak as Belial’s land. “I came as soon as I could. For both of you. I thought, if I could explain—”

“James,” Matthew said. His voice shook. “You didn’t want her.”

“I was a fool,” James said. “I freely admit that. I was wrong about my own feelings. I was wrong about my marriage. I didn’t think it was real. It was real. The most real thing in my life.” He looked directly at Cordelia. “I wish to repair the broken things. To put them back together. I wish—”

“Does it not matter what I wish?” Cordelia tightened her grip on Matthew’s hand. “Does it not matter, all the times we went to parties, to gatherings, and you stared at Grace instead of looking at me? That you kissed her while we were married? If I have hurt you by coming here, with Matthew, I am sorry. But I did not think you would care.”

“That I would not care,” James repeated, and looked down at the bottle in his hand. “I was here for hours, you know, before you came in. I thought I might try getting myself drunk on this stuff, thinking it would keep my courage up, but it does taste like the vilest poison. I could only manage a mouthful. How you can stand it, Math, I’ve no idea.”

He set the half-empty bottle on the table next to him, and Cordelia, for the first time, saw the green label: ABSINTHE BLANQUI.

Matthew’s hand, in Cordelia’s, was like ice.

“That’s not Matthew’s,” Cordelia said.

James looked surprised. “It was in his room—”

No, Cordelia thought, but James only looked puzzled.

“You went into my room?” Matthew demanded, and any thought Cordelia had had that this was a mistake, that the bottle wasn’t his, vanished with his words.

“I was looking for you,” James said. “I saw this, and the cherry brandy—I suppose I shouldn’t have taken it, but it seems I’m not much good at Dutch courage. I…” He looked between Matthew, white as a sheet, and Cordelia. He frowned. “What is it?”

Cordelia thought of the way Matthew had tasted when she kissed him. Sweet, like candy. Cherry brandy. She let go of Matthew’s hand, drew her own in front of her. Laced her shaking fingers together. She was a fool. A fool who had learned nothing from the life and death of her own father.