Chapter 23: A Single Chant

23A SINGLE CHANT

Thus many a melody passed to and fro between the two nightingales, drunk with their passion. Those who heard them listened in delight, and so similar were the two voices that they sounded like a single chant. Born of pain and longing, their song had the power to break the unhappiness of the world.

—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun

Cordelia ran.

It had begun to snow, and the wind whipped tiny ice crystals against her skin. The hansom cab had only been willing to bring her as far as Piccadilly because of roadwork, and so she was running up Half Moon Street, almost tripping over her skirts, heavy with wet snow along the hem. But it didn’t matter.

She ran, hearing Grace’s words in her head, explosive fragments that had blown her whole world apart like one of Christopher’s experiments.

He never loved me. Not really. It was a spell, administered through the bracelet. It was always you he loved.

Cordelia was hatless, and every once in a while a topaz pin would whip free of her hair and rattle to the sidewalk, but she did not stop to pick them up. She hoped someone found them and sold them and bought a Christmas goose. She could not slow down.

Belial gave me this gift, this power. I can convince any man to do anything I like. But it didn’t work on James. The bracelet had to be invented to keep him in line. He and I were still friends when I gave it to him. I recall snapping it onto his wrist and seeing the light go out in his eyes. He was never the same again.

Cordelia had been glad Christopher was there too; otherwise it might have seemed too much like a strange dream to have really happened.

Grace had been icily calm as she recounted what had happened, though she had not met Cordelia’s gaze, instead staring down at the floor. Under other circumstances Cordelia might have been furious. What Grace was telling her was a story of terrible cruelty and violation, but Cordelia sensed that if Grace showed anything of what she felt about it, she would come apart completely, and Cordelia could not risk that. She needed to know what had happened.

Cordelia had reached Curzon Street. She ran along the icy pavement, up the curve of the street, toward her house. Christopher had told her James would be there. She had to believe he would.

He loved you,Grace had said. Even the bracelet could not contain it. My mother moved us to London that I might be closer to him, exert more power over him, but ultimately it failed. All Hell’s power could not extinguish that love.

Cordelia had whispered, “But why didn’t he tell me?”

Grace had looked at her then, for the first time. “Because he didn’t want your pity,” she said. “Believe me, I understand. I understand all desperate, self-defeating thoughts. They are my specialty.”

And then Grace’s voice faded. The smell of the Silent City, the feeling of dazed, sickening shock, all of it fell away, because Cordelia had reached her house, and the lights were on inside. She raced up the front steps, thanking Raziel for her balance runes—her heeled boots had never been meant for running in—reached the front door, and found it unlocked.

She threw it open. Inside, she flung her damp coat in a heap on the floor and raced through the house—the dining room, the drawing room, the study—calling out for James. What if he wasn’t there? Cordelia thought, stopping at the foot of the steps. What if Christopher had been wrong?

“Daisy?”

She looked up. And there was James, coming down the steps, a look of surprise on his face. Cordelia did not hesitate. She bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

James, too, began to run.

They collided on the landing. They tumbled into a heap, rolling over, skidding down several steps until James arrested their fall. And somehow Cordelia was underneath him, and she could feel the slamming race of his heartbeat, see the look in his eyes—bewilderment and hope and pain—even as he started to get up, to ask if she was all right.

She caught at the lapels of his jacket. “James,” she said. “Stay.”

He froze, looking down, his dark gold eyes searching her face. He was braced over her, but she could still feel the weight of his body against hers.

“I love you,” Cordelia said. She had never said it to him before, and she sensed somehow now was not the time for flowery phrases or shy deflections. He needed to know. “Asheghetam. I love you. I love you. Without you, I cannot breathe.”

Wild hope flashed across his face, chased by a wary disbelief. “Daisy, what—”

“Grace.” She felt him flinch, held on to him tightly. She had to keep him close, keep him from recoiling away from the truth. “She confessed to me. About the spell, the bracelet. James, why didn’t you tell me?”

