Chapter 9: If Gold Rust

9IF GOLD RUST

If gold rust, what then can iron do?

—Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales

Given the grim way Magnushad delivered his news, Cordelia had half expected the Portal he created to open onto a scene of chaos—a battle, a crowd, frightened people shouting at each other.

Instead it opened onto a cool darkness, and the smell of chilled stone. She blinked away her dizziness, knowing they were underground: this was the Institute’s crypt, where a permanent Portal resided.

She looked quickly at her companions. The last time she had been here, she and Matthew were arguing with James as he prepared to pass through the Portal into Idris to foil Tatiana’s plans. And because of Grace, said a small voice in her head. He did it for Grace.

This had been the turning point, she thought, in her life: James had gone through, and she and Matthew had followed. Blackthorn Manor had burned; James had been accused, Cordelia had spoken up to defend him; James had proposed to save her reputation, and everything had changed forever.

She was not the same person she had been then, she thought, as Magnus made a gesture, and the brass lamps lining the walls lit, casting the stone walls in eerie gold. She had learned so much since then, of what people were capable of—of what she herself was capable of—and she had learned that things could not be changed by willing them to be different. Dreams, hopes, wishes, were just that. Strength lay in keeping tight hold of reality, even if it was like grasping a stinging nettle in her hand.

The four of them made their way up the stone steps to the Institute’s ground floor. Through the windows, London welcomed them back with a gray snow, gusting in swirls and eddies against the glass, and a washed-out steel sky.

Neither James nor Matthew would look at her or at each other. James wore the expression she had dubbed the Mask—blank and unmoving, he adopted it when he wanted none of his feelings to show—and Matthew, she thought, possessed a mask just as sturdy in its own way: a distant, faintly amused look, as if he were watching a not very well-written play. She felt the force of their determined silence like the pressure drop before a storm.

Her saving grace was Magnus, who came to walk beside Cordelia the moment they exited the Portal. He did it so gracefully that Cordelia thought at first that he was merely being polite. She realized a moment later that of course he had recognized the awkwardness of the situation when he’d arrived at Le Meurice. Dramatics, he’d said in a bored tone, but the sympathy in his eyes when he looked at her was genuine.

She was not sure why. Soon enough everyone would know she had run off to Paris with Matthew, and that James had not known of it. When she had fled, she had not thought about coming back, save that she would return, move back in with her mother, and try to rebuild her life. Atone for the foolish mistakes she had made by taking care of her little sister or brother. She had not considered how it would look—not just to the whole gossiping Enclave, but to her friends: to Lucie and Thomas, Christopher and Anna.… They had been James’s friends first, and Lucie was his sister. They would be loyal to him, disgusted with her.

She wondered if the same thoughts had occurred to Matthew. If he was worried what his friends would say, would think. But he was a boy. People treated boys differently.

“Here we are,” Magnus said, snapping Cordelia out of her reverie. “Here” was Will’s office. That is to say, it was a room with fewer books than the Institute library, more books than most other rooms, and a tall slatted chair that could roll around the shelves on wheels. It also had a number of comfortable chairs scattered about, and just rising from those chairs were Will, Tessa, Charles, and the Inquisitor.

Cordelia stood back as Will and Tessa came to embrace James. If Tessa noticed that he looked disheveled and unkempt, she did not show it, only kissed him on the forehead in a way that made Cordelia miss her own mother, and Alastair.

“Matthew,” Charles said, without crossing the room to meet his brother. “Late as usual, I see. Did it take you that long to get across town?”

“I was in Paris, Charles,” said Matthew tightly.

“Were you?” Charles said vaguely. “I’d forgotten. Well, you’ve missed Mother; she was here earlier, but she went home feeling unwell. And you’ve all missed Maurice’s tale. I’m sure Will and Tessa will fill you in on any details you need to know.”

“Surely it would be better for them to hear it from the Inquisitor himself,” said Magnus mildly.

