Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Now Cordelia was the one puzzled. “Why would you do that?”


The porter looked even more surprised. “I bring a bottle every morning, just after sunrise. By request of Monsieur Fairchild. Brandy, or absinthe.” He shrugged. “When he was here before, he wanted it in the evening. This visit, early morning. No difference to me, I said, six o’clock every morning.”

“Thank you,” Cordelia managed to get out, and left the porter staring after her as she stumbled down the hall.

Once inside the suite door, she leaned against the wall, her eyes closed. Matthew had indeed lied to her. He had sworn not to drink, and he had not—in front of her. But the porter had brought him a new bottle of liquor each morning. Had he been drinking, then, at every moment that he wasn’t in her sight? It certainly seemed like he had been.

It was one lie too many, she thought; now she was truly broken beyond repair. She’d been lied to over and over again, by everybody she cared about. Her family had lied about her father’s drinking. James had lied—about Grace, about her, about the very premise of their marriage. Lucie, who was supposed to be her closest friend, who she knew better than anyone, had kept her relationship with Jesse Blackthorn hidden, and had fled London without a word or a warning to Cordelia.

She had thought Matthew would be different—precisely because he believed in nothing, because he had already given up on morality as most people saw it, on virtue and high-mindedness. He cared only about beauty and art and meaning, as bohemians did; this was why she had believed that he would not lie to her. Because if he were going to drink, he would say so.

But he had looked her in the eye and promised her that if she came to Paris with him, he would drink only lightly; he had allowed her to believe he had not touched drink at all. Yet the porter had been delivering brandy daily since the day they arrived. Cordelia had thought that even if Paris could not save her, at least it might save Matthew. But it seemed that one could not change oneself by changing one’s place, as much as one might dream of it; neither of them had left their troubles behind. They had only carried those troubles along with them.



* * *



When he came back into the suite, James found it undisturbed, as though no one had woken yet. The doors to both bedrooms were still closed. Shaking his head, he went and banged on Matthew’s door. When nothing happened, he banged on it again, a bit harder, and was rewarded with a low groaning noise from somewhere within.

“Breakfast,” he called. There was another, even lower groan from inside. “Get up, Matthew,” he said, his voice harsher than even he expected. “We need to talk.”

There was a series of thumping and crashing sounds, and after about a minute Matthew yanked the door open and blinked at James. He looked completely exhausted, and James wondered how late he had gotten back last night; he’d only known Matthew had returned at all because of his coat crumpled on the floor of the suite and another couple of empty bottles next to it. Certainly whenever Matthew had come back, it had been after James was asleep, which would have been very late indeed. James himself had lain on the couch, awake, for what felt like hours, staring into the dark in a state of utter despair. Magnus had slapped him on the back and wished him good luck before sending him through the Portal to get here—but no amount of luck, it turned out, would have helped.

In the space of what felt like a moment, he had lost not one but two of the most important people in his life.

When he finally did nod off, his sleep was strange and disturbed. He had had no dreams at all, that he could remember; there had been only a kind of harsh blank white noise. Strange, he thought, even stranger than the dark dreams Belial had sent him in the past. It had been a sound like the roar of the ocean but unpleasant and metallic, a sound that made him feel as if his heart had broken and poured out a shrill scream only he could hear.

Matthew was still wearing his clothes from the night before, even the red velvet waistcoat that matched Cordelia’s dress, but the clothes were crumpled and stained now. Behind him, the bedroom was a disaster. His trunk had been turned over, spilling out clothes, and empty plates and bottles lay scattered about like the bits of glass and crockery that washed up on the banks of the Thames.

Matthew’s eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a mass of tangled curls. “I,” he said, “was asleep.”

His voice was flat.

James counted to ten silently. “Math,” he said. “We have to go back to London.”

Matthew leaned against the doorway. “Ah. You and Cordelia are returning to London? Safe travels to you, then, or should I say, bon voyage? You do work quickly, James, but then, I suppose I rather ceded the battlefield to you, didn’t I?” He scrubbed at his eyes with a lace-cuffed sleeve, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “I will not fight you for her,” he said. “It would be undignified.”

This, James thought, was the point at which Christopher or Thomas or Anna would have walked away. When Matthew was in a rare quarrelsome mood, it was generally best to let him settle on his own. But James never walked away, no matter how sharp Matthew’s words became.

He could see, even now, the faint tremble in Matthew’s hands, the hurt at the back of his eyes. More than anything he wanted to put his arms around Matthew, hug him tightly, tell him he was loved.

But what could he really say to comfort him now? Cordelia loves you? Three words that felt like spikes driven into his own heart. Three words whose truth he could not be sure of. He did not know what Cordelia felt.

He rubbed his temple, which had begun to throb. “It’s not like that, Math,” he said. “There is no battlefield. If I had had any idea before last week that you had feelings for Cordelia—”

“What?” Matthew broke in, his voice harsh. “You would have what? Not married her? Married Grace? Because Jamie, that’s what I don’t understand. You’ve loved Grace for years—loved her when you thought it was hopeless. Loved her—what does Dickens say? ‘Against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.’”

“I never loved her,” James said. “I only thought I did.”

Matthew slumped in the doorway. “I wish I could believe that,” he said. “Because what it looks like is that the moment Cordelia left you, you decided you couldn’t bear being left. I suppose no one ever has, have they? Everyone’s always loved you.” He said it with a flat matter-of-factness that was startling. “Except perhaps Grace. Perhaps that’s why you wanted her in the first place. I don’t think she’s capable of loving anyone.”

“Matthew—” James could feel the weight of the silver bracelet as though it circled his wrist still, though he knew perfectly well it was broken and back at Curzon Street. He wanted to protest, to explain his own innocence, but how could he do so when he hadn’t yet told Cordelia? Surely she was owed the truth first. And the thought of telling her, of garnering her pity, was still unbearable. Better to be hated than pitied—by Daisy, by Matthew, though the thought of being hated by his parabatai made him sick—

Something crashed loudly in the room behind him, as if a lamp had fallen and smashed. James turned around, in time to see a Portal open in the wall of the living room.

Magnus stepped through into the suite. He, of course, was perfectly dressed in a striped suit, and as he took James and Matthew in, he brushed a speck of dust off his immaculate shirtfront.

On the other side of the suite, the door flew open, and Cordelia appeared, already fully dressed in traveling clothes. She stared at Magnus in astonishment. “Magnus,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting—I mean, how on earth did you know where we were staying?”

“Because he sent me through the Portal last night,” said James. “I know where Matthew likes to stay when he’s in Paris.”

Matthew shrugged. “I am nothing if not predictable.”

“And the night manager here is a warlock,” Magnus noted. “I mean, who else could have picked out those curtains?” When no one replied, he gazed from James to Cordelia, both of them, James imagined, clearly strained with tension, and then at Matthew, rumpled and wine-stained.

“Ah,” Magnus said, rather glumly. “I see there are some interpersonal dramatics taking place here.” He held up a hand. “I do not know what they are, nor do I wish to know. James, you arrived last night, did you not?”

James nodded.

“And have you already told Cordelia and Matthew about Lucie—and about Jesse?”