Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

He knew perfectly well that he ought to be thinking about what had happened that afternoon. The mirror, the vision of Belial, the Chimera demons. The question of who Belial was possessing—mundanes? It would be a fool’s errand, though, to send even possessed mundanes against Shadowhunters. But the last time he’d seen Cordelia, she’d said, Tomorrow, at the party—we’ll talk then, and regardless of any number of Princes of Hell, it was nearly all he could think about.

Nearly. The ballroom doors swung open; this time it was Matthew, wearing a frock coat that put biblical Joseph’s to shame. There was brocade of violet, green, and silver, and a tasseled gold fringe. On anyone else it would have looked like a costume; on Matthew, it seemed avant-garde. There appeared to be shining leaves in his hair; he looked a bit as if he were about to appear as Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

James started to smile, just as his aunt Cecily swept up to him. She had three-year-old Alex by one chubby hand; he wore a blue velvet sailor suit, with a matching hat complete with white ribbon.

“His debut, I see,” James said, eyeing Alexander, who was scowling. He did not seem to like the sailor suit, and James did not blame him.

Cecily swung Alex up into her arms with a smile. “Speaking of debuts, I do think that Blackthorn boy you’ve all adopted may need saving.”

This turned out to be true. The musicians had arrived, which had required that Will and Tessa show them where to put their instruments; in the resulting confusion, Jesse had been trapped in an alcove by Rosamund Wentworth. She had obviously been introduced to Jesse already, or at least, James hoped she had been, given how intently she was speaking to him. As James approached them, Jesse shot him a beseeching look.

“Jeremy, Rosamund,” said James. “Lovely to see you. Jeremy, I was wondering if you’d be interested in a hand of cards in the games room—”

“Oh, don’t be a stick, James,” said Rosamund. “It’s much too early for the gentlemen to retire to the games room. And I’ve only just met Jeremy.”

“Rosamund, he’s now part of the London Enclave. You’ll meet him again,” said James, as Jesse mimed what James thought was someone being saved from a sinking ship.

“But look at his eyes.” She sighed, as if Jesse were not, in fact, present. “Couldn’t you just die? Isn’t he divine?”

“Excruciatingly so,” said James. “Sometimes it pains me just to gaze upon him.”

Jesse shot him a dark look. Rosamund tugged at Jesse’s sleeve.

“I thought it was only going to be the same old soggies as always, so what a pleasant surprise you are!” Rosamund said. “Where did you say you grew up?”

“When my parents returned to England, they settled in Basingstoke,” said Jesse. “I lived there until I found out I was a Shadowhunter, and decided to rejoin the ranks.”

“A tragic backstory indeed,” said Matthew, who had appeared at James’s side.

“It isn’t tragic at all,” said Rosamund.

“Being from Basingstoke is a tragedy in itself,” said Matthew.

James grinned. They had chosen Basingstoke because it was a dull enough place not to inspire much questioning.

“Rosamund,” Matthew said, “Thoby has been looking all over for you.”

This was a clear and blatant lie; Thoby was poking at the weapons tree, a mug of cider in hand, and chatting with Esme and Eugenia. Rosamund frowned suspiciously at Matthew but took herself off to join her fiancé.

“Are people always like that at parties?” Jesse asked as soon as she’d gone.

“Rude and peculiar?” said James. “In my experience, about half the time.”

“Then there are those who are charming and spectacular,” said Matthew, “though I’ll admit there are fewer of us than the other kind.” He winced, then, and touched his head as if it hurt; James and Jesse exchanged a worried glance.

“So,” said James, trying to keep his voice light, “I suppose the question is, who do you wish to meet first: the more pleasant people or the unpleasant people or a mixture of both?”

“Is there a need to meet unpleasant people?” Jesse asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Matthew said. He was no longer holding his head, but he looked pale. “So you can be better prepared to guard yourself against their wiles.”

Jesse did not reply; he was looking out at the crowd. No, James realized, he was looking at someone making their way through the crowd: Lucie, looking elfin in a pale lavender dress. The gold locket around her throat shone like a beacon. She smiled at Jesse, and Matthew and James exchanged a look.

