Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

James felt a wave of shameful relief. “And if I hadn’t interrupted you?” He held up a hand. “Never mind. You believed my marriage to Cordelia was a sham. I understand that.”


“But I knew—” Matthew stopped himself from whatever he was going to say next, and let out a long breath instead. “I knew that once you lived together, once you spent all your time with her, you would come to love her too. And besides—when you find you’re in love with your best friend’s wife, you don’t tell anyone. You drown yourself in drink, alone in London or in Paris, until either it kills you or the feelings go away.”

James knew he shouldn’t say it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “But you weren’t alone in Paris, were you?”

Matthew sucked in his breath. “It is a sickness. I thought if Cordelia was with me, I would not require the bottle. But it seems too late for that. The bottle requires me.”

“I require you more,” James said. “Math, let me help you—”

“Oh, dear God, James,” Matthew said, with a sort of passionate despair. “How can you be so good?” He pushed himself away from the door. “I couldn’t bear it, right now,” he said, “to be helped by you.”

Before James could say anything more, he heard Charles call out, in his booming voice: “There you are, Matthew! Do you want a ride back to your flat? Or you could come back to the house and see the parents. I’m sure they’d love to hear about Paris.”

Matthew made a face that James knew well: it meant give me patience. “Just one moment,” he called. He turned back to James and put a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever else happens, don’t hate me, James. Please. I don’t think I could bear it.”

James wanted to close his eyes. He knew that behind them he would see two boys running across a green lawn in Idris, one fair-haired and one dark. “I could never hate you, Math.”

As Matthew went to join his brother, leaving James alone on the steps, James thought, I could never hate you, for all my hate is reserved for myself. I have none left over for anyone else.





10 WANDERER




He saw a black shadow: a big raven squatted motionless, staring at Majnun, eyes glowing like lamps. “Dressed in mourning, he is a wanderer like myself,” thought Majnun, “and in our hearts we probably feel the same.”

—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun



It always surprised Cordelia, how London could be at once overcast and even rainy, and yet also bright enough to sting her eyes. From inside the carriage with Alastair, she blinked against the glare of the milk-white sky, and thought about the clear sunshine in Paris. Her time there was already beginning to seem removed and distant, like the memory of a dream.

They sat in silence as the driver navigated traffic on the Strand. Alastair, even a year ago, would have had a torrent of questions. He now seemed content to wait for Cordelia to speak.

“Alastair,” she said as they swung onto the Mall, with its terraced white facades. “I assume Magnus let you know to come and fetch me?”

Alastair frowned at her. “Cordelia, put gloves on. It’s cold. And yes, Magnus told me you’d just Portaled back. He said that you seemed exhausted after your travels and that you might appreciate being retrieved.”

“Retrieved,” Cordelia muttered. “Makes me sound like luggage. And I haven’t got gloves with me. I must have left them back at the hotel.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Alastair removed his own gloves and began to jam them onto Cordelia’s hands. They were comically too big, but very warm, especially since he’d just been wearing them. She flexed her fingers gratefully.

“I was surprised,” Alastair said. “I would have thought you’d be returning to your house on Curzon Street. You might recall it? The house in which you reside with James Herondale? Your husband?”

Cordelia looked out the window. Carriages, omnibuses, and the like were snarled up around a large stone arch ahead—some sort of monument, though she couldn’t recall which one. Up above, the driver was complaining loudly about the traffic. “I was worried about M?m?n,” she said. “I oughtn’t to have left with the baby due so soon. In fact, I think I shall stay in Cornwall Gardens at least until the baby is born.”

“Your devotion to family is admirable,” Alastair said dryly. “I’m sure it is unrelated to your having just run off to Paris with your husband’s parabatai.”

Cordelia sighed. “I had my reasons, Alastair.”

“I’m sure you did,” he said, surprising her again. “I wish you’d tell me what they were. Are you in love with Matthew?”

“I don’t know,” Cordelia said. Not that she didn’t have thoughts on the matter, but she didn’t feel like sharing them with Alastair at the moment.

“Are you in love with James, then?”

“Well. We are married.”

“That’s not really an answer,” said Alastair. “I don’t really like James,” he added, “but on the other hand, I also don’t like Matthew very much. So you see, I am torn.”

“Well, this must be very difficult for you,” Cordelia said crossly. “I cannot imagine how you will find it within yourself to go on.”

She made a dismissive gesture, which was spoiled when Alastair burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But those gloves are enormous on you.”

“Humph,” said Cordelia.

“About James—”

“Are we the sort of family that discusses our intimate relationships now?” Cordelia interrupted. “Perhaps you would like to talk about Charles?”

“Generally not. Charles seems to be healing up, and beyond him surviving, I have no further interest in what happens to him,” said Alastair. “In fact, there have been a few touch-and-go moments with my caring about whether he survives. He was always demanding that I adjust his pillows. ‘And now the foot pillow, Alastair,’?” he said, in a squeaky voice that, to be fair, sounded nothing like the actual Charles. Alastair was terrible at impressions.

“I wouldn’t mind a foot pillow,” said Cordelia. “It sounds rather nice.”

“You are clearly in an emotional state, so I will ignore your rambling,” said Alastair. “Look, you need not discuss your feelings about James, Matthew, or whatever other harem of men you may have acquired, with me. I merely want to know if you’re all right.”

“No, you want to know if either of them has done something awful to me, so you can chase them around, shouting,” said Cordelia darkly.

“I could want both,” Alastair pointed out. They had made it out of the traffic finally and were rattling through Knightsbridge, past Harrods, bright with Christmas decorations, and streets crowded with barrow boys selling chestnuts and hot pies.

“I really have been worried about M?m?n,” Cordelia said.

Alastair’s expression softened. “M?m?n is fine, Layla, other than weariness. She sleeps a great deal. When she is awake, she grieves for our father. It is her grief that wearies her, I think, not her condition.”

“Is she angry at me?” Cordelia hadn’t realized she was going to say such a thing until it was already out of her mouth.

“For going to Paris? No, not at all. She was quite calm when we got your note; calmer than I’d expected, I must say. She said that if your dreams had taken you to Paris, then she was happy. I don’t recall anyone ever saying that about me when I went to Paris,” he added. “It is a dreadful chore, being the eldest.”

Cordelia sighed. “I oughtn’t to have gone, Alastair—if it hadn’t been for her, for Lilith, I don’t think I would have. But I am useless. I cannot protect anyone. I cannot even pick up my sword.”

“Cortana.” He looked at her, a strange expression in his dark eyes. She knew they had the same eyes—black, only a shade lighter than the pupil—but on Alastair, she recognized that their light transformed his face, softening its severity. That they were striking. She had never thought that about her own eyes; she supposed people didn’t consider themselves that way. “Layla, I have to tell you something.”

She tensed. “What is it?”

“I couldn’t keep Cortana in the house,” he said, “or with me, due to some rather—unfortunate visitors.”

They were passing Hyde Park; it was a green blur outside Cordelia’s window. “Demons?”

Alastair nodded. “Raveners,” he said. “Spy demons. I could have managed them myself, but with M?m?n… Don’t worry,” he added hastily, seeing her expression. “Thomas helped me hide it. I won’t tell you where, but it’s safe. And I haven’t seen a Ravener since I locked it away.”

She wanted desperately to ask him where he had hidden it, but knew she couldn’t. It was silly, but she missed Cortana terribly. I’ve so changed myself, she thought, that I do not know if Cortana would choose me again, even if I were no longer Lilith’s paladin. It was a miserable thought.

“Thomas helped you?” she said instead. “Thomas Lightwood?”