“The Inquisitor has already told the story several times today,” said Charles. “After his ordeal, he needs to rest. As none of you are upper members of the Enclave—and you, warlock, are not even a Shadowhunter—that does not seem necessary.” He turned to the Inquisitor. “Would you agree?”

“Indeed,” said Maurice Bridgestock. He did look a bit battered, Cordelia had to admit, with healing bruises on his face; he was holding his right arm gingerly, as if it had been injured, though surely he’d been given healing runes? “Will, I trust you will take all the measures we have discussed. Tessa—” He nodded stiffly in her direction, and walked out of the room without a word to anyone else, Charles at his heels.

Magnus closed the door behind them. His expression was stony; Cordelia could hardly blame him.

“How nice that Charles has found someone new to adopt him,” said Matthew. He was flushed with anger; Cordelia suspected there was some surprise and hurt there too. He and his brother had a complex, often antagonistic relationship, but they had left things on a better note, she’d thought. Charles seemed back to his old, unpleasant self now—but why?

“All of you,” added Will, flopping into an armchair, “sit down. You’re hovering, and I loathe hovering.”

Once seats were taken, Will looked them over. “Alas,” he said, “I am tasked with relaying to you an exciting and drama-filled tale. A terrible responsibility to have fallen upon me.”

James snorted. “Please, you are barely concealing your delight. Go on, then. Tell us.”

Will rubbed his hands together and began. “As you know,” he said, “traveling to the Adamant Citadel is not easy, and it took Bridgestock a full day via the Reykjavík Institute to get there. Once he did arrive, he signaled to the Sisters for an audience, and several of them came out to meet him on the tableland that leads down to the Citadel itself, since as you know, only women can pass through its doors. They told him that Tatiana was not there, but when he protested, they explained that this was not unusual: that she often went for long walks alone across the volcanic plains.”

“Why on earth did they let her do that?” Cordelia said in astonishment.

Will shrugged. “The Adamant Citadel is not a prison. There is nothing but empty rock for miles around, and nowhere for Tatiana to go, nothing for her to do, no one she could meet. The Iron Sisters hoped that she was using these walks to think upon her choices and meditate upon her new role as a member of their order.”

James made a scoffing sound.

“Bridgestock seems to have demanded that the Iron Sisters bring him something of Tatiana’s he could use to Track her. They found a sash from one of her robes. He was able to use it—to a point.” Will frowned thoughtfully. “He claims he could very clearly sense that the rune was connected to her. It was not like Tracking someone who has died, where there is only a blankness. The Tracking rune sent him urgently after her, but in circles—telling him often that he was close, but never close enough, and changing its direction from time to time, faster than any person could have moved. It was as though the rune was not working at all, though this seemed impossible, especially so close to one of the Nephilim’s main strongholds.

“Bridgestock made camp out on the plains, which I personally cannot imagine, but apparently it was so. Perhaps he pitched a tent. He could not stay at the Citadel itself, although they did provide him with an Icelandic horse that could handle the rough terrain.

“In the dark of night, he heard a voice that came in on the cold wind and told him to go home, to stop seeking what he sought. He ignored this and continued the search the next day, across the volcanic plains, although the voice came to harry him several times. Then, that night, as the sun set behind the mountains, he found himself outside the golden gates to the Iron Tombs.”

Cordelia was well aware of the Iron Tombs. They were the burial ground of the Iron Sisters and Silent Brothers, who did not die as ordinary Shadowhunters, but lived for centuries before their souls voyaged out of their bodies. These bodies did not decay, but remained intact, and were preserved in the Iron Tombs, a place forbidden to most Shadowhunters.

“Bridgestock rattled at the gates,” Will said, “but nobody came to answer him, because no one in the Iron Tombs is alive, which you’d think he would have gathered from the name of the place. Anyway, he had himself a nice tantrum until he was yanked from his saddle by an invisible hand. But rather than colliding with the ground, he found himself surrounded by swirling darkness. A terrible, depthless darkness, the kind that stretches beyond imagination, the kind that might drive a man mad with a single glimpse—”

“Will,” said Tessa. “Do not editorialize.”

