Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cordelia began to rise to her feet as well. She would defend them, she thought. She would swear up and down that no one had more cause to hate Belial than the Herondales did—she would speak out for James and Lucie—


A hand touched her arm. For a moment, she thought it was Alastair, urging her to sit back down. But to her surprise, it was Christopher. Christopher, who she had assumed was in the infirmary. He was looking at her with an uncharacteristic seriousness, his eyes dark purple behind his owlish glasses.

“Come with me,” he said quietly. “Quickly. No one will notice in all this fuss.”

Alastair, looking over at the both of them, shrugged as if to say he had no more idea than she did what Christopher wanted. “Christopher,” Cordelia whispered. “I must speak for them—”

“If you truly wish to help James,” Christopher said, and there was an intensity in his voice that Cordelia had rarely heard, “come with me. There is something you must know.”



* * *



Ari sat through the meeting in a state of numb shock. She already knew her father did not like the Herondales; his strange note-keeping had made that clear. Yes, they had saved London, and perhaps the whole Shadow World, but to Maurice Bridgestock this only made them celebrities who had been rewarded with a cushy position. Not, like him, dedicated public servants devoted to the needs of the Clave.

It seemed to her that Will and Tessa had had twenty years of showing themselves to be fine stewards of the London Institute, and her father’s resentment struck her as petty and small, unworthy of him. But it turned out it hadn’t been small at all: it had instead loomed so large that when he espied weakness in their position, he moved against them.

She had been sitting with the Lightwoods, of course, tucked in among them, with Gabriel on her left and Anna on her right. When her father thrust his finger at those he was accusing, he was pointing at Ari. (Her mother, interestingly, was not there; Ari wondered at her absence.)

She would have taken Anna’s hand, but Anna sat tensed, her arms folded tightly against her chest. As always, in the face of a threat, she turned to stone.

Eventually, as the shouting reached a fever pitch, a recess was called for everyone to calm down. As people began to cluster into small groups—the Herondales and Lightwoods together, Matthew moving to join his parents—she saw Alastair (though where was Cordelia?) cross the room to Charles, who was standing obstinately alone, and fall into conversation with him. Well, it wasn’t quite a conversation—whatever Alastair was saying, it was low and furious, accompanied by urgent gestures. Charles stood looking off into the air, as if Alastair was not there. By the Angel, Ari thought. How could I even have pretended to be engaged to that man?

And then she saw her father. As he stepped down from the altar and ducked through a side door, she rose to her feet. With a light touch to Anna’s shoulder, she darted into the aisle between the pews and hurried out of the room, taking the same side door.

Beyond it was a stone-bound corridor, in which her father was pacing. He looked smaller than he had up on the altar, the focus of all eyes. He muttered as he paced, though she could catch only a few of the words—“Belial” and “have to see the truth” and, one of his favorite words, “unfair.”

“Father,” she said. “What have you done?”

He looked up. “This isn’t any of your concern, Ariadne.”

“You must know that none of what you have said is true.”

“I know no such thing,” he snapped.

“If there is a lack of faith in the Herondales, it is only because you have created it.”

He shook his head. “I would have thought you would give me more credit than that,” he said. “I am not the villain in a play where the Herondales are the heroes. Tessa Herondale is the child of a Greater Demon. And they lied about it.”

“In the face of blind prejudice, one curls in on oneself,” Ari said quietly. “It is not something you would understand. Will acted to protect his wife, James and Lucie to protect their mother. Against the hatred you are whipping up right now. A hatred born out of fear, out of the blind belief that the blood in Tessa’s veins, in her children’s veins, matters more than every act of heroism or kindness she has ever performed.”

His face crumpled into a look that mixed fury with a terrible sort of pity. “They have drawn you in,” he rasped. “The Herondales, who came from nowhere to rule over us, magic users all. And the Lightwoods, the children of Benedict, who famously consorted with demons, so much so that eventually it killed him. Whatever was twisted up in his heart is there, you know, in the blood of his children and his grandchildren. Including that half-woman who has taken you under her wing—”

“Don’t speak about Anna in that way,” Ari said in a clear and calm voice. “She has shown me more kindness of late than any of my own family.”

“You left,” he said. “You took your things, the things we have given you over the years, and you went to live with that Lightwood creature. You could still come home, you know.” His voice had taken on a wheedling quality. “If you swear you will never see any of these people again. The Herondales, the Lightwoods—they are a sinking ship. It would be wise for you to disembark while you still can.”

Ari shook her head. “Never.”

“It’s a dangerous path you’re on,” her father said. “One that ends in ruin. It is out of kindness that I wish to save you—”

“Kindness?” Ari said. “Not love? The love you owe a daughter?”

“A daughter is not defiant. A daughter is obedient. A daughter cares for her parents, protects them—”

“As James and Lucie are protecting Tessa?” Ari shook her head. “You cannot see it, Father. You are too blinded by your hatred. The Herondales are not criminals. They are not, for instance, blackmailers.”

It was an arrow shot blindly, but Ari saw it hit its mark. Her father flinched and stared at her in horror.

“The letter,” he whispered. “The fireplace—”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ari said blandly. “I only know this. The further you push this, Father, the more you, too, will come under scrutiny. Only be sure you can bear such scrutiny of your every action. Most men could not.”



* * *



Grace sat shivering against the wall of her cell. She had wrapped the blanket from her bed around her, but it had not stopped the shaking.

The tremors had begun that morning, when Brother Zachariah had come to her cell, after her breakfast of porridge and toast. She had sensed the concern in him, a pity that had terrified her. In her experience, pity meant scorn, and scorn meant that the other person had realized how horrible you were.

“The baby,” she whispered. “Christopher’s brother. Is he—”

He is alive and healing. Your mother has been found. She is in custody now. I would have told you last night, but I feared to wake you.