As she had feared, the Mask covered his expression quickly. He still held her, arms under her, cradling her, cushioning the harsh angles of the stairs. But he was motionless. “I could not bear your pity. If you knew what had happened, you would have felt obligated to me. You are kind, Cordelia. But I did not want your kindness, not at the sacrifice of your true feelings.”

“My true feelings?” she said. “How could you know them? I have hidden them, all this time.” It was dark outside, and the lamps in the entrance hall burned low; in the dimness, the angles of James’s face appeared more acute. For the first time since she had fled the Silent City, Cordelia began to fear it would not be enough to tell him she loved him. He might withdraw regardless. She might lose him, no matter how fast she had run. “I have hidden them for years. All the years that I have loved you. I fell in love with you when you had the scalding fever, when we were both children, and I never stopped.”

“But you never said—”

“I thought you were in love with Grace,” she said. “I was too proud to tell you I loved you, when I thought you had given your heart to someone else. We have both been too proud, James. You feared I would pity you?” Her voice rose, incredulous. “Belial wove an enchantment, a band of silver and the darkest magic, to bind you. Most would have crumbled. You fought it. All this time you have been fighting a silent battle entirely alone, while nobody knew. You fought it and you broke it, snapped it in half, the most incredible thing. How could I ever pity that?”

She felt his chest rise and fall against hers with his quick breaths. He said, “I did not break that enchantment knowingly. Yes, I fought it, without knowing I was fighting. But what snapped that band was the force of what I felt for you.” He gathered up a handful of her tumbling hair, let the strands slip through his fingers. There was wonder in his eyes as he looked at her. “If it were not for you, my Daisy, I would have belonged to Belial long ago. For there is no one else in this world, my most beautiful, maddening, adorable wife, that I could ever have loved half as much as I have loved you. My heart beats for you,” he said. “Only ever you.”

Cordelia burst into tears. They were tears of relief, happiness, joy, even desire. There might not have been anything else she could have done that would have so thoroughly convinced him she meant what she said.

“Daisy—Daisy—” He began to kiss her, wildly—her bared throat, the tears on her cheeks, her collarbone, returning over and over to her mouth. She arched up against him, kissing back as hard as she could, as if the motion of her lips against his were words, as if she could speak to him through kisses.

She tugged his jacket off—he was wearing his pistol in a holster at his side, and it dug into her, but she didn’t much mind. She pulled at the buttons on his shirt, tearing it, kissing the bare skin at his throat, tasting the salt of his skin.

When she licked his throat, he groaned. “You have no idea how much I have wanted you,” he said. “Every moment of being married to you has been bliss and torture.” He dragged up her skirts, ran his hands up the sides of her legs, his fingertips skating over the silk of her stockings. “The things you did to me—when you came to me wanting help with your corset, on our wedding night—”

“I thought you were embarrassed,” she said, biting gently at his jaw. “I thought you wished I would go away.”

“I did want you to go away,” he murmured against her neck. His hands were behind her now, cleverly undoing the hooks at the back of her dress. “But only because my self-control was hanging on by the thinnest thread. I pictured myself lunging at you, you absolutely horrified by what I wanted to do to you—”

“I would not have been horrified,” Cordelia said, looking at him steadily. “I want you to do things to me. I want to do things to you.”

He made an inarticulate noise, as if she had shot him. “Cordelia,” he gasped raggedly. His hands grasped her hips; he rocked against her—and a moment later he was rising to his feet, sweeping her up into his arms. “I will not despoil you on the staircase,” he said, “though Effie has the night off, and believe me, I want to.”

“Why not?” she giggled. She had not imagined she could feel so happy, so light. He carried her up the steps. When he reached the door of her room, she wrapped her arms around his neck; he struggled with the doorknob for a moment—it was either jammed or locked—before muttering something that sounded a great deal like “Sod that” under his breath, taking out his pistol, and firing it at the lock.