Will sighed and went on. “He heard a terrible sound like a saw grinding through wood, or bone. Through the shadows, he could see barren land; he suspected he was no longer in Iceland, or even in our world, but he could not be sure. And then… a monstrous figure rose in front of him, twice the height of a man, with eyes like burning coals. It spoke to him.”

Cordelia waited for Tessa to chide Will, but she stayed silent. Apparently there was no exaggeration here.

“A demon? Did it identify itself?” James asked intently, leaning forward in his chair.

“According to Bridgestock,” Will said slowly, “he has always thought that an angel would be a being of such beauty and infinitude that he would barely be able to comprehend its presence. Yet he always longed to see one. We are, after all, their servants.”

“Are you saying Bridgestock saw an angel?” Matthew said.

“A fallen one,” said Tessa, a tremor in her voice. “A Prince of Hell in all his glory. He was both beautiful and hideous. Darkness streamed from him like invisible light. He seemed clothed in darkness, yet Bridgestock could see two great wounds in his chest, from which blood poured steadily, though it did not seem to bother him.”

“Belial,” Cordelia breathed. Not that there had ever been much doubt, but there was only one Prince of Hell who she had twice wounded with the blade of Cortana.

“He told Bridgestock who he was. Announced himself, and demanded that Bridgestock stop the search for Tatiana. He made threats, which Bridgestock would not share. I imagine they were of the general sort—rain of fire, destruction of the Enclave—but also likely personal, having to do with Bridgestock’s family.”

“He did say one perplexing thing,” Tessa said.

“Ah, yes, I nearly forgot,” said Will. “The last thing he said before he vanished. I jotted it down. ‘If you have any thought of sending your paladin after me, you will bring great doom upon the world.’?”

A terrible spear of ice pierced Cordelia’s spine. She felt the blood drain from her face and wondered if anyone noticed. James and Matthew, to their credit, did not so much as glance at her. Magnus raised his eyebrows; Will and Tessa only seemed puzzled.

“And after that, Bridgestock fled home?” Magnus inquired.

“One cannot really blame him,” said Will. “And believe me, I speak as one who holds no great fondness for the man. But he is no match for Belial. And there is the matter that when he awoke, he found the sigil of Belial burned into his right forearm.”

No wonder he was holding his arm strangely,Cordelia thought.

“He did?” said James. “Have you seen it?”

“I have. A nasty thing,” said Will. “I expect the man was terrified. He spends most of his time punishing other Shadowhunters, not facing Princes of Hell upon a blasted plain.”

“Was it a blasted plain?” asked James.

“In my mind, yes,” said Will, “probably covered in rocks that had been twisted into sinister shapes. One can but dream.”

“What happened to the horse?” said Matthew.

“Ran off,” said Will. “Probably back to the Adamant Citadel. Horses have sense. Balios would never have put up with that nonsense going on.”

Tessa sighed. “Charlotte already drafted an order to be sent out to all Institutes, that they should be on the lookout for Tatiana.”

“I doubt she will be found,” said Magnus. “She has all the realms of Hell to hide in.”

“And if she stays in them, that would be fine,” said Will. “If she returns with Belial, or if she is hoping somehow to ease his passage into this world…”

“I don’t see how she can,” said Cordelia. “She is still just a woman. Her power comes from Belial himself. She cannot do what he himself lacks the power to do.”

“Belial cannot come into this world, not for very long,” said James. “He must possess a living person to do so, but his presence would destroy any ordinary human body. He could possess my body without destroying it, as we share blood, but I would have to be willing to let him—and I am not. He has the same problems he always has. I don’t see how Tatiana can help him.”

