Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“I, for one, hadn’t heard,” said Matthew dryly.

“It was his dream,” Alastair said, “and I suppose it is hard to give up on one’s dreams.” Thomas sensed that Alastair was doing his best to be fair. “He thinks that without his career, he would be purposeless. He believes he cannot be a family man, cannot have children, that his only legacy will be as Consul. He fears to lose that. I believe a blend of shame and fear drives him.” He sighed. “I’d honestly like to believe Charles was being blackmailed. Rather than that he would turn on his own family for Bridgestock’s approval. He can be an insufferable weasel, but I never believed him a monster.”

“I have to believe he can be reasoned with,” Matthew said. “It is why I came here. To get the letter. To be sure.” He sighed. “I’ll talk to Charles as soon as I can.”

Alastair folded his arms. “If you like, when you do, we’ll come with you.”

Matthew looked over at Thomas, surprised. Thomas nodded his agreement: of course they would go with Matthew. “That might be best,” Matthew said, pushing past a clear reluctance. “It is unlikely Charles will listen just to me. But you, Alastair—you have insight into him that we do not.”

“You know,” Thomas said, feeling bold, “you two think you have nothing in common, but here, we’ve found something. You’re both experts on the same pompous git.”

Matthew chuckled quietly. Alastair gave Thomas a wry look, but Thomas thought he seemed a little pleased.

It was a bad situation, surely, he thought, and he didn’t think Charles would respond well to the three of them confronting him. But if it could bring Matthew and Alastair together, then perhaps another miracle was also possible.



* * *



James was alone in his room, and evening was coming on. The time just after the meeting had been excruciating. He and Will and Lucie and Tessa all gathered in the parlor (Jesse had gone back to his room, giving them space to be together), where the Herondales had spent so many happy evenings reading and chatting or just being quiet in each other’s company. They were quiet now, too, with Lucie curled up at Will’s side, as she had when she was a little girl, and Tessa gazing blankly into the fire. Will did his best to reassure them all, but he could hardly hide his anger and uncertainty. And James—James sat closing and unclosing his hands, yearning to do something for his family, utterly unsure of what it might be.

He had excused himself to his room eventually. He wanted desperately to be alone. Actually, he wanted desperately to be with Cordelia. She had an uncanny ability to inject reason and even humor into the darkest situation. But Cordelia was no doubt back at Cornwall Gardens. He did not think she had stayed until the end of the meeting. He supposed he could not blame her, and yet—

I do not know what I will do about James.

He had felt a flicker of hope, after overhearing her conversation with Matthew, that at least I do not know what I will do was not I do not love him at all. And yet—Cordelia was a steadfast friend. He had truly expected, after the horror of the meeting had ended, to see her there among the crowd; surely she would be there in friendship, in fellowship, even if not as a wife.

Her absence had been like a blow. He wondered now if it had been the blow of realization, of acceptance. That he had really lost her. That it was over.

There was a knock on the door. James had been pacing back and forth; he turned now and went to answer it. To his surprise, Jesse stood in the doorway.

“A runner came, with a message,” he said, holding out a folded paper to James. “I thought I would bring it to you. God knows I’d like to be of some sort of use in this nightmare.”

“Thank you,” James said hoarsely. He took the paper and unfolded it, aware of Jesse’s eyes on him.

James—I must see you at Curzon Street immediately on a matter of great urgency. I will await you there. Cordelia.



He stood motionless. The words seemed to dance on the page in front of him. He read the note again; surely it could not say what it seemed to say.

“Is it from Cordelia?” Jesse asked—alerted, no doubt, by the look on James’s face.

James closed his hand over the letter, the paper crumpling in his fist. “Yes,” he said. “She wants to see me at Curzon Street. Immediately.”

He waited for Jesse to say something about curfew, or about how James ought to remain at the Institute with his sister and parents, or about the danger that lurked in the dark streets of London.

But Jesse said none of those things. “Well, then,” he said, and stepped aside. “You had better go—hadn’t you?”



* * *



Lucie had to knock on Jesse’s door several times before he opened it. When he did, it was apparent he’d fallen asleep in his clothes: he was barefoot, his shirt wrinkled, his hair an untidy mess.

“Lucie.” He leaned wearily against the doorway. “Not that I’m not glad to see you. But I assumed your parents would be needing you this evening.”

“I know,” she said. “And they did for a bit, but—” She shrugged. “They went off to bed. I think they rather wanted to be by themselves, at the end of it. Not that they wanted to get rid of me, just that they have their own little world that’s just them, and they retreat into it every now and then. I suppose that’s true for every couple,” she added, finding the thought rather surprising, “even if they are very old and one’s parents.”

Jesse laughed softly and shook his head. “I didn’t think anything could make me laugh tonight, but you do have a particular talent.”

Lucie closed the door behind her. The room was cold; one of the windows was propped slightly open. Jesse’s bed was scattered with papers—his mother’s papers from Chiswick, and his own scrawled notes on how to decode them.

“I cannot help feeling as if somehow this is my fault,” Jesse said. “As if I have brought you bad luck. This information about Belial has gone unknown by the Enclave for so long, and then, the moment I arrive—”

“The two things have nothing to do with each other,” said Lucie. “Your mother didn’t tell the world about my demonic grandfather because of you; she did it because she hates us. She always has. And because Belial decided it was time for it to be known,” she added. “You always say it’s Belial’s bidding she’s doing. Not the other way around.”

“One does wonder,” said Jesse. “What good does it do him, having everyone know your mother’s parentage? Why now?”

Lucie clasped her hands in front of her. She was wearing a very plain, light tea dress, and the cold from the open window was making her shiver. She said, “Jesse. I want—I’d like you to put your arms around me.”

A light flared in his dark green eyes. He looked away quickly. “You know we can’t,” he said. “I suppose—if I put on gloves—”

“I don’t want you to put on gloves,” Lucie said. “I don’t want to fight off what happens when we kiss. Not this time. I want to follow it as far as I can go.”

Jesse looked stunned. “Absolutely not. Lucie, it could be dangerous—”

“I realized something,” she said. “Belial has always focused his attention on James. Pushed him to fall into shadow, forced him to see things he would never have wanted to see, feel what he would never have wanted to feel. I have been protected from Belial for all these years, because my brother stood in the breach.” She took a step forward. Jesse did not move away, though he stood rigid, his hands at his sides. “Now James cannot see Belial. All that effort with the mirror, the danger he undertook—it was to catch a glimpse of my grandfather’s doings. If there is a chance I can catch such a glimpse, I should try. I cannot let my brother shoulder all the risk.”

“I want to say no,” Jesse said roughly. “But if I do—you’ll find some other way to try, won’t you? And I won’t be there to protect you.”

“Let us protect each other,” she said, and put her arms around him. He stiffened but did not pull away. She wrapped her arms around his neck, looking up at him. At a new bruise on his cheek, at his untidy hair. He had never been messy when he was a ghost—he had always been perfectly put-together, not a hair out of place. Not a scratch on his paper-pale skin. She had not imagined he would be so much more beautiful when he was alive, that it would seem the difference between a living rose and one made from porcelain or glass.

His body was warm against hers. She rose up on tiptoe and kissed the bruise on his cheekbone. Lightly, so it wouldn’t hurt, but he made a low noise and his arms came up to wrap around her.

And it was heavenly. He was warm and smelled of soap and Jesse. Wool, ink, winter air. She burrowed into him, kissed the side of his jaw. Slid her bare foot along his. As experiments went, this one was delightful, but—

“Nothing’s happening,” she said, after a moment.