The door blew open. Cordelia gasped with astonishment and laughter as James carried her over the threshold of her—their—bedroom, deposited her on the bed, and hurled the pistol into the corner of the room.

He crawled onto the bed after her, tearing at his clothes. She watched in fascination as his boots flew off, and then his shirt, and then he was lowering himself on top of her and kissing her hungrily, which allowed her to run her hands all over him. All over his bare skin, which was hot and smooth, all up and down his sides, and over the planes of his chest, which made him growl against her mouth and stirred a dark, hot feeling in her belly.

“Please,”she said, not really knowing what she was asking for, but James sat back, so he was straddling her, and looked down at her with eyes that seemed wildly golden, like a tiger’s.

“How much do you like this dress?” he asked. “Because I can take it off you slowly, or I can take it off you fast—”

“Fast,” she said, and caught her breath as he took hold of the fabric at her neckline and, with a quick movement, ripped it apart. It was not a matter of tearing something fragile, like a ribbon—the dress was of stout construction, with corseting and buttons and hooks, but James simply tore it open as if he were freeing her from a chrysalis. Cordelia was gasping and laughing as he ripped the skirt into two pieces and flung the whole mass of the dress aside, and then her laughter vanished as he looked down at her and his whole expression changed.

She knew she was nearly naked—she had a light cambric chemise on, which barely brushed the tops of her legs, and he could certainly see through the thin material. See the exact shape of her breasts, the precise curve of her hips and thighs. She fought the urge to put up her hands, to shield herself against his staring. Because he was staring. And he looked starving. It was the only word she could think of: he looked as if he wanted to pin her down and devour her.

He was braced over her on his hands. She reached up and encircled his upper arms, as much as she could, with her fingers. She could feel the tension in his muscles, stone-hard under her touch. He was holding himself back, she knew. This was their wedding night, terribly delayed, and he wanted what happened in books. Wanted her to give herself to him, wanted to take her, and though she did not know precisely what that meant, she wanted it too. She ached for him, but he was holding back for her, and it gave her the courage to say:

“James. Have you ever before—with Grace—?”

He looked puzzled for a moment; his face darkened. “No. We kissed. I never wanted anything beyond that. I suppose the bracelet kept me from noticing how strange that was. I thought perhaps that it was not in my nature to want.” He let his eyes roam over her, making her skin prickle. “That was wildly inaccurate.”

“Then this is your first—?”

“I never had anything with Grace,” he said gently. “Nothing that was real. You are my first, Cordelia. You are all my firsts.” He closed his eyes. “We can keep talking, if you desire, but tell me now, because I am going to need to go into the adjoining room and run cold water on myself for at least—”

“No talking,” she said, and locked her hands around the back of his neck. She drew him down, so their bodies touched, which made her writhe and squirm against him. He gasped a curse and caught at her hips, stilling her while he bent his head to explore her throat with his lips and tongue. Somehow he kicked his own trousers away, and she realized she was holding him naked in her arms as he slipped the straps of her chemise from her shoulders, his kisses following it as it slid lower and lower, baring her breasts. And when he kissed those, too, she could no longer control herself. She sobbed and she begged him for more, and he gave her more: harder kisses, his hands all over her, touching her where she had expected to be touched, and in some places where she had not imagined it.

And all the time he watched her face, as if he fed off her incredulous delight, her pleasure. He was urgent with her, but careful and gentle, as if terrified of hurting her. In the end, she was the one to urge him on, to kiss him harder, to try to shred his control, until: “Are you ready?” he whispered. His voice was dry and rasping, as if he were choking on his own need for her, and she arched up against him and said yes, she was ready, yes please.

She had been told, nebulously, that something would hurt, and at first there was a moment of glancing pain. She saw the fear on his face and wrapped her legs around him, whispering for him not to stop. She said things to him that would later make her blush, and he cradled her in his arms and kissed her as they moved together, the brief pain turning into a pleasure that wound tighter and tighter inside her until she was clutching at James’s shoulders with desperate, searching hands, until her voice was rising and rising as she begged him incoherently to stay with her, until everything in her head came apart in a kaleidoscope of shimmering fragments more perfect than anything she had ever known.