“Still,” said Magnus, “it is no good thing that he has returned so soon. He placed his sigil on Bridgestock’s arm not because he cares about Bridgestock, but to send the message that he was here. That we should fear him. Last time he stayed away for months; now it has only been a week or so. And what is all this about a paladin? What paladin? There hasn’t been a paladin among the Nephilim since the days of Jonathan Shadowhunter.”

“It’s hard to swear yourself to the service of an angel,” Tessa said, “when there never seem to be any around.”

“Princes of Hell aren’t like people,” James said. “For him it’s probably only been a short time since paladins were around. We’d be wise not to read too much into it.”

“We will make sure the Clave is on high alert for a sighting of Tatiana,” said Will. “There is not much else we can do. Still—” He pointed at James, Cordelia, and Matthew. “You, who are not yet adults, though you may feel you are. The three of you must stay close to your homes. Preferably, we’d like you to stay here at the Institute, at least at night.”

“I won’t go out after dark, if that’s the issue,” said Matthew. “But I will stay in my flat.”

“I’ll stay here,” James said, making no mention of Cordelia. “And Lucie too, I assume?”

“Yes, of course, and—” Will glanced over at Tessa. “We have to tell them, my dear. About Jesse.”

Cordelia exchanged a puzzled look with Matthew. “Jesse?” she said, into the silence. “Jesse Blackthorn?”

---

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell us,” Matthew said as he, Cordelia, and James left Will’s office, with instructions to find Lucie and Jesse in the ballroom.

“You might as well get used to him,” Will had said. “I’m fairly sure he’s here to stay.”

“There wasn’t really time, was there,” James said, rather tightly.

“There really wasn’t,” Cordelia said quickly, hoping to defuse the situation. “It’s quite an odd tale, with quite a lot of explaining needed. I—” She shook her head. “I had no idea about any of it.”

“Lucie kept it a close secret,” said James. “It seems she feared rejection if the extent of her powers was discovered. And even warlocks look darkly on death magic.”

“Understandably,” Matthew said as they went up the stairs. “Necromancy often has very unpleasant results.”

“Well,” said James, in a tone that suggested he did not want to discuss the matter, “not in this case.”

Matthew shrugged. “By the Angel, Charles is loathsome. I know that a week ago I was concerned about whether he lived or died, but I certainly can’t remember why.”

James smiled a little. “He does seem to have rather attached himself to Bridgestock. Raziel knows why. Since he ended his engagement to Ariadne, I thought Bridgestock despised him.”

“Bridgestock likes his boots licked,” said Matthew harshly. “And Charles is good enough at that—”

He broke off. They were approaching the ballroom door, and from the other side, Cordelia could hear bright, familiar laughter.

Lucie. When was the last time she’d heard Lucie laugh like that?

Even James paused at the door, before looking at Matthew and Cordelia with a wry twist to his mouth.

“Lucie and Jesse,” he said. “It’s—a strange situation. Very strange. But she’s happy, so…”

“Try not to look shocked?” Cordelia said.

“Exactly,” said James, and swung the door open.

The ballroom was full of light. It had been stripped bare of decorations, ready for the next event: the curtains were flung wide, and no furniture remained in the room save a large grand piano, lacquered as black and shiny as a new hansom cab.

At the piano sat Jesse Blackthorn. His fingers rested lightly on the keys: he did not touch them as someone who was an expert, but Cordelia guessed he’d had a little instruction, no doubt when he was very young.

Lucie was leaning against the piano, smiling at him. Neither of them seemed to notice that anyone had joined them in the room. Lucie seemed to be reading from a piece of paper.

“Jeremy Blackthorn,” she said. “When was it that your family returned with you to Merry England?”

“I was quite young,” Jesse said, tapping out a quick flight of high notes. “Seven, perhaps. So that would have been—1893.”

“And what happened to your parents?”

“A circus tent collapsed on them,” said Jesse immediately. “It is why I am afraid of stripes.”

