Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I thought we could have a chat,” she told him, tempting him with a nut. “Parrots are meant to talk. Why don’t you ask me how my day has been so far?”


Winston glowered. He had been a gift from her parents, long ago, when she had first arrived in London and was longing for something colorful to offset what she found to be the dreary grayness of the city. Winston had a green body, a plum-colored head, and a scoundrel’s disposition.

His glare made it clear that there would be no conversation until she provided a Brazil nut. Outmaneuvered by a parrot, Ariadne thought, and handed him a treat through the bars. Matthew Fairchild had a gorgeous golden dog as a pet, and here she was, stuck with the moody Lord Byron of fowl.

Winston swallowed the nut and extended a claw, wrapping it around one of the bars of his cage. “Pretty bird,” he chortled. “Pretty bird.”

Good enough, Ariadne thought. “My day’s been rotten, thanks for asking,” she said, feeding Winston another nut through the bars. “The house is so empty and lonely. Mother just rattles about, looking woebegone and worrying about Father. He’s been gone for five whole days now. And—I never thought I’d miss Grace, but at least she’d be company.”

She didn’t mention Anna. Some things were none of Winston’s business.

“Grace,” he croaked. He tapped at the bars of his cage in a meaningful manner. “Silent City.”

“Indeed,” Ariadne murmured. Her father and Grace had left on the same night, and their departures must have been connected, although Ariadne wasn’t sure exactly how. Her father had rushed off to the Adamant Citadel, intending to question Tatiana Blackthorn. The next morning Ariadne and her mother had discovered that Grace was gone too, having packed her meager things and left in the dead of night. Only at lunch did a runner bring a note from Charlotte, letting them know that Grace was in the custody of the Silent Brothers, speaking with them about her mother’s crimes.

Ariadne’s mother had swooned with agitation over this. “Oh, to have unknowingly sheltered a criminal under our roof!” To this Ariadne had rolled her eyes and pointed out that Grace had gone of her own volition, not been dragged out by the Silent Brothers, and that it was Tatiana Blackthorn who was the criminal. Tatiana had already caused a great deal of trouble and pain, and if Grace wished to give the Silent Brothers more information about her illegal activities, well, that was just good citizenship.

She knew it was ridiculous to miss Grace. They had rarely spoken. But the feeling of loneliness was so intense, Ariadne thought, that just having someone there would surely alleviate it. There were people she actively wished to talk to, of course, but she was doing her best not to think about those people. They were not her friends, not really. They were Anna’s, and Anna—

Her reverie was interrupted by the harsh jingle of the doorbell. Winston, she saw, had fallen asleep, hanging upside down. Hastily she dumped the remainder of the nuts into his food dish and hurried from the conservatory toward the front of the house, hoping for news.

But her mother had gotten to the door first. Ariadne paused at the top of the stairs when she heard her voice. “Consul Fairchild, hello. And Mr. Lightwood. How kind of you to call.” She paused. “Do you perhaps come with—news of Maurice?”

Ariadne could hear the fear in Flora Bridgestock’s voice, and it rooted her to the floor. At least she was around the bend of the stairwell, out of sight of the door. If Charlotte Fairchild had brought news—bad news—she would be more willing to tell her mother without Ariadne there.

She waited, gripping the newel post on the landing, until she heard Gideon Lightwood’s gentle voice. “No, Flora. We’ve heard nothing since he left for Iceland. We were rather hoping that—well, that you had.”

“No,” her mother said. She sounded remote, distant; Ariadne knew she was struggling not to show her fear. “I assumed that if he was in touch with anybody, he would be in touch with the office of the Consul.”

There was an awkward silence. Ariadne, feeling dizzy, suspected Gideon and Charlotte were wishing they’d never come.

“You’ve heard nothing from the Citadel?” her mother said at last. “From the Iron Sisters?”

“No,” admitted the Consul. “But they are a reticent bunch even under the best of circumstances. Tatiana is likely a difficult subject to question; it’s possible they simply feel that there is no news yet.”

“But you’ve sent them messages,” said Flora. “And they haven’t responded. Perhaps—the Reykjavík Institute?” Ariadne thought she heard a note of her mother’s fear slip past the battlements of her politeness. “I know we cannot Track him, as it would be over water, but they could. I could give you something of his to send them. A handkerchief, or—”

“Flora.” The Consul spoke in her kindest voice; Ariadne guessed she was, by now, gently holding her mother’s hand. “This is a mission of the utmost secrecy; Maurice would be the first to demand we not alarm the Clave at large. We will send another message to the Citadel, and if we hear nothing back, we will launch an investigation of our own. I promise you.”

Ariadne’s mother murmured assent, but Ariadne was troubled. The Consul and her closest advisor didn’t visit in person because they were merely eager for news. Something had them worried; something they had not mentioned to Flora.

Charlotte and Gideon took their leave among further reassurances. When Ariadne heard the door latch shut, she came down the stairs. Her mother, who had been standing motionless in the entryway, started when she saw her. Ariadne did her best to give the impression that she had only just arrived.

“I heard voices,” she said. “Was that the Consul who just left?”

Her mother nodded vaguely, lost in thought. “And Gideon Lightwood. They wanted to know if we’d had a message from your father. And here I hoped they had come to say they’d heard from him.”

“It’s all right, Mama.” Ariadne took her mother’s hands in her own. “You know how Father is. He’s going to be careful and take his time, and learn all he can.”

“Oh, I know. But—it was his idea to send Tatiana to the Adamant Citadel in the first place. If something’s gone wrong—”

“It was an act of mercy,” Ariadne said firmly. “Not locking her up in the Silent City, where she would no doubt have gone madder than she already was.”

“But we did not know then what we know now,” her mother said. “If Tatiana Blackthorn had something to do with Leviathan attacking the Institute… that is not the act of a madwoman deserving pity. It is war on the Nephilim. It is the act of a dangerous adversary, in league with the greatest of evils.”

“She was in the Adamant Citadel when Leviathan attacked,” Ariadne pointed out. “How could she be responsible without the Iron Sisters knowing? Don’t fret, Mama,” she added. “It will all be well.”

Her mother sighed. “Ari,” she said, “you’ve grown up to be such a lovely girl. I will miss you so, when some fine man chooses you, and you go off to be married.”

Ariadne made a noncommittal noise.

“Oh, I know, it was a terrible experience with that Charles,” her mother said. “You’ll find a better man in time.”

She took a breath and set her shoulders, and not for the first time, Ariadne was reminded that her mother was a Shadowhunter like any other, and confronting hardships was part of her job. “By the Angel,” she said, in a new, brisk tone, “life goes on, and we cannot stand in the foyer and fret all day. I have much to attend to… the Inquisitor’s wife must hold down the household while the master is away, and all that.…”

Ariadne murmured her assent and kissed her mother on the cheek before going back up the stairs. Halfway down the corridor, she passed the door to her father’s study, which stood ajar. She pushed the door open slightly and peered inside.

The study had been left in an alarming shambles. If Ariadne had hoped that looking inside Maurice Bridgestock’s study would make her feel closer to her father, she was disappointed—it made her feel more worried instead. Her father was fastidious and organized, and proud of it. He did not tolerate mess. She knew he had left in haste, but the state of the room brought home how panicked he must have been.

Almost without thinking, she found herself straightening up: pushing the chair back under the desk, freeing the curtains where they’d become folded over a lampshade, taking the teacups out into the hallway where the housekeeper would find them. Ashes lay cold in front of the grate; she picked up the small brass broom to whisk them back into the fireplace—

And paused.