---

“Pass me the soap,” James said good-naturedly, dropping a kiss on Cordelia’s bare shoulder.

“No,” Cordelia said. “I’m too comfortable to move.”

James laughed, and Cordelia felt it all through her body. They were in the bathtub together—however unsure of his feelings James had been, he had had the foresight to arrange a tub large enough for two people, bless him. James reclined against the wall of the tub, Cordelia leaning against him, her back to his chest. He had put something in the water that made it foam and smell of lavender, and she was happily covering herself with suds.

Lazily, he slid his hands through her wet hair. Outside, snow was falling; lovely sleepy white flakes tumbling past the window.

Cordelia had not, she thought, ever been utterly naked with another person who was not her mother, and that not since she was a small child. She’d had a moment of shyness before, in the bedroom, as her chemise had come away and she had lain before James, entirely naked. But the way he’d looked at her dispelled it—as if he had never seen anything so miraculous.

And now, here they were, man and wife in absolute truth. Man and wife in the bathtub, covered in slippery bubbles. Cordelia turned her head against James’s shoulder and arched up to kiss his chin.

“There are things we still have to talk about, you know,” she said.

James tensed for a moment, before picking up a handful of bubbles. He placed them carefully atop her head. “Like what?”

“What happened,” she said. “At the meeting, after I left with Christopher.”

James sighed and drew her closer. “My parents are going to Idris. Charlotte and Henry as well, and my aunts and uncles. And Uncle Jem. There will be a trial by Mortal Sword. It will be grim, but it should exonerate them.”

“They’re all leaving?” Cordelia was startled. “What about Thomas, and Matthew and Christopher—”

“Everyone will gather at the Institute tomorrow,” said James. “Thomas and Anna are old enough to be on their own, but they’ll likely come as well, as it will be more pleasant if we’re all together. They’ll put someone in charge of the Institute for the few days they’re gone—I’d like it to be Thomas, but more likely some bore like Martin Wentworth.”

“Well,” said Cordelia. “If everyone’s going to be under the same roof, then, it will be easier for you to tell them all about the bracelet. They’ve all worried about you so much, James. It will be a relief to them, to know what happened, and that you are free.”

James leaned forward to run more hot water from the tap. “I know I must tell them,” he said. “None of the lies I’ve been living have brought me anything but misery. But what will they think?”

“They will be angry on your behalf,” Cordelia said, reaching out to stroke his cheek. “And they will be proud of your strength.”

He shook his head. His wet hair made a cap of sleek waves, the ends, just beginning to dry, curling in against his cheeks, his temples. “But the telling of the tale, even knowing I will be glad, once it is done, to have told it—when I speak of what happened, I live it again. The violation of it.”

“That is the most terrible part,” Cordelia said. “I can understand it only a little, for I felt it when Lilith controlled me. The poisoning of one’s own will. The trespass of it. I am so sorry, James. I was so ready to believe you loved someone else, so ready to believe you would never love me, I saw none of the signs of it.”

She turned around so she was facing him. It was slightly awkward until she found the right position, almost in his lap, her knees on either side of him. Her hair was a wet cloak draped over her back, and she could not help but wonder if she had suds on her face.

If so, James gave no sign he noticed. He traced the line of her bare shoulder with a damp finger, as if it were the most fascinating thing he ever examined. “You could not have known, Daisy. The bracelet had its own odd powers; it seemed to prevent not just me, but those around me, from truly seeing its consequences.” The water sloshed in the bath as he moved, taking hold of her hips under the water. She leaned into him. She could see desire rising in his eyes, like the first lighting of a fire, the embers beginning to smolder. It made her feel breathless, that she could have that effect on him.

