Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Thomas said, “I suppose I never gave much thought to whether James and Grace were well suited. I barely know her at all, to be honest.”


“Well, she was shut up like Rapunzel in a tower by her mother for all those years,” said Christopher. “Yet despite all that, she is possessed of a fine scientific mind.”

“Is she,” Thomas said, arching an eyebrow.

“Oh, yes. We have had some excellent conversations about my work on the fire-messages. And she shares my views on activated moth powder.”

“Christopher,” said Thomas. “How do you know so much about Grace?”

Christopher’s eyes widened. “I am observant,” he said. “I am a scientist. We observe.” He squinted again at the book in his hand. “This will not be useful. I must return it to the shelf from which it was taken.”

With which unusually formal pronouncement, he sprang off the table and disappeared into the shadows at the east end of the library.

Thomas struck off toward the other end of the library, where Alastair had vanished among the shadows between the white-flickering lamps placed at intervals on the tables. The curving stained-glass windows threw diamonds of scarlet and gold at Thomas’s feet as he turned a corner and found Alastair sitting on the floor, his head thrown back against the wall, a book dangling from his hand.

He started when he saw Thomas but made no move to relocate as Thomas sat down beside him. For a long moment they simply sat together, side by side, looking out at the painted angel on the library wall.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, after some time had passed. “The business between James and Cordelia—I oughtn’t to have inserted my opinion into it. James has been my friend for a long time, but I’ve never fathomed his interest in Grace. None of us have.”

Alastair turned to look at Thomas. His hair had grown long since he had come to London; it fell over his eyes, soft and dark as a cloud of smoke. The desire to touch Alastair’s hair, to rub the strands between his fingers, was so strong that Thomas clenched his hands into fists. “I’m sure they would say the same about you and me,” Alastair said, “if they knew.”

Thomas could only stammer. “You—and me?”

“Grace is a mystery to the Merry Thieves, it seems,” said Alastair, “but I am a known and disliked quantity. I am only saying they would no doubt find it just as puzzling that you and I had—”

Thomas could stand it no more. He caught hold of Alastair’s collar and drew him in to kiss him. Alastair had clearly not been expecting it; the book he had been holding fell, and he laid an unsure hand on Thomas’s arm, steadying himself.

But he did not pull away. He leaned into the kiss, and Thomas unclenched his hands and let them find their way into Alastair’s hair, which was rough silk against his fingers. He felt an exquisite sense of relief—he had wanted this for so long, and what had happened between them in the Sanctuary had only made it worse—and then the relief melted away into heat, traversing his veins like liquid fire. Alastair was kissing him hard, each kiss opening his mouth a little wider, their tongues touching in a flickering dance. In between kisses, Alastair murmured soft words in Persian. “Ey pesar,” he whispered, “nik ze hadd mibebari kar-e jamal.” His tongue swept Thomas’s lower lip; Thomas shuddered, pressed into him, his breath catching with every kiss, every movement of Alastair’s body. “Ba conin hosn ze to sabr konam?”

And then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. Alastair pulled back, his hand still on Thomas’s arm, his face flushed. “Thomas,” he breathed. “This isn’t something I can do.”

Thomas closed his eyes. “Why not?”

“The situation hasn’t changed,” Alastair said, in a voice closer to his usual tone, and Thomas could feel the spell broken, dissipating as though it had never been. “Your friends hate me. And they are right to do so—”

“I told Matthew,” Thomas said.

Alastair’s eyes widened. “You what?”

“I told Matthew,” said Thomas. “About me. And that I—that we—that I cared about you.” He cleared his throat. “He knew about you and Charles already.”

“Well, Charles is his brother,” said Alastair, in an oddly mechanical voice. “And Matthew is himself—different. But your other friends…”

“Christopher won’t care. As for James, he is married to your sister. Alastair, you are already part of us, part of our group, whether you like it or not. You cannot use my friends as an excuse.”

“It’s not an excuse.” Alastair was still holding on to Thomas’s jacket, still leaning toward him. Thomas could smell Alastair’s scent of smoke and spice and leather. Desire burned deep in his belly like a swallowed coal, but he knew it made no difference. Alastair was shaking his head. “I learned—with Charles—things cannot be all stolen moments. But neither can we hurt others by blindly pursuing what we want—”

“So you do want me,” Thomas said, and felt a bitter sort of gladness.

Alastair’s eyes darkened. “How can you even ask—”

There was a bang and both of them looked up to see Christopher, carrying a tall stack of books, one of which had just fallen loudly to the ground. He seemed delighted to see them, as if it were perfectly normal for Thomas and Alastair to be sitting on the floor, with Alastair clutching Thomas’s sleeve.

“Enough shilly-shallying, you two,” Christopher exclaimed. “I’ve had an idea. We must go immediately to Limehouse.”





15 OLD VOICES




All day within the dreamy house,

The doors upon their hinges creak’d;

The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse

Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek’d,

Or from the crevice peer’d about.

Old faces glimmer’d thro’ the doors

Old footsteps trod the upper floors,

Old voices called her from without.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Mariana”



Cordelia had been late getting out of the house, and she found herself at Chiswick House after the others had already arrived. She climbed out of the carriage, waving at Anna and Ariadne, who were waiting by the steps; the Institute carriage had already pulled up in the circular drive. Cordelia could see a few figures in the distance where James, Jesse, and Lucie seemed to have gone to look at the gardens.

It was a bracing day, cold enough to sting her chest when she breathed. She glanced around as she pulled on her gloves. At night, the house and its grounds had the feel of a classical ruin, like a Roman villa gone to seed—marble and brick chipped and unrepaired, paint peeling, formal gardens now a shaggy war of briars and hedges invading each other’s space. She remembered the effect as quite Gothic, with Grace very much the pale maiden languishing behind the dark walls.