Lucie smacked him lightly on the shoulder. He sounded a low note of protest on the piano. “You must take this seriously,” she said, but she was laughing. “You’ll be asked all sorts of questions, you know. A new addition to the Clave—that’s unusual.”

They sound so happy together,Cordelia thought wonderingly. As James and I used to—and yet I knew nothing of this side of Lucie. I did not know this was happening.

“Jeremy Blackthorn,” said Jesse, in a portentous tone. “Who is the prettiest girl in the Enclave? It’s a very important question.…”

At that, before the flirting could escalate, Cordelia loudly cleared her throat.

“The ballroom looks lovely!” she exclaimed. “Is it to be decorated for the Christmas party?”

“Very subtle,” said Matthew, with a quirk at the corner of his mouth.

Both Jesse and Lucie turned around. Lucie beamed. “James, you’re back! Cordelia and Matthew, come and meet Jesse!”

Cordelia could immediately see that this Jesse was very different from Belial-possessed Jesse. As he rose to his feet and came to greet them, Cordelia thought he seemed somehow clearer than he had when she had seen him before, like a painting that had been restored. He wore clothes that were a little short on him, his jacket clearly strained across his shoulders, his ankles visible between his shoes and the hem of his trousers. But he was undeniably handsome, with a sharp, articulate face, and long-lashed green eyes several shades lighter than Matthew’s.

As they exchanged introductions and greetings, Cordelia saw Lucie glance back and forth between Matthew and James, and frown. Of course; she knew them so well, she would be attuned to any oddness between them. Still, a little frown line appeared between her eyebrows, and stayed.

It was Matthew who said, “What is this Jeremy business, then?”

“Oh, right,” Lucie said. “After we got back from Cornwall, we had a meeting with Charlotte and all the aunts and uncles, and decided—we will introduce Jesse as Jeremy Blackthorn, distant cousin of the Blackthorns, part of the branch that broke off and went to America a hundred years ago.”

Cordelia frowned. “Don’t the Silent Brothers have records of who belongs to what family?”

“They tend not to keep particularly accurate ones for those who have left the Clave,” said Jesse. “As my grandfather Ezekiel did. And besides, a very helpful fellow called Brother Zachariah was also at the meeting.”

“I ought to have seen his hand in all this,” said Matthew. “Well, never let it be said we are not, as a group, up for a deception. Does the Inquisitor know?”

Lucie shuddered. “Gracious, no. Can you imagine? Especially after he apparently just encountered Belial out in the wilds near the Adamant Citadel. He can’t be feeling kindly toward Blackthorns, or, well, Shadowhunters doing magic of any sort.”

They had all refrained from asking Lucie exactly how she had raised Jesse from the dead; James seemed to know it, but Cordelia realized it was simply another thing about Lucie she’d been ignorant of. She felt a hollow sadness at her center. It was not distant from the sadness she felt over James—here she was, so close to someone she loved, and yet she felt a million miles away.

“It’s rather too bad we can’t tell the truth,” said Matthew, “as it’s quite an exciting tale. Having someone who returned from the dead among our number seems a feather in the cap for the Enclave, if you ask me.”

“I wouldn’t mind for me,” said Jesse. He had altogether a calm, mild manner, though Cordelia guessed there were deeper currents running beneath it. “But I would hate for Lucie to be punished for all that she did for me, or Grace, either. Without the two of them, I wouldn’t be here now.”

“Grace?” said Cordelia, in confusion.

Lucie flushed and held her hands out to Cordelia. “I ought to have told you. I was afraid you’d be upset with me—”

“You worked with Grace?” James said sharply. “And didn’t tell any of us?”

Jesse looked back and forth between them—at James’s ashen face, and Cordelia, who had still not taken Lucie’s hands. At Matthew, whose smile had vanished. “Something’s wrong,” he said. “Something about my sister—?”