“You look like a water goddess, you know,” he said, letting his gaze roam over her, lazy and sensual as a touch. It was rather overwhelming, the manner in which he seemed to admire, even worship, her body. She admitted to herself that she felt rather the same way about his. She had never seen a man naked, only Greek statues, and when she looked at James, she began to see what the point of the statues was. He was lean, hard with muscle, but his skin when she touched it was fine-grained and smooth as marble. “I never want anyone to see you like this but me.”

“Well, I can’t imagine anyone would,” Cordelia said practically. “It isn’t as if I were about to take up bathing in the Thames.”

James laughed. “I’ve loved you for years without being able to say it,” he said. “You will now have to put up with me finally speaking aloud every ridiculous, possessive, jealous, impassioned thought I have ever had and been forced to hide, even from myself. It may take some time to work through them all.”

“Constant declarations of love? How ghastly,” Cordelia said, running the tips of her fingers down his chest. “Hopefully there will be some other reward for me, to make up for it.” She grinned at the look he gave her. “Shall we repair to the bedroom?”

“Much too far away,” he said, pulling her closer, into his lap. “Let me show you.”

“Oh,”Cordelia said. She had not realized quite how portable the act of love was, or what it was like for wet bodies to slide against each other. A great deal of water was sloshed onto the floor that night, and quite a lot of soap and bubbles. Effie would be horrified, Cordelia thought, and found she did not care in the least.

---

It was a pleasure for Cordelia to wake up the next morning and discover James’s arm holding her tight against him as they slept, a thing she had wanted for so long that it was hard to believe it was real.

She rolled over in his embrace, so that she was facing him. The fire in the grate had long since died down, and the room was chilly, but they made a space of warmth together, under the blankets.

Lazily, James stroked her hair, following the strands down over her shoulders, her bare back. “How long can we stay like this?” he said. “Eventually, we would starve to death, I suppose, and Effie would discover our bodies.”

“A very great shock for her,” Cordelia agreed solemnly. “Alas, we cannot stay here forever, and not because of Effie. Aren’t we all meant to gather at the Institute today?”

“Right,” said James, kissing her throat. “That.”

“And,” said Cordelia, “you said everyone will be there. Including Matthew.”

“Yes,” said James cautiously. He had taken her hand in his and seemed to be inspecting it, turning it over to trace the lines on her palm. Cordelia thought of Matthew at the Hell Ruelle and a wash of sadness rolled over her, a gray wave.

“I suppose we are not planning to conceal from him that—that—”

“Well,” said James, “I think we can spare him the details of last night. Which reminds me, where did I throw my pistol?”

“Into the corner.” Cordelia grinned. “And we’ll need to get a locksmith in, to fix the door.”

“I adore discussing domestic details with you,” said James, and kissed the inside of her wrist, where her pulse beat. “Talk to me of locksmiths and grocery deliveries and what’s wrong with the second stove.”

“Nothing, as far as I know. But we do have to talk about Matthew.”

“Here’s the thing.” James sighed and rolled onto his back. He put an arm behind his head, which made Cordelia want to run her hands over all the different muscles in his shoulders and chest. She suspected, however, that it would not be conducive to continued discussion. “We find ourselves in an odd position, Daisy. No,” he added, at her grin, “not that odd position. Unless—”

“No,” Cordelia said, with mock severity. “Tell me what’s odd.”

“That everything changed between us last night,” said James. “I think we can both agree on that. Perhaps it has only turned into what it always should have been, what in some ways always was beneath the surface. But it has changed—and yet from the outside it will look like nothing is different. We have already been married, we have already declared ourselves to each other in front of the entire Enclave. It is only now that we know that all the words we spoke then were true, and will always be true. It is a peculiar thing to confess.”

“Ah.” Cordelia hugged a pillow to her chest. “I see what you mean, but we need not make a great announcement to our friends, James. The story of that cursed bracelet is our story, and the truth will come out along with it. It is only that most of our friends will be made happy by the truth. But Matthew—neither one of us wants to hurt him.”

