Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Will!” Tessa said reproachfully. “What have I said?”


Will looked chastened. “No ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ at the table.”

Tessa patted his wrist. “That’s right.”

Jesse said, “Is there anything particularly dangerous about holding the party?”

It was a sensible question. James had noticed this was Jesse’s way generally: he tended to be quiet and offer thoughts rarely, but when he did, they cut to the heart of things.

“Not where Belial is concerned,” said James. “The Institute’s the safest place in London when it comes to demons; if he did somehow attack, the whole Enclave would retreat here as a matter of policy.”

“I suppose,” said Jesse, still in the same calm voice, “I was thinking of my mother. A party like that, with so many of you collected in one place—it might attract her. Draw her here.”

Will regarded Jesse thoughtfully. “And then she would do what?”

Jesse shook his head. “I don’t know. She is unpredictable, but certainly she hates you all, and she has a special loathing for these Christmas parties—she spoke often to me of having been humiliated at one once, and the Enclave not caring.”

Will sighed. “That was me. I read her diary out loud at a Christmas party, long ago. I was twelve. And I was quite severely punished, so in fact, the Enclave was on her side.”

“Ah,” said Jesse. “When I was a child, I thought it was terrible that she had been so often wronged. Later I came to understand that my mother saw everything as a wrong undertaken against her. She collected grievances, as if they were china figurines. She liked to take them out and speak about them, examining them over and over for new facets of evil and betrayal. She held them closer to her than she ever held her children.”

“The next time she acts, the Clave will not be so lenient with her,” said Will tightly. “This time her Marks will be stripped.”

“Father,” said Lucie, looking pointedly in Jesse’s direction.

“It’s all right,” Jesse said. “Believe me. After what she did to me—” He put down his fork, shaking his head. “I try not to think about revenge. I take no pleasure in it, but I know that what is necessary must be done. She has done too much to me, to my sister, to be given another chance.”

Grace. For a moment, James could say nothing; his throat had closed up. The thought of Grace was like falling down an endless black hole, a pit lined with mirrors, each of which reflected back a vision of himself cringing, foolish, filled with shame.

He saw Lucie look at him, her blue eyes wide with worry. He knew she could not understand, but it was clear she sensed his distress. She said loudly, “I was thinking, since we are having the party, that it would be the best opportunity to introduce Jesse to the rest of the Enclave. As Jeremy Blackthorn, of course.”

She had successfully drawn off James’s parents attention. Will drew a lazy circle in the air with the tip of his spoon. “Good thought, cariad.”

“I am sure he will be instantly beloved,” Lucie said.

Jesse smiled. “I would settle for not being left to rot in the Silent City.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Tessa said kindly. “The Clave accepted me, and they’ll accept you as well.”

“He needs something new to wear,” Lucie said. “He can’t go on in James’s old clothes; they’re too short.” This was true; Jesse was taller than James, though thinner as well. “And half of them are fraying, and they all have old lemon drops in the pockets.”

“I don’t mind the lemon drops,” said Jesse mildly.

“Of course,” Will exclaimed. “A new wardrobe for a new man. We must take you to Mr. Sykes—”

“Mr. Sykes is a werewolf,” Lucie explained.

“He does excellent work,” Will said. “Twenty-seven out of thirty days. The others, he gets a bit wild with his colors and cuts.”

“We needn’t depend on Sykes,” Lucie stage-whispered, patting Jesse’s arm. “We’ll get in touch with Anna. She’ll sort you out.”

“If I am going to be presented to the Enclave…” Jesse cleared his throat. “I’d like to make use of the training room. I know very little of fighting, and I could be much stronger than I am. I need not master every skill; I know I am old to begin learning. But—”

“I’ll train with you,” James said. The black pit had receded; he was back at the table with his family again. Relief and gratitude made him sympathetic. He wanted to help Jesse. And if part of it was wanting someone to train with who was not Matthew, he did not admit it to himself at the moment.

Jesse looked pleased. Will was gazing at them both with an expression that seemed to portend a Welsh song on the horizon. Thankfully for everyone present, Bridget appeared suddenly, scowling as she slammed the door behind her. She approached Will and murmured something in his ear.

Will’s eyes lit up. “My goodness. We have a call.”

Tessa looked puzzled. “A call?”

“A call!” confirmed Will. “On the telephone. Bring it in, Bridget.”

James had forgotten about this. A few months before, Will had had one of the new mundane “telephones” installed in the Institute, although James knew that Magnus had done quite a lot of fiddling with magic in order to get it to work. But now it could be used for Institutes to call between one another. James was fairly sure that mundane telephones were usually connected to something by a wire, which this one was not, but he hadn’t wanted to bring it up.

Bridget came in holding a heavy wooden machine. She held it at arm’s length, as though it might explode, while from somewhere within a bell rang continuously, like an alarm clock.

“It just keeps clanging on,” Bridget complained, setting it down on the table with a thump. “I can’t get it to stop.”

“It’s supposed to do that,” Will said. “Just leave it there, thanks.”

He lifted a sort of black cone attached to the wooden box. Immediately a voice, sounding as though it were yelling from the far end of a tunnel, bellowed, “Identify yourself!”

Will held the cone away from his head, looking pained.

James and Lucie exchanged a look. The voice was immediately identifiable: Albert Pangborn, the head of the Cornwall Institute. Lucie gleefully mimed her hands sticking together, to Jesse’s puzzlement and a disapproving look from Tessa.

“This is Will Herondale.” Will spoke into the mouthpiece slowly and clearly. “And you telephoned me.”

Albert shouted back, “This is Albert Pangborn!”

“Yes, Albert,” said Will in the same careful tone, “from the Cornwall Institute. There is no need to shout.”

“I wanted! To tell you!” Albert shouted. “We found that lady! Who went missing!”

“Which lady was that, Albert?” said Will. James was fascinated. It was a rare circumstance to witness a conversation in which his father was the calm, quiet participant.