Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Luckily,” Tessa said, “the Blackthorns have a long-standing reputation for all looking alike. Dark hair, green or blue eyes. Honestly, I imagine everyone will simply be delighted to have someone new to bother and gossip about.” She slid a few gold-and-ivory pins into Lucie’s hair. “He’s a lovely boy, Lucie. Constantly asking what he can do to help. I think he’s not used to kindness. He’s downstairs in the ballroom now with your father, assisting with the tree.” She winked. “He looks very handsome.”


Lucie giggled. “I hope you mean Jesse, and not Papa.”

“Your father also looks very handsome.”

“You are allowed to think so,” said Lucie. “I am allowed to find the idea horrifying.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about Jesse? Before, I mean?” Tessa picked up a pair of Lucie’s earbobs—ice-gray drops set in gold—and passed them over to her. Lucie’s only other jewelry was the gold Blackthorn locket around her neck.

“You mean when he was a ghost? Because he was a ghost,” Lucie said with a smile. “I thought you would have disapproved.”

Tessa gave a small chuckle. “Lucie, my love, I know that to you I am your boring old mother, but I had my share of adventures when I was younger. And,” she added, in a more serious voice, “I know that there is no way for me to wrap you in cotton wool and protect you from all danger, much as I wish I could. You are a Shadowhunter. And I am proud of you for that.” She pinned the final shining coil of Lucie’s hair with the gold comb and stood back to admire her handiwork. “There. All done.”

Lucie looked at herself in the mirror. Her mother had left the pompadour loose, with curls falling on either side of Lucie’s face. Near-invisible ivory pins held the whole structure in place and matched the ivory lace trim on Lucie’s lavender silk dress. Her Marks stood out black and stark against her skin: Agility against her collarbone, her Voyance rune on her hand.

Lucie got to her feet. “It’s one of my favorite parts of the Christmas party, you know,” she said.

“What is?” asked Tessa.

“The part when you do my hair beforehand,” Lucie said, and kissed her mother on the cheek.



* * *



Thomas glared at the fruit basket, and the fruit basket glared back.

He had been standing on the pavement in front of Cornwall Gardens for nearly ten minutes and had long ago run out of excuses for his failure to knock on the front door. Also, he had stepped in a cold puddle while exiting the carriage and his socks were wet.

The fruit basket was for Alastair’s mother, Sona. Eugenia had been meant to deliver it, but some kind of emergency had occurred in which hair had been burnt in an attempt to curl it, and chaos had taken the reins at his house. Somehow, Thomas—only half-dressed for the party himself—had found himself being shoehorned into a carriage by his father, with the basket following. Gideon Lightwood had leaned into the carriage and said solemnly, “It is a far, far better thing that you do, than you have ever done before,” which seemed to Thomas quite unfunny. After which his father had closed the carriage door.

Thomas looked down at the basket again, but it persisted in offering him no advice. It seemed to have some oranges in it, and a biscuit tin and some nicely wrapped holiday sweets. It really was a kind gesture from his family, he reminded himself, and nothing he should be worried about. And he’d checked already to make sure that the Carstairs carriage was gone, which meant Alastair and Cordelia had already left for the party. Telling himself that he was being ridiculous, he raised a hand and knocked firmly on the door.

Which was answered immediately by Alastair.

“What are you doing here?” said Thomas indignantly.

Alastair looked at him with his dark eyebrows peaked. “I live here,” he pointed out. “Thomas, have you brought me a fruit basket?”

“No,” Thomas said crossly. He knew it was unfair, but he could not help but feel Alastair had played a sort of trick on him by being home when Thomas had not expected it. “It’s for your mother.”

“Ah. Well, come in, then,” Alastair said, and swung the door wide. Thomas staggered inside and set the basket down on the entryway table. He turned back to Alastair, and immediately launched into the speech he’d prepared on his way over:

“The basket is from my mother and my aunt Cecily. They were concerned that your mother would feel forgotten, since everyone will be at the party tonight. They wanted her to know they were thinking of her. Speaking of which,” he added before he could stop himself, “why aren’t you at the Institute?”

He looked Alastair up and down: Alastair was certainly not dressed like someone planning to attend a party. He was in shirtsleeves, his braces hanging down around his hips, his feet in slippers. He looked sulky and bitten-lipped and ferocious, like a Persian prince from a fairy tale.

A Persian prince from a fairy tale? SHUT UP, THOMAS.

Alastair shrugged. “If I’m leaving for Tehran soon, it hardly seems worth socializing with the Enclave. I thought I’d spend a productive evening at home. Go through some of Cordelia’s books about paladins. See if I could find anything helpful.”

“So Cordelia went to the party on her own?”

“With Anna and Ari. She left a bit early to pick them up.”

An awkward pause fell over the foyer. Thomas knew that the correct thing to say was something along the lines of, Well, I should be off. Instead he said, “So your plan is to brood at home by yourself all night? Rather than going to a party with your friends?”

Alastair gave him a sour look. “They’re not my friends.”

“You say that kind of thing often,” Thomas said. “Almost as though if you repeat it enough, it will become true.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. He was wearing his best black jacket, which strained at the seams over his shoulders. “If you don’t go, I won’t go either. I will stay home, and mice will nibble on me in my despair.”

Alastair blinked. “There’s no reason for that,” he said. “You’ve got every reason to go—”

“But I won’t,” Thomas said. “I will remain at home, despairing, being nibbled upon by mice. It’s your choice.”

Alastair held up one finger for a moment as though to speak, and then let it drop. “Well. Damn you, Lightwood.”

“Alastair?” came a light voice from the parlor. Sona; of course they would have brought her down here, to keep her from having to climb the stairs every day. “Che khabare? Che kesi dame dar ast?” What’s going on? Who was at the door?

Alastair looked darkly at Thomas. “All right,” he said. “I’ll go to your stupid party. But you have to amuse my mother while I get dressed.”

And with that, he turned and stalked upstairs.

Thomas had never been alone with Alastair’s mother. Before he could lose his nerve entirely, he snatched up the fruit basket and brought it into the parlor.

Sona was sitting up, propped on a chaise longue by about a thousand pillows of various rich colors. She was wearing a brocade dressing gown and wrapped in a thick blanket, which rose like a mountain over the hill of her stomach. Not knowing where to look, Thomas carefully put the basket on the table next to her. He explained the nature of the gift while Sona smiled delightedly.