“Daisy, darling,” said James. He turned his head to look at her, his amber eyes grave. “It may not be possible to prevent him from feeling any pain at all, though we shall certainly try. I should tell you,” he said, propping himself up on an elbow, “I heard you. At the Christmas party. Talking to Matthew in the games room.”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. “You did?”

“I’d gone to get something for Anna when I recognized your voice through the door. All I heard was you saying that you did not love Matthew, and that you did not know what to do about me. Which was not inspiring—but I had not meant to eavesdrop, and I left quickly, without hearing anything else. I swear that,” he added, and Cordelia nodded. She had overheard a few conversations herself without intending to; she could hardly sit in judgment. “I would like to think I would not have let things get as far as they did last night if I had not known, with surety, that Matthew knew how you felt. That he did not hold out hope.”

“I had to tell him,” Cordelia whispered. “But it was awful. Hurting him like that. Matthew does not let many people in, but when he does, he is so very vulnerable to them. We must make him understand that neither of us is going to leave him, and we will always love him and be there for him.”

James hesitated, just for a moment. “On the staircase, you spoke to me of pride. It has its downfalls, as we both know. But Matthew will not want to be pitied. He will want us to be blunt and honest, not treat him as an ailing patient. He has enough of that already. I would do anything to spare Matthew pain. I would cut my own hands off if it would help.”

“It would be dramatic, but unhelpful,” said Cordelia.

“You know what I mean.” He reached up to touch her hair. “By all means, let us tell him how important he is to us both. But it would help neither of us to pretend or to lie. We are married, and we will remain married, and in love, until the stars burn out of the sky.”

“That is very poetic,” said Cordelia. “Rather the sort of thing Lord Byron Mandrake would have said to the beautiful Cordelia.”

“I believe she was promised a herd of stallions,” said James, “which I cannot provide.”

“Well, what use are you then?” Cordelia wondered aloud.

“Is that a challenge, my proud beauty?” he demanded, and drew her toward and under him, until her giggling turned into kisses, and then into gasps, and she wrapped herself around him in the depths of the bed that was theirs now. That would always be theirs.

---

As they approached the Institute, Cordelia wondered: Would anybody be able to tell that something had changed between her and James? Was there something different now, in the way she looked? In the way James looked? In the way they looked at each other? She touched the globe necklace at her throat; she would never again take it off. Aside from that and her family ring, her only jewelry was the amulet Christopher had given her, which she had pinned to her cuff almost as an afterthought.

They found the Institute in a state of chaos. The Lightwoods—Gabriel, Cecily, Alexander, Sophie, and Gideon—had already departed for Idris. Thomas, Christopher, Ari, and Anna were milling about, choosing which bedrooms they wanted; as far as Cordelia could tell, all the bedrooms were the same, but people seemed to have preferences anyway. Bridget and the other servants were busy stocking the larder with extra food and rushing about making up the new bedrooms. Bridget was singing a song called, ominously, “The Unquiet Grave,” which Cordelia took to mean she was in a good mood.

They found Will and Tessa in the drawing room with Jesse and Lucie, who were helping them sort and pack years’ worth of Will’s meticulous notes on the Institute’s stewardship. Cordelia felt a deep sadness that Will and Tessa would have to present proof of the years of good they’d done, the Shadowhunters and Downworlders they’d helped, as if the truth of experience didn’t matter. Only accusations, fear, and lies.

“It’s not just the Mortal Sword,” Jesse was saying earnestly, as Will flipped through a leather-bound book of minutes from various meetings. “If you need to tell the truth about me, or my relation to my mother—anything about who I really am—I just want you to know that it’s all right. Do what you must do.”

“Although,” Lucie put in, “it would be better if you didn’t.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Will said gently. “What matters to me is that you all stay safe in the Institute while we’re gone—”

“Well, we’d be a lot safer if he wasn’t in charge,” Lucie grumbled; she looked up when James and Cordelia came in, glanced from one of them to the other, and raised her eyebrows. “James. Help me make them see sense.”

