Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

As if she had slept, Grace thought. She was glad Alexander had been found but doubted it would make a difference to Christopher. She had still lost him, forever. “She did not—damage him?”


The rune she put upon him burned him badly. Luckily, it was incomplete, and we were able to get to him in time. He will have a scar.

“It’s because that’s how Jesse died,” Grace said numbly. “Having runes put on. It’s her idea of poetic justice.”

Zachariah said nothing, and Grace realized with a jolt that there was more he had come to tell her. And then, with a sense of sick horror, what that more must be.

“You said my mother was in custody,” she said. “Do you mean—she is here? In the Silent City?”

He inclined his head. Given her history, it seemed crucial to keep her where all the exits are known, and guarded, and where no Portals can be opened.

Grace felt as if she were going to be sick. “No,” she gasped. “No. I don’t want her near me. I’ll go somewhere else. You can lock me in somewhere else. I’ll be good. I won’t try to get out. I swear it.”

Grace. She will only be here one night. After that she will be moved to the prisons of the Gard, in Idris.

“Does—does she know I’m here?”

She does not seem to. She has not spoken at all, said Zachariah. And her mind is closed to us. Belial’s doing, I would guess.

“She will find a way to get to me,” Grace said dully. “She always does.” She raised her head. “You have to kill her,” she said. “And burn the body. Or she will never be stopped.”

We cannot execute her. We must know what she knows.

Grace closed her eyes.

Grace, we will protect you. I will protect you. You are safest here, warded by our protections, closed behind these doors. Nor can your mother escape her cell. Not even a Prince of Hell could break out of that cage.

Grace had turned her face to the wall. He would not understand. He could not understand. She still possessed her power; therefore she was still of value to her mother. Somehow her mother would get her back. The Adamant Citadel had not held her. She was a great dark blight across Grace’s life, and she could no more be separated from Grace than venom from a body it had poisoned.

After some time, Brother Zachariah had gone away, and Grace had retched dryly into her empty bowl from breakfast. Then she had closed her eyes, but that only brought visions of her mother, of the forest in Brocelind, a dark voice in her ears. Little one. I’ve come to give you a great gift. The gift your mother asked for you. Power over the minds of men.

“Grace?” The hesitant voice was as familiar as it was impossible. Grace, hunched in her corner, looked up—and to her disbelief, saw Christopher standing at the barred door of her cell. “Uncle Jem said I could come and see you. He said you weren’t feeling well.”

“Christopher,” she breathed.

He looked at her, worry plain on his face. “Are you all right?”

It’s nothing, she wanted to say. She wanted to force a smile, not to burden him, for she knew men did not like to be burdened by women. Her mother had told her.

But she could not make the smile come. This was Christopher, with his blunt honesty and kind smile. Christopher would know she was lying.

“I thought you hated me,” she whispered. “I thought you would never be able to stand to see me again, because of my mother. Because of what she did to your family.”

He did not laugh at her, or recoil, only looked at her with a level gaze. “I suspected you might think something like that,” he said. “But Grace, I have never blamed you for your mother before. I will not start now. What she did was vile. But you are not vile. You have done wrong, but you are trying to make it right. And such trying is not easy.”

Grace felt tears burn against the backs of her eyes. “How are you so wise? Not about science, or magic, I mean. About people.”

At that, he did smile. “I am a Lightwood. We are a complicated family. Someday I shall tell you all about it.” He reached a hand through the bars, and Grace, relieved beyond measure that there might be a someday, took hold of his hand. It was gentle and warm in her own, scarred by acid and ichor, but perfect. “Now, I want to help you with your trying.” He looked down the hallway outside the cell.

“Cordelia?” he called out. “It’s time.”



* * *



Thomas felt his heart sinking lower and lower with each minute of the Enclave meeting. He hadn’t expected it to go well, but neither had he expected it to go quite this badly. Once Charles had announced that he was standing with Bridgestock against his own family, the debate quickly deteriorated into a screaming match.

Thomas longed to get to his feet, to shout out something cutting, something that would shame and damn Charles for his betrayal, something that would make the Enclave see how ridiculous, how vicious this all was. But words had never been his strength; he sat, with Eugenia white-faced and incredulous beside him, his head aching with the strain of it all. He felt clumsy and oversized and utterly useless.

As the adults around him muttered among themselves, Thomas tried to catch Matthew’s eye. Matthew, he imagined, must be sickeningly shocked by Charles’s words, but he seemed determined not to show it. Unlike James, or Anna, who sat stone-faced and unmoving, Matthew had flung himself back in his chair as if he were posing for a louche Parisian artist. He had his feet up on the back of the chair in front of him and was examining his cuffs as if they held the secrets of the universe.

Matthew, turn around, Thomas thought urgently, but his attempt at Silent Brother–like communication failed him. Alastair glanced over, but Thomas’s view of him was cut off by Walter Rosewain, who had risen to his feet (almost knocking off his wife Ida’s hat) and begun shouting, and by the time Rosewain sat down again, Matthew had slipped out of his pew and was gone.

Quickly, Thomas caught James’s eye. Despite the strain of the situation, James nodded, as if to say, Go after him, Tom.

Thomas didn’t need to be told twice. Anything was better than sitting here, helpless to change the course of events. Thomas would always rather have something to do, some tool in his hand, some path to follow, no matter how narrow or dangerous. He rose and hurried out of the pew, stepping on several feet as he did so.

He raced through the Institute to the foyer, not bothering to pause and catch up his coat. He pushed his way out into the cold, only to see Matthew’s borrowed carriage already rolling out the Institute gates. Bloody hell.

Thomas wondered if his parents would mind if he helped himself to their carriage and gave chase. They probably would, if he was being honest with himself, but—