A moment later they had made themselves scarce, and Lucie and Jesse were whispering together in the alcove. James had every confidence that Lucie could easily show Jesse around and fend off the Rosamund Wentworths of the world.

He was less confident that Matthew was all right. James led him toward one of the tinsel-encircled pillars at the edge of the room, trying to peer into his face. He looked pinched, and there was a greenish cast to his skin; his eyes were bloodshot.

“I assume you are not staring at me because you are riveted by my beauty or my haute couture,” Matthew said, leaning back against the pillar.

James reached up and plucked one of the leaves from Matthew’s hair. It was pale green, edged with gold: not a real leaf, but enamel. Painted beauty taking the place of a living thing. “Math. Are you all right? Have you got the stuff Christopher gave you?”

Matthew tapped his breast pocket. “Yes. I’ve been doling it out as instructed.” He looked out across the room. “I know what I’d be doing at an ordinary party,” he said. “Floating about, being entertaining. Scandalizing Rosamund and Catherine. Joking with Anna. Being witty and charming. Or at least, I thought I was witty and charming. Without the alcohol, I…” His voice sank. “It’s like I’m watching clockwork dolls in a child’s dollhouse, acting out their parts. Nothing seems real. Or perhaps I am the one who is not real.”

James was aware that Thomas and Alastair had arrived—interestingly, together—and that Alastair was looking over at them, his eyes narrowed.

“I’ve known you a long time, Matthew,” said James. “You were witty and charming long before you began drinking. You will be witty and charming again. It’s too much to ask it of yourself at this very moment.”

Matthew looked at him. “James,” he said. “Do you know when I started drinking?”

And James realized: he did not. He had not seen it, because of the bracelet; he had not felt the changes in Matthew, and then it had seemed too late to inquire.

“Never mind,” Matthew said. “It was a gradual process; it’s unfair to ask.” He winced. “I feel as if there’s a gnome inside my head, banging away at my skull with an axe. I ought to give him a name. Something nice and gnomish. Snorgoth the Skullcrusher.”

“Now,” said James, “that was witty and charming. Think of Snorgoth. Think of him taking an axe to people you don’t like. The Inquisitor, for instance. Perhaps that can help you get through the party. Or—”

“Who is Snortgoth?” It was Eugenia, who had come up to them, her yellow cap askew on her dark hair. “Never mind. I am not interested in your dull friends. Matthew, will you dance with me?”

“Eugenia.” Matthew looked at her with a weary affection. “I am not in a dancing mood.”

“Matthew.” Eugenia looked woebegone. “Piers keeps stepping on my feet, and Augustus is lurking about as if he wants a waltz, which I just can’t manage. One dance,” she wheedled. “You’re an excellent dancer, and I’d like to have a bit of fun.”

Matthew looked long-suffering but allowed Eugenia to lead him out onto the floor. As they took up the positions for the next dance, a two-step, Eugenia glanced over at James. She cut her eyes toward the ballroom doors as if to say, Look there, before letting Matthew sweep her into the dance.

James followed Eugenia’s glance and saw that his parents were greeting Anna and Ari, who had just arrived, Anna in a fine blue frock coat with frogged gold clasps. With them was Cordelia.

Her fiery hair was pinned in braided coils around her head, as if she were a Roman goddess. She wore a dress of stark, satiny black, the short sleeves baring her long brown arms to the elbow, the front and back cut so low it was clear she was not wearing a corset. No fashionably pallid dress, covered in lace or white tulle, could hold a candle to hers. A snatch of a poem James had read once flashed through his mind: viewing the shape of darkness and delight.

She glanced over at James. Her dress set off the depth of her eyes. Around her throat gleamed her only jewelry: the globe necklace he had given her.

She seemed to see that he was alone and raised her hand to beckon him to join her and his parents at the door. James crossed the room in a few strides, his mind racing: it only made sense that he should join his wife when she arrived. Perhaps Cordelia was merely thinking of appearances.

But, said the small, hopeful voice that still lived in his heart, the voice of the boy who had fallen in love with Cordelia during a bout of scalding fever, she said we would talk. At the party.

“James,” Will said cheerfully, “I’m glad you’ve turned up. I require your help.”