Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Tehran?” Cordelia echoed. “I—but we live here.” She was nearly too shocked to speak. “And we could not go now. The Enclave needs us—”

“You have done enough for the Enclave,” said her mother. “You can be a powerful Shadowhunter in Persia, too, if that is what you desire. Such are needed everywhere.” Spoken like a true parent, Cordelia thought. “Layla, I am not saying you must come to Tehran. You have a husband here; of course it would be reasonable for you to remain.”

Cordelia sensed that her mother was treading lightly, delicately, around the topic of her marriage. She wondered dismally what her mother thought had gone wrong between her and James. Or perhaps she only sensed some sort of trouble? She was offering Cordelia an escape, either way.

“Alastair has already said he will come,” Sona said. “Risa, too, of course. With the new baby, I will require both their help.”

“Alastair said he will go?” Cordelia was astonished. “To Tehran? And take care of the baby?” She tried to imagine Alastair burping a baby and sweepingly failed.

“There is no need to repeat everything I say, Layla. And you need not decide this moment.” Sona patted her belly; her eyes were closing in tiredness. “I’m in no state to move thousands of miles away tonight. First I must bring this one into the world. Then you can decide what it is you want.”

She closed her eyes. Cordelia kissed her mother’s forehead and went out into the hall, where she found Alastair lurking in the corridor. She narrowed her eyes at him. “You knew about all this? You agreed to move to Tehran without saying a word to me?”

“Well, you were in Paris. Besides, I thought M?m?n should tell you, not me.” Cordelia could not see his expression in the darkness of the corridor. “I don’t have anything to stay here for—not really. Perhaps you do, but our situations are different.”

Cordelia could only look at him silently. She could not bring herself to tell him how she felt it all slipping away from her: James, Matthew, Lucie. Her purpose as a Shadowhunter, the wielder of Cortana. What would it be like for her, to lose all that, and her family too, and still remain in London?

“Maybe not,” she said finally. “Maybe they are more similar than you think.”



* * *



The moment the Consul’s carriage vanished, James set off for Curzon Street, the cold wind like a knife that cut through his coat.

It was fully two miles’ walk between the Institute and his house, but James wanted the time to himself. London swirled around him, in all its vivid life. Fleet Street itself, with its journalists and barristers and businessmen, on to Leicester Square, where hundreds were queuing outside the Alhambra Theatre for tickets to the winter ballet. Tourists raised glasses to each other in the glowing windows of the brasserie of the Hotel de l’Europe. By the time he reached Piccadilly Circus it was growing dark, and the lights around the statue of Eros were haloed in clouds of dancing snowflakes. The traffic was so busy it had come to a standstill; a raging sea of Christmas shoppers poured past him from Regent Street, laden with brown-paper parcels. A red-faced man who was carrying a giant stuffed giraffe and had clearly been to Hamleys bumped right into him, seemed about to say something rude, then saw his expression and backed away hastily.

James had not glamoured himself, as his winter clothes covered his runes. He could hardly blame the man for rushing off, though; when he caught glimpses of his reflection in the shopwindows as he passed, he saw a young man with a white, stony face who looked as if he had just received some kind of terrible news.

The house on Curzon Street felt as if it had been abandoned for months, rather than days. James kicked the ice and snow off his boots in the entryway, where the bright wallpaper reminded him of the first time he’d brought Cordelia here. So pretty, she’d said. Who chose it?

And he’d felt a moment of pride when he told her he’d been the one to pick it out. Pride that he’d chosen something she liked.

He moved through the rooms, turning up the gas lamps, through the dining room and past the study, where he and Cordelia had played so many games of chess.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flicker of light. Still in his coat, he headed downstairs to the kitchen, where he was utterly unprepared to be greeted by a bloodcurdling scream.

A moment later he had a dagger in his hand and was facing off with Effie over the kitchen counter. She was wielding a wooden spoon like a gladiator, her gray pompadour trembling.

“Cor,” she said, relaxing as she recognized him. “I wasn’t expecting you back.”

“Well, I’m not back for long,” said James, putting the dagger away. “As it happens, I’m going to be staying at the Institute for at least a few days. Shadowhunter business.”

“And Mrs. Herondale?” said Effie, looking curious. She was still holding the spoon.

“She’s gone to her mother’s. Until the baby is born.”

“Well, nobody told me,” Effie said crossly. “Nobody tells me anything.”

James had begun to develop a headache. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you’d pack some of her things in a trunk for her. Someone will be along to fetch it tomorrow.”

Effie hustled out of the kitchen; James thought she seemed relieved to have a specific task to accomplish, or perhaps she was just happy to get away from her knife-wielding employer. He was really winning over the populace today.

James continued through the house, lighting lamps as he went. It had grown dark outside, and the light glowed against the windowpanes. He knew he ought to pack his own trunk, though he had clothes and weapons at the Institute, things he had left there in his old bedroom. He couldn’t decide if he should bring a few items with sentimental value; he both didn’t want to be without them, and didn’t want to contemplate the idea that he would not be returning soon to Curzon Street, to live here with Cordelia.

Everything here reminded him of her. He had known it before, in the back of his mind, but now it was obvious that every decision he’d made in the decorating of the house had been made in the hope of pleasing Cordelia, imagining what would bring her delight. The chessboard in the study, the Persian miniatures, the carved panel over the fireplace that incorporated the Carstairs crest. How could he not have known this at the time? From the beginning they had only agreed to be married a year; he had believed himself in love with Grace, but in the design of the house he’d supposedly hoped they would share someday, he had given Grace no thought at all.