“Sense about what?” said James.

Tessa sighed. “About who will look after the Institute while we’re gone.”

It was James’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Who?”

“You have to promise,” said Will, “not to shout when I tell you.”

“Ah,” said James, “rather what you said to me when it turned out the puppy you bought me when I was nine was in fact a werewolf, and had to be returned, with apologies, to his family.”

“A mistake anyone could make,” said Jesse.

“Thank you, Jesse,” said Will. “The fact is—it’s going to be Charles. Stay strong, James.”

“But he’s on Bridgestock’s side,” protested Cordelia. “He said horrible things at the meeting.”

“This cannot have been Charlotte’s idea,” said James.

“No. We needed to put someone in charge who the Inquisitor would agree to,” said Will, a rare tinge of bitterness in his voice. “Someone he would trust not to destroy all the evidence of the many times we’ve had Belial over for tea and croquet.”

“I don’t like the idea of Charles having access to everything here,” said James. “All our records—we can’t think of him as an ally—”

“We can’t think of him as an enemy, either,” said Tessa. “Only as misguided and foolish.”

Will said, “As for records, all the most important ones are coming with us to Idris.”

“I still don’t like it,” said James.

“You are under no obligation to like it,” said Will. “Only to bear it. If all goes well, we should only be gone for a day or two. Speaking of which, Cordelia, if you’ll need to be traveling between Cornwall Gardens and the Institute, we could offer you the use of our carriage—”

“I won’t,” said Cordelia. “I will remain here with James.”

Lucie’s eyes widened. She was clearly trying to hold back a look of delight, and doing a poor job of it. “Really?”

“You are all my family too,” said Cordelia, and smiled at Lucie; she hoped Lucie could read in her smile the thousand things she wanted to say. “I will not leave you at a time like this. Alastair is with my mother, and if I’m required at Cornwall Gardens, I’m sure I’ll hear from him right away.”

Cordelia was sure she’d be hearing from Alastair, quite shortly; after all, she had not come home the night before. She’d sent a message this morning saying all was well, but still. She’d been gone all night without a word. She suspected Alastair would have something to say about that, and that it would not be a brief something.

Tessa smiled demurely. Will seemed not to have noticed anything unusual. “It’ll all turn out all right,” he said, in his usual cheerful way. “You’ll see.”

James nodded, but when he looked back at Cordelia, she could see the concern in his face, and she knew it mirrored her own.

---

Brother Zachariah had not come to see Grace all day, and she had wondered why until Brother Enoch had stopped by her cell with her porridge. Brother Zachariah was in Idris, he had informed her, and it was not known when he would return.

Grace found to her surprise that she felt a small pang upon hearing that. Brother Zachariah was by far the kindest of the Brothers, and the only one who ever attempted to converse with her.

Still, it was far from the most surprising feeling she had had today. She was sitting on the edge of her iron bed, new notes from Christopher in her hand, waiting to be read. But she had not been able to concentrate on them. She kept seeing Cordelia, the look on Cordelia’s face as Grace had explained everything. She had not known what Cordelia’s reaction would be to the truth. Rage, like James? Cold despair, like Jesse? Perhaps Cordelia would fly at her and hit her. Grace was prepared to accept it if she did.

She knew Cordelia had been incredulous, and horrified. That her eyes had filled with tears when Grace spoke of certain things. James never loved me. My mother used him. He never knew.

And yet, at the end of it all, as Cordelia sprang to her feet and rushed to the door of the cell—desperate to get to James, Grace knew—she had made the effort to stop, to pause for a moment. To look at Grace. “I cannot condone what you did,” she said. “But it cannot have been easy, telling me all that. I am glad you did.”

She had hurt James with the truth, Grace thought, and hurt Jesse perhaps more. But Cordelia—she clung to the thought that in telling Cordelia the truth, she had helped her. That perhaps, after this, Cordelia would be happier.