Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Cordelia was glad when they reached the Embankment, the fog and the darkness blotting out everything beyond the river wall so that only the lap of water gave any indication that the Thames was there at all. Waterloo Bridge loomed faintly above them, and then they were passing through the entrance to the Embankment Gardens and along a path bordered by bare, wintry trees to an open area of neat lawn, where most of the Enclave had already gathered.

In the center of the lawn, looking bizarrely out of place, was a peculiar structure: an arched gate surrounded by Italianate pillars. Alastair had looked it up; it had been the water entrance to a grand mansion before London built out the Embankment, stranding the gate 150 yards from the river itself, in the middle of the park. There seemed no connection between the York Gate and Belial or anything demonic; Cordelia thought it was just Belial’s sense of humor, sending them through a set of doors that led from nowhere to nowhere.

Cordelia could see nothing through the archway, only shadow. A crowd surrounded the water gate: there was Rosamund, with a tremendous trunk of clothes that had been set on a wheeled stand by which she dragged it. Behind her was Thoby, who somehow was pulling an even larger trunk. Martin Wentworth, stone-faced, held a tortoise in a glass cage with surprising gentleness, and Esme Hardcastle was juggling a half-dozen folders stuffed with papers. As Cordelia watched, a gust of wind blew some of the papers out of place, and Esme danced around in a panic, retrieving them. Augustus Pounceby watched her silently—for his part, he had decided to bring armfuls of weapons, though Cordelia could not imagine why. He was going to Idris, where they had plenty of weapons already.

Then Cordelia caught sight of Piers Wentworth and Catherine Townsend. Someone else was carrying their belongings; they instead accompanied a rolling bier on which lay the body of Christopher, sewn into his shroud. Only his head was visible, his eyes bound in white silk.

If any of the Enclave found it odd that Thomas, Anna, and their friends had declined to act as pallbearers, they did not say so. If they noticed at all, they would likely think it to be a silent declaration of protest against abandoning London.

In a way, it was.

Oscar barked. Thomas knelt to hush him, but he barked again, his body rigid, eyes fixed on the gate. The shadow beneath the archway had begun to move—it seemed to shimmer, the darkness streaked with lines of color. There were murmurs all around Cordelia as slowly a view took shape through the arch: a wintry meadow, mountains rising in the distance.

Any Shadowhunter would recognize those mountains. They were looking at the border of Idris.

This was their way out, their escape from Belial. Yet nobody moved. It was as if they had all just realized who they were trusting to bring them safely through this Portal to the other side. Even Martin Wentworth, the strongest proponent of leaving London, was hesitating.

“I’ll go,” Charles said, into the silence. “And I’ll signal from the other side if—if everything’s all right.”

“Charles,” Grace protested, but it was half-hearted; wasn’t passing through the gate what they were all here for? And Charles was already striding forward, his back straight. Cordelia realized Charles was carrying nothing—he had brought no belongings with him from London, as if there was nothing he cared about enough to mind its loss—as he approached the York Gate and ducked through the Portal.

He vanished for a moment, before reappearing on the other side, in the middle of the frosted landscape. He turned around, staring back where he’d come from. Though it was clear he could no longer see the Portal, or the Shadowhunters waiting on the other side, he raised one hand solemnly, as if to say, It’s safe. Come through.

Those waiting on the London side glanced around at one another. After a long moment, Martin Wentworth followed Charles, and he too turned to wave. He seemed to be mouthing, Idris, before he walked out of sight.

Now the crowd was moving. They began to arrange themselves in a loose queue, filing toward the gate, stepping through it one by one. Cordelia looked over at Anna as Piers and Catherine passed through, accompanying Christopher’s body on its wheeled bier; Anna was utterly motionless, a stone statue.

Eugenia went through, carrying Winston in his cage, which she had taken from Ari. “Farewell! Farewell!” Winston called, until his chirping voice was swallowed up by the Portal. Flora Bridgestock had gone to speak to Ari, who shook her head sternly; Flora went through the Portal alone, casting a despondent glance back at her daughter before she stepped across the threshold.

“Layla,” Risa said, laying a hand on Cordelia’s arm. “It’s time to go.”

Cordelia heard Alastair suck in his breath. She looked over at her mother in the Bath chair. Sona had her hands folded in her lap; she was looking at her children with dark, questioning eyes. She suspects, Cordelia thought, though she could not prove it, could not be sure. She could only hope her mother would understand.

Risa had begun to push her mother’s chair forward, clearly expecting Cordelia and Alastair to follow.

“Oscar!” Thomas shouted. Cordelia whirled to see that Oscar had broken free of his leash and was galloping delightedly in circles.

“Bloody dog,” Alastair cursed, and ran to help Thomas catch the wayward retriever.

As Thomas reached out for the dog, Oscar broke to the left and pranced away, yapping merrily. “Bad dog!” Thomas called, as Lucie ran toward him, reaching for Oscar’s collar. “This is not the time!”

“Risa—I have to help. Bring M?m?n through; I’ll see you on the other side in a moment,” Cordelia said. With one last look at her mother, she ran to join the others.

Anna, Jesse, Ari, and Thomas had spread out into a circle, trying to trap Oscar inside. Lucie was calling, “Here, Oscar, here,” clapping her hands together to catch his attention. Members of the Enclave continued to pass by, giving Cordelia and her friends a wide berth as Oscar frolicked, running up first to Ari, then darting just out of her grip, then doing the same to Grace and Jesse.

“Leave the dog, idiots!” yelled Augustus Pounceby, who was just passing through the Portal. He was nearly the last one going through, Cordelia saw; there were perhaps five Nephilim behind him.

Not long now.

Oscar flung himself down on the ground and rolled, his legs waving. It was Anna who got down on her knees, as the last of the Enclave—Ida Rosewain—passed through the Portal. She laid a hand on Oscar’s side. “Good dog,” she said. “What a very good dog you are, Oscar.”

Oscar rose to his feet and nosed gently at her shoulder. The Embankment was nearly deserted now. Cordelia looked around at the group who remained: she and Alastair, Anna and Ari, Thomas, Lucie, Jesse, Grace.

The Portal still beckoned; Cordelia and the others could still see glimpses of the cold plains outside Idris, the milling crowd of Nephilim beginning to regroup on the other side. They could still choose to step through. But to do so would be to abandon not just London, but Matthew and James. And they were none of them going to do that.