Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

But if Eugenia’s mind was on that, she did not show it. She remained cheerful and determined all the way out of the flat and down into the Lightwoods’ carriage.

It was once in the carriage, jouncing along Percy Street toward Cavendish Square, that Ariadne realized that if they were going to retrieve her things today, there would be no place she could bring her trunks other than back to Anna’s flat. But that must surely have occurred to Anna already? Ariadne tried to catch her eye, but Anna was caught up in a conversation with Eugenia about neighborhoods where Ariadne might find the right sort of flat for a single young woman to occupy.

So Anna did not expect Ariadne to keep her things at Anna’s for long. Certainly not long enough for the situation to become awkward. Though Anna showed no signs of awkwardness; she was lovely and bright as ever. She wore a spectacular waistcoat, striped pink and green like ribbon candy, which Ariadne felt sure she’d nicked from Matthew. Her eyes were as dark blue as pansy flowers. And soon you’ll be telling yourself the angels sing when she laughs, Ariadne thought to herself sternly. Be less sentimental.

Soon enough they had arrived at the Bridgestock house. At the front door Ariadne hesitated, thinking of a thousand things that could go wrong with their plan. But Anna was looking at her expectantly, apparently with full confidence that Ariadne was capable of handling the situation. It was a look that stiffened Ariadne’s spine and hardened her resolve. With a smile plastered on her face, she used her key to open the door, stepped into the entryway, and called out with forced cheerfulness, “Mother, just look who I ran into this morning!”

Her mother appeared at the top of the stairs. Flora wore the same dress she had worn the day before, and had clearly spent a sleepless night; her eyes were deeply shadowed, her face lined with tension. As her gaze fell upon her daughter, Ariadne thought she saw a flash of relief on her features.

Could she have been worried about me? Ariadne wondered, but her mother had caught sight of Anna, Christopher, and Eugenia spilling into the entryway, and was already forcing her expression into a smile.

“Eugenia, dear,” she said warmly, descending the stairs. “And young Master Lightwood, and Anna, of course—” Was it Ariadne’s imagination that there was a certain coldness in the way Flora Bridgestock looked upon Anna? “How are your dear parents?”

Eugenia launched immediately into a long story involving Gideon and Sophie’s search for a new housemaid after the last one had been discovered to be wildly riding omnibuses all around town while a group of local brownies did all the tidying up.

“Dreadful,” Ariadne heard Flora say, and, “What trying times,” as Eugenia herded her skillfully into the drawing room, Anna and Christopher in her wake. She had underestimated Eugenia, Ariadne thought. She would make an excellent spy.

Ariadne exchanged a quick look with Anna and then hurried up the stairs to her room, where she seized a trunk and began to fill it with her possessions. How hard, she thought, to pack away a life, so quickly! Clothes and books, of course, and old treasures: a sari that had been her first mother’s, a pata that had belonged to her first father, a doll her adoptive mother had given her, one of its button eyes missing.

From downstairs, she heard Anna say loudly, “Christopher has been entertaining us all morning with his latest work in science! Christopher, tell Mrs. Bridgestock what you were telling us earlier.”

That meant Flora was getting fidgety, Ariadne knew. She had only a little more time.

She had just finished folding her gear and was placing the pata on top of the pile of clothes in her trunk when Anna appeared at her door. “Almost ready?” she said. “Eventually your mother will try to get a word in edgewise around Christopher, you know.”

Ariadne stood up, dusting her hands off on her skirt. She determinedly did not look around at her room, at the familiar furniture, the blanket her mother had knitted for her before she had even arrived from India. “I’m ready.”

Together, they carried the trunk down to the entryway, managing not to thump it against every stair. As they passed by the doorway to the drawing room, Ariadne saw her mother, looking up from the sofa at Christopher, glance over at her. Her face was pale and strained. Ariadne had to fight the urge to go to her, to ask if she was all right, to fetch her a cup of tea as she was used to doing in difficult times.

The carriage driver came rushing up the steps to take the trunk, and Ariadne headed back into the house. She could hear Eugenia regaling her mother with another domestic tale and wondered if it was possible that the Lightwoods could keep her distracted long enough for Ariadne to dart down to the conservatory and snatch up Winston’s cage.

Technically, he was hers, after all—a gift from her parents. And while Anna had not specifically agreed to house a parrot in her small flat, Ariadne—and therefore Winston—was only meant to be a temporary guest there, until she found her own place.

She was about to make a run for Winston when there was a loud screech from outside. Anna cried out a sharp warning. Ariadne spun back to the door to see a hansom cab, being driven hell-for-leather, come to a stop inches away from crashing into the Lightwoods’ carriage. The cab’s door opened, disgorging a man in a filthy traveling coat, a bent hat jammed sideways on his head. He flung a handful of coins at the cabdriver before heading straight for the Bridgestocks’ front door.

Ariadne did not recognize the coat, the hat, or the staggering limp, but she recognized the man, though there was half a week’s white stubble on his face, and he looked years older than the last time she’d seen him.

“Father?” she whispered. She had not meant to speak; the word had left her mouth on its own.

Anna looked at her in surprise. It was clear she, too, had not recognized the Inquisitor.

“Maurice?” Ariadne’s mother had raced to the door, Eugenia and Christopher behind her, wearing matching looks of surprise and concern. She caught at Ariadne’s hand—squeezed it once, hard—and flew down the steps to throw her arms around her husband, who stood stock-still, motionless as a gnarled old tree, even as his wife sobbed, “What happened? Where have you been? Why didn’t you let us know—”

“Flora,” he said, and his voice was harsh, as if he had worn it out by shouting or screaming. “Oh, Flora. It’s worse than you could imagine. It’s so much worse than any of us imagined.”



* * *



The next morning Cordelia’s greatest fear was having to encounter either James or Matthew upon emerging from her bedroom. She delayed as long as she could, fussing over getting dressed, though she could tell by the angle of the sun through the windows that it was already late morning.

She had slept poorly. Over and over, when she closed her eyes, she saw James’s face, heard his words. I was wrong about my marriage. I didn’t think it was real. It was real. The most real thing in my life.

He had told her he loved her.

It was all she thought she had ever wanted. But she found now that it rang hollow in her heart. She did not know what was driving him—pity, perhaps, or even a regret for the life they had shared together at Curzon Street. He did say he had been happy. And she had never thought Grace made him happy, only miserable, but it was a misery he seemed to have relished. And feelings showed themselves through actions; Cordelia believed James liked her, desired her even, but if he had loved her…

He would have sent Grace away.

After lacing up her boots, she went out into the suite, only to find it empty. The door to Matthew’s room was closed, and James was nowhere to be seen.

The green absinthe bottle was still on the table. Cordelia thought of Matthew—of his mouth on hers, and then the way he had whitened when he asked if James had gone into his room.

There was a tight feeling in the pit of her stomach as she went out into the blue-and-gold hall. She spied the hotel porter, just departing another room. “Monsieur!” she called out, and hurried over to him. At least she could try to eat something before she had to start her journey. “I wanted to ask about breakfast—”

“Ah, madame,” the porter exclaimed. “Do not trouble yourself. Your companion has already called for breakfast and it should be delivered very soon.”

Cordelia was not sure which companion he meant, James or Matthew. She wasn’t sure she wanted to breakfast with either of them, and certainly not both, but it seemed too much to explain that to the porter. She thanked the man and was about to turn away when she hesitated. “May I ask you one other question?” she said. “Did you bring a bottle of absinthe to our suite last night?”

“Non, madame.” The porter looked puzzled. “I brought one bottle yesterday morning. Six o’clock.”