Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“You will withstand it,” said Alastair grimly, “until you don’t.” He went back to the shelf to collect a second bottle. At the window, he turned to look at Matthew. “Having all this here is like asking an addict to live in an opium den,” he said. “You are never going to be able to drink casually. Alcohol will always mean something to you that it does not mean to other people. Getting rid of this stuff will make it easier. Why not have it be easier?”


Matthew hesitated a moment, and Thomas knew him well enough to read the look in his eyes: Because I do not deserve to have it be easy, because the suffering is part of the punishment. But Matthew would not say such things in front of Alastair, and perhaps it was better that he did not.

“Math.” Thomas sat down in the chair opposite Matthew’s. Oscar thumped his tail on the ground. “Look, I understand wanting to flee that foul meeting—after Charles said the things he said, I—”

“I think the Inquisitor is blackmailing Charles,” Matthew said.

Alastair (who had made it through the whiskey and was on to pouring out gin) and Thomas exchanged a look of surprise.

“I just assumed Charles was being his usual lickspittle self today,” Alastair said. “You don’t need to make excuses for him. We all know what he’s like.”

Matthew waved the paper he’d been reading. “The Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. Ari found this in his fireplace. Read it, Tom.”

Thomas took the letter from him. He looked up after a quick skim to find Alastair peering at him. “Well, all right,” Thomas said. “So the Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. But Charles isn’t named.”

“I’ve been trying to figure out who the letter was for,” Matthew said. “Well, Anna and Ari and I. The wording of it has led us to a few possibilities: Augustus, Thoby…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to think it was Charles. But now I’m sure of it.” He looked over at Alastair. “I ought to have gotten up in the middle of the meeting. Denounced him. But—he is my brother.”

“It’s all right,” Thomas said. “If Bridgestock’s blackmailing him into voicing support, that means Charles doesn’t actually believe what he’s saying in the first place. It’s Bridgestock and a few cronies who are trying to lay blame on Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa. Denouncing Charles wouldn’t fix the root of the problem.”

Alastair, standing by the window, said, “I just—”

Thomas looked up. “What is it?”

“Should I assume,” Alastair said, “that Charles is being blackmailed about… me?”

“Not specifically,” Matthew said, and Thomas saw Alastair relax minutely. “But it would be, more generally, because he loves men, rather than women.”

“Bridgestock is foul,” said Thomas furiously. “And Charles—is his shame so all-consuming as that? He couldn’t possibly believe that your parents would care, or that the Enclave who have known him all his life would shun him.”

“He thinks it would ruin his political career,” said Alastair. “He is meant to be the next Consul. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“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.