Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Matthew fumbled for the wine bottle, but Oscar whined loudly, and he drew his hand back. “It’s just hard to know, when you have a secret… will telling it bring healing? Or just more hurt? Isn’t it selfish, to unburden myself just to relieve my own conscience?”


Thomas was about to protest, No, of course not, but he hesitated. After all, he himself had a secret that he had kept from Matthew and James and Christopher. If he unburdened himself of his secret to Matthew, would it make things better? Or would Matthew think of the hurt that Alastair had caused him, had caused his friends, and think Thomas indifferent to it?

Then again, how could he exhort Matthew to tell the truth, if he wasn’t going to tell it himself?

“Math,” he said. “I have something I want to tell you.”

Matthew looked over at him. As did Oscar, who seemed equally curious. “Yes?”

“I don’t like girls,” Thomas said. “Well, I like them. They’re lovely people, and Cordelia and Lucie and Anna are excellent friends—”

“Thomas,” said Matthew.

“I am attracted to men,” said Thomas. “But not like you. Just men.”

Matthew smiled at that. “I rather guessed,” he said. “I wasn’t sure. You could have told me earlier, Tom. Why would I ever have minded? It isn’t as if I was sitting about, waiting for you to write a handbook entitled How to Seduce Women.”

“Because,” Thomas said, rather wretchedly, “the first boy I ever—the one I still—” He took a deep breath. “I’m in love with Alastair. Alastair Carstairs.”

Oscar growled. It appeared he did not approve of the word “Alastair.”

“Ah.” Matthew closed his eyes. “You—” He hesitated, and Thomas could tell that Matthew was trying to think carefully through the fog of alcohol. Struggling not to react impulsively. “I cannot judge you,” he said at last. “The Angel knows, I’ve made enough mistakes, hurt enough people. I’m not sure I am fit to judge anyone. Even Alastair. But—does Alastair know how you feel?”

“He does,” Thomas said.

“And he has been kind to you about it?” Matthew’s eyes opened. “Is he—are you two—?”

“He won’t agree to be with me,” said Thomas quietly. “But not out of unkindness. He thinks he would be bad for me. I think… in some way… he believes he does not deserve to be happy. Or perhaps it is that he is unhappy, and he believes it is a sort of contagion that might spread.”

“I understand that,” Matthew said, a little wonderingly. “How much love people have denied themselves through the ages because they believed they did not deserve it. As if the waste of love is not the greater tragedy.” His eyes were a very dark green as he looked at Thomas. “You love him?”

“More than anything,” Thomas said. “It’s just—all very complicated.”

Matthew gave a little laugh. Thomas edged closer and pulled Matthew’s head down onto his shoulder.

“We’ll work it out,” he said. “All our troubles. We’re still the Merry Thieves.”

“That’s true,” Matthew said. After a long silence, he said, “I probably need to stop drinking so much.”

Thomas nodded, staring into the blazing fire. “That, also, is true.”





11 DEVIL’S PALADIN




Au gibet noir, manchot aimable,

Dansent, dansent les paladins,

Les maigres paladins du diable,

Les squelettes de Saladins.

—Arthur Rimbaud, “Bal des Pendus”



“Alastair,” Cordelia said. She had her hands flat on her brother’s back and was pushing him, or at least trying to, toward the carriage. Unfortunately, it was like trying to dislodge a boulder. He didn’t budge from the doorway. “Alastair, get in the carriage.”

Her brother’s arms were folded, his look stormy. In a world of chaos, thought Cordelia, exasperated, at least some things remain consistent. “I don’t want to,” he said. “Nobody wants me at this harebrained confabulation anyway.”

“I do,” Cordelia said patiently, “and also, they do, and the proof is here in writing.” She brandished a folded page at him. It had been delivered that morning after breakfast by a messenger boy named Neddy, the Merry Thieves’ most regular Irregular.

It requested both Cordelia’s and Alastair’s presence at the Devil Tavern that afternoon, on behalf of the Merry Thieves, “to discuss the developing situation.” Cordelia had to admit she’d been relieved to receive it—she hadn’t realized until that moment how worried she’d been that she’d be cut out of her friends’ activities. For the crime of mistreating James, or mistreating Matthew, or snapping at Lucie. But no—she had been invited, and quite cheerfully, with Alastair also requested by name.

“I can’t imagine why any of them would want me there,” Alastair grumbled.

“Maybe Thomas convinced them,” Cordelia said, which caused Alastair to forget that he was supposed to be resisting her attempts to drag him outside. He let go of the doorframe, and they both nearly toppled down the stairs. Cordelia heard Risa, wrapped up in fur blankets and perched on the driver’s seat of the carriage, chuckle to herself.

They clambered into the carriage and started off, Alastair looking a little stunned, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was going. He had his spears with him, and his favorite dagger—as Cordelia remained unarmed, lest she forget herself and accidentally summon Lilith. She hated it. She was a Shadowhunter, and going out weaponless felt like going out naked, only more dangerous.

“Why do you keep mentioning Thomas to me?” Alastair said. They were passing row upon row of white houses, many with holly wreaths pinned to their front doors. Risa had clearly decided to take smaller roads to reach the Devil Tavern, avoiding the traffic of Knightsbridge at peak Christmas shopping time.

Cordelia raised an eyebrow at him.

“Thomas Lightwood,” he clarified, tugging on his scarf.

“I didn’t think you meant Thomas Aquinas,” said Cordelia. “And I keep mentioning him because I am not a complete idiot, Alastair. You did turn up rather suddenly at the Institute the moment he was arrested to tell everyone you knew he was innocent because you’d been following him about for days.”

“I didn’t realize you knew all that,” Alastair grumbled.

“Matthew told me.” She reached out to pat her brother on the cheek with a gloved hand. “There is no shame in caring about someone, Alastair. Even if it hurts.”

“?‘The wound is the place where the light enters you,’?” Alastair said. It was her favorite Rumi quote. Cordelia looked quickly out the window.

She told herself not to be foolish, not to cry, no matter how kind Alastair was being. Out the window, she could see the crowded streets of Piccadilly, where sellers pushed barrows of holly and ivy wreaths and wooden toys. Omnibuses rolled by, their sides advertising tins of holiday biscuits and Christmas crackers.