“She did not entirely endear herself to the Enclave when she was among us. For example, she broke up my brother Charles’s engagement to Ariadne, seemed to wish to marry him, then dropped Charles in a letter from the Silent City with no explanation,” said Matthew.

It was a small part of the story. But Jesse’s eyes darkened with worry. “I cannot apologize for what my sister has done,” he said. “She will have to do that herself. I do know that it was at my mother’s insistence that she pursued Charles. My mother has always seen Grace as a path to power. And I believe that in turning herself over to the Silent Brothers, my sister has shown that she no longer wishes to be my mother’s tool. I hope that will count for something when she returns to the Enclave.”

For a moment there was quiet. Cordelia glanced at James; she saw with despair that he had retreated behind the Mask. It was his armor, his protection.

Lucie has been in love with Jesse all this time, and I never knew,Cordelia thought. Now they are more firmly together, and that will only bring her closer to Grace. Perhaps Grace will be her sister-in-law someday, and meanwhile I cannot even be her parabatai. I will lose Lucie to Grace, just as I lost James to her.

“I am happy for you, Lucie,” she said. “And for you, Jesse. But I find I am very tired and must return home to see my mother. She is not entirely well, and I have left her for too long.”

She turned to leave.

“Cordelia,” Lucie said. “Surely we could at least have time for a moment alone together—just to talk—”

“Not now,” Cordelia said as she walked away from the group of them. “It seems there is much I did not know. Forgive me, if I require some time to consider the nature of my own ignorance.”

---

James caught up with Cordelia on the front steps of the Institute.

He’d hurried after her without a moment’s thought—rude, he knew, but all he’d seen was that Cordelia was unhappy, and leaving, and he had to do something about it, immediately.

The snow outside had stopped, though it had left a thin icing-sugar scrim of white on the front steps and the flagstones of the courtyard. Cordelia stood on the top step, her breath puffing around her in white clouds, her hands—gloveless—folded together. Her hair was a bright flame against the whiteness of winter, like a poppy among a field of lilies.

“Daisy—” he started.

“Don’t,” she said, softly, looking at the Institute gates with their Latin script, PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS. “Don’t call me that.”

He could see where her fingertips were reddened with cold. He wanted to wrap her hands in his, fold them inside his coat the way he had seen his father do with his mother’s hands. With the self-control that years of Jem’s training had instilled in him, he held himself back.

“Cordelia,” he said. “Would you have told Lucie? I know you couldn’t have, you didn’t have a chance, but—would you have? That you saw me… with Grace, before you left for Paris?”

Cordelia shook her head. “I wouldn’t have, no. I never told her anything about our discussions of Grace or about our… arrangements regarding her.” She lifted her chin and looked at him, her dark eyes shining like shields. “I would not be pitied. Not by anyone.”

In that, we are alike,James wanted to say; he couldn’t bear to tell anyone about the bracelet, the spell. Couldn’t bear to be pitied over what Grace had done to him. He had intended to tell Cordelia, but he had imagined a very different sort of reunion for them.

He pushed thoughts of her in Matthew’s arms away. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never thought about putting you in a position where you had to lie to Lucie. I see now it’s put distance between you two. I never wanted that. My pride was never worth that.” He allowed himself to look at Cordelia. Her expression had softened slightly. “Let’s just go home.”

Unable to hold back, he reached out to move a wayward lock of scarlet hair away from her face. His fingertips grazed the soft skin of her cheek. To his surprise, she did not reach up to stop him. But neither did she say, Yes, let’s go home to Curzon Street. She said nothing at all.

“That house is our home,” he said in the same quiet tone. “Our home. It isn’t anything to me without you in it.”

