Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Grace couldn’t help but smile. “That makes a surprising amount of sense. But then, you often do. Have you come to discuss the notes you left? I’ve had some thoughts—ways the process might be refined, or experiments that could be tried—”

“We needn’t talk about the notes,” said Christopher. “It’s the Institute’s Christmas party tonight, you see.” He began rooting around in his satchel. “And I thought, since you couldn’t go, I might try to bring some of the party to you. To remind you that even though you are here, it is not forever, and soon enough you will again be someone who goes to parties.” As though performing a magic track, he drew out a green glass bottle. “Champagne,” he said. “And glasses for champagne.” These too he drew out of the bag and set on the small wooden table next to Grace’s bed.

There was a feeling in Grace’s stomach that she didn’t recognize, a sort of fizziness like champagne itself. “You are a very strange boy.”

“Am I?” said Christopher, sounding legitimately surprised.

“You are,” said Grace. “You turn out to be very sensitive, for a scientist.”

“One can be both,” Christopher said mildly. His kindness, like Zachariah’s, left her almost worried. She would never have expected it, not from one of James’s friends, who had every reason to dislike her, but he seemed steadfast in his desire to make sure she did not feel utterly abandoned or forgotten.

And yet it was all built on deceit. She knew that now, from Jesse’s reaction to what she had told him. He would have found out on his own, anyway, she was sure; but if she had not told him, every part of their relationship would have been a lie. Now at least, if he forgave her…

With a loud pop, Christopher removed the cork from the top of the bottle. He poured two glasses, set the bottle on a shelf, and held a glass out to her: it was an oddly pretty thing in the dreary cell, the gold-colored liquid shining.

“Christopher,” she said, taking the glass. “There is something I must tell you.”

His lavender eyes—so beautifully odd, the color—widened. “What’s happened?”

“It’s not quite that.” Solemnly Christopher clinked his glass against hers. She took a long drink from the glass, and it tickled her nose; she had to hold back a sneeze. It was better than she remembered. “It’s something I’ve done… to someone. Something terrible, in secret.”

His brow furrowed. “Is this something you did to me?”

“No,” she said hurriedly. “Not at all. Nothing to do with you.”

“Then probably,” he said, “it’s not me you need to confess to, but rather the person you did it to.”

His voice was solemn. Grace looked at him, at his gentle serious face, and thought, He suspects. I don’t know how, and perhaps he only speculates, but—he guesses something very close to the truth.

“Grace,” he said. “I’m sure whomever you have wronged, he will forgive you. If you explain how it happened, and why.”

“I have confessed already,” she said slowly. “To the one I wronged. I cannot say that he has forgiven me, nor that I deserve his forgiveness.” She bit her lip. “I have no right to ask,” she said slowly. “But if you could help me…”

Christopher looked at her, with his steady scientist’s gaze. “Help you with what?”

“There is someone else,” she said, “who has been harmed greatly by my actions, through no fault of their own. Someone who deserves to know the truth.” She took a deep breath. “Cordelia. Cordelia Carstairs.”



* * *



Lucie would never have admitted it out loud, but she was pleased that the Christmas party was going forward. She had become reacquainted with Jesse at a ball at the Institute, but he had been a ghost and she the only one who could see him: it had been startling, but not, perhaps, romantic. This was her first chance to dance with him as a breathing, living man, and she was filled with nervous excitement.

The weather outside had been electric all day, heavy with the promise of a storm that had not yet broken. Lucie sat at her vanity table as the sun dipped low outside her window, firing the horizon with scarlet while her mother put the finishing touches on Lucie’s hair. (Tessa had grown up without a maid and had learned early on to do her own hair; she was excellent at helping Lucie with hers, and some of Lucie’s best memories were of her mother plaiting her hair while reciting to her the plot of a bad novel she’d just read.)

“Could you pin my hair with this, Mama?” Lucie asked, holding up her gold comb. Jesse had given it to her earlier that day, saying only that he would like to see her wear it again.

“Of course.” Tessa deftly smoothed a coil of Lucie’s French pompadour into place. “Are you nervous, kitten?”

Lucie tried to convey a negative response without moving her head. “About Jesse? I think he’ll be fine being Jeremy. He’s had to pretend a great deal in his life. And he’ll still be a Blackthorn.”

“Luckily,” Tessa said, “the Blackthorns have a long-standing reputation for all looking alike. Dark hair, green or blue eyes. Honestly, I imagine everyone will simply be delighted to have someone new to bother and gossip about.” She slid a few gold-and-ivory pins into Lucie’s hair. “He’s a lovely boy, Lucie. Constantly asking what he can do to help. I think he’s not used to kindness. He’s downstairs in the ballroom now with your father, assisting with the tree.” She winked. “He looks very handsome.”

Lucie giggled. “I hope you mean Jesse, and not Papa.”

“Your father also looks very handsome.”

“You are allowed to think so,” said Lucie. “I am allowed to find the idea horrifying.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Jesse? Before, I mean?” Tessa picked up a pair of Lucie’s earbobs—ice-gray drops set in gold—and passed them over to her. Lucie’s only other jewelry was the gold Blackthorn locket around her neck.

“You mean when he was a ghost? Because he was a ghost,” Lucie said with a smile. “I thought you would have disapproved.”

Tessa gave a small chuckle. “Lucie, my love, I know that to you I am your boring old mother, but I had my share of adventures when I was younger. And,” she added, in a more serious voice, “I know that there is no way for me to wrap you in cotton wool and protect you from all danger, much as I wish I could. You are a Shadowhunter. And I am proud of you for that.” She pinned the final shining coil of Lucie’s hair with the gold comb and stood back to admire her handiwork. “There. All done.”

Lucie looked at herself in the mirror. Her mother had left the pompadour loose, with curls falling on either side of Lucie’s face. Near-invisible ivory pins held the whole structure in place and matched the ivory lace trim on Lucie’s lavender silk dress. Her Marks stood out black and stark against her skin: Agility against her collarbone, her Voyance rune on her hand.

Lucie got to her feet. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the Christmas party, you know,” she said.

“What is?” asked Tessa.

“The part when you do my hair beforehand,” Lucie said, and kissed her mother on the cheek.



* * *



Thomas glared at the fruit basket, and the fruit basket glared back.

He had been standing on the pavement in front of Cornwall Gardens for nearly ten minutes and had long ago run out of excuses for his failure to knock on the front door. Also, he had stepped in a cold puddle while exiting the carriage and his socks were wet.

The fruit basket was for Alastair’s mother, Sona. Eugenia had been meant to deliver it, but some kind of emergency had occurred in which hair had been burnt in an attempt to curl it, and chaos had taken the reins at his house. Somehow, Thomas—only half-dressed for the party himself—had found himself being shoehorned into a carriage by his father, with the basket following. Gideon Lightwood had leaned into the carriage and said solemnly, “It is a far, far better thing that you do, than you have ever done before,” which seemed to Thomas quite unfunny. After which his father had closed the carriage door.

Thomas looked down at the basket again, but it persisted in offering him no advice. It seemed to have some oranges in it, and a biscuit tin and some nicely wrapped holiday sweets. It really was a kind gesture from his family, he reminded himself, and nothing he should be worried about. And he’d checked already to make sure that the Carstairs carriage was gone, which meant Alastair and Cordelia had already left for the party. Telling himself that he was being ridiculous, he raised a hand and knocked firmly on the door.

Which was answered immediately by Alastair.

“What are you doing here?” said Thomas indignantly.

Alastair looked at him with his dark eyebrows peaked. “I live here,” he pointed out. “Thomas, have you brought me a fruit basket?”