“It was to be your home with Grace,” she said, shaking her head. “You never pretended that it wouldn’t eventually be hers. We were only to be married a year, James, you and I—”

“I never thought of living there with her,” James said. It was true; he hadn’t. The spell hadn’t worked like that. It had forced his mind away from thoughts of the future, from any examination of his own feelings. “Cordelia,” he whispered. He cupped her cheek in his hand. She closed her eyes, her lashes fluttering down, a fringe of dark copper. He wanted to kiss her so badly it hurt. “Come home. It doesn’t mean you forgive me. I’ll apologize a hundred times, a thousand times. We can play chess. Sit in front of the fire. We can talk. About Paris, about Matthew, Lucie, anything you want. We’ve always been able to talk—”

At this Cordelia’s eyes opened. James felt his stomach drop; he couldn’t help it. Even melancholy and low-lidded, the depths of her dark eyes never failed to utterly undo him. “James,” she said. “We’ve never really talked about anything.”

He pulled back from her. “We—”

“Let me finish,” she said. “We’ve talked, but we’ve never told each other the truth. Not the full truth, anyway. Only the parts that were easy.”

“Easy? Daisy—Cordelia—I told you things I’ve never told anyone else in my life. I trusted you with everything. I still do.”

But he could see her momentary softening had gone. Her face was set, again, into determined lines. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for me to return to Curzon Street,” she said. “I am going home to Cornwall Gardens. I need to see my mother, and Alastair. After that…”

James felt as if he’d swallowed boiling lead. She had called Cornwall Gardens home; had made it clear she did not think of their house in Curzon Street that way. And yet, he could not blame her. No part of this was her fault. They had both agreed: a marriage in name only, to last for one year.…

One year.They’d barely had a month. The thought of that being all the time he ever had with Cordelia was like a wound. He said, mechanically, “Let me get the carriage. I can take you to Kensington.”

Cordelia took a step back. For a moment, James wondered if he’d said something to upset her; then he followed her gaze and saw Matthew, closing the front doors of the Institute behind him. He wore no coat, only his velvet jacket, torn at the wrist. He said, to Cordelia, “The Consul’s carriage is also at your disposal, if you’d prefer. I won’t be in it,” he added. “Just Charles. Come to think of it, that’s not a very attractive offer, is it?”

Cordelia looked at him solemnly. James could not help but think of the expression on her face when she’d realized Matthew had been drinking in Paris. He knew how she felt; he felt the same way.

“It’s kind of both of you,” she said. “But there’s no need. Alastair’s come to bring me back. Look.”

She pointed, and indeed, a hansom cab was just rolling in through the Institute’s gates. It bumped across the flagstones and came to a stop in front of the gates, steam rising from the horses’ blanketed flanks.

The door opened and Alastair Carstairs swung himself down. He wore a thick blue greatcoat, his hands swaddled in leather gloves. He marched up the steps to his sister and said, without looking at either James or Matthew, “Where are your things, Layla?”

Layla.The sound of that name hurt, brought back the poem, the story whose thread had bound James and Cordelia, invisibly, over the years. That heart’s delight, one single glance the nerves to frenzy wrought, one single glance bewildered every thought.… Layla, she was called.

“Magnus says he sent them on,” said Cordelia. “Some sort of spell. My trunk ought to turn up at the house. If it doesn’t…”

“It had better,” Matthew said. “It has all your nice things from Paris in it.”

All your nice things.Things like the red velvet gown she’d worn the night before. Things Matthew had no doubt gone with her to buy. James’s stomach twisted.

“Come on, let’s go, shoma mitavanid tozieh bedid, che etefagi brayehe in ahmagha mioftad vagti ma mirim,” Alastair said. You can explain what’s going on with these idiots when we leave. Apparently it had slipped his mind that James had been learning Persian.

“Go on ahead of me. I’ll join you in a moment,” Cordelia said. Alastair nodded and withdrew to the carriage. Cordelia turned to face Matthew and James.

“I don’t know how I feel,” she said. “There is too much going on—too many complications. In some ways, I am angry at you both.” She looked at them steadily. “In others ways, I feel I have hurt you both, been unfair to you. These are things that must be settled with my own conscience.”

“Cordelia—” Matthew began.

“Don’t,” she said wearily. “I am so tired. Please, just understand. I care about you both.”

She hurried down to the carriage and held out her hand, and Alastair took it to help her up the steps. As the door closed, James could hear Alastair asking Cordelia if she was all right, or if he was required to hit anyone for her. The carriage rattled off, leaving Matthew and James alone with each other, and a silence where Cordelia had been.

James turned to look at Matthew. His parabatai was almost bloodlessly pale, his eyes like dark green smudges of paint in his white face. “Math,” he said. “We shouldn’t fight.”

“We are not fighting,” Matthew said, still looking at the spot where the carriage had been. “I told you already I would cede the field to you.”

“But that isn’t your choice to make,” said James. “Or mine. It is Cordelia’s. It will always be Cordelia’s.”

Matthew rubbed at his eyes with a gloved hand. “I think she hates us both,” he said. “Perhaps that puts us on equal footing.” He looked at James. “I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I had no inkling when I went to Paris with Cordelia that you would mind. I did not think you loved her. I would never have gone, if I had thought that.”

“A reasonable enough thing to think, given my behavior,” said James. “Though—I wish you had asked me.”

“I should have. I was angry. I was about to leave on my own, and then Cordelia was in my flat and she was in tears, and—” He shook his head. “I thought you had hurt her callously. Now I do not know what to think. Grace is in jail; you seem pleased about it. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s there, but I’m puzzled.”

“Grace did come to my house that night you left for Paris,” said James. “I turned her over to the Silent Brothers. When I realized Cordelia was gone, I ran after her. All the way to your flat, and then to Waterloo. I was on the platform as your train pulled away.”

Matthew slumped back against the door. “James…”

“Mathew,”James said quietly. “I am in love with Cordelia, and she is my wife. You must understand, I will do whatever I can to mend things between us.”

“Why did you never tell her?” Matthew said. “Why did she have to run away for that?”

“I should have,” James said. “I wish I had.” He hesitated. “Why did you never tell me you loved her?”

Matthew stared at him. “Because she is your wife, and I do have some scruples, you know. What you saw—the kissing—that was the extent of it. Of anything—physical—between us.”

James felt a wave of shameful relief. “And if I hadn’t interrupted you?” He held up a hand. “Never mind. You believed my marriage to Cordelia was a sham. I understand that.”

“But I knew—” Matthew stopped himself from whatever he was going to say next, and let out a long breath instead. “I knew that once you lived together, once you spent all your time with her, you would come to love her too. And besides—when you find you’re in love with your best friend’s wife, you don’t tell anyone. You drown yourself in drink, alone in London or in Paris, until either it kills you or the feelings go away.”

James knew he shouldn’t say it, but he couldn’t stop himself. “But you weren’t alone in Paris, were you?”

Matthew sucked in his breath. “It is a sickness. I thought if Cordelia was with me, I would not require the bottle. But it seems too late for that. The bottle requires me.”

“I require you more,” James said. “Math, let me help you—”

“Oh, dear God, James,” Matthew said, with a sort of passionate despair. “How can you be so good?” He pushed himself away from the door. “I couldn’t bear it, right now,” he said, “to be helped by you.”

Before James could say anything more, he heard Charles call out, in his booming voice: “There you are, Matthew! Do you want a ride back to your flat? Or you could come back to the house and see the parents. I’m sure they’d love to hear about Paris.”

Matthew made a face that James knew well: it meant give me patience. “Just one moment,” he called. He turned back to James and put a hand on his shoulder. “Whatever else happens, don’t hate me, James. Please. I don’t think I could bear it.”

James wanted to close his eyes. He knew that behind them he would see two boys running across a green lawn in Idris, one fair-haired and one dark. “I could never hate you, Math.”

As Matthew went to join his brother, leaving James alone on the steps, James thought, I could never hate you, for all my hate is reserved for myself. I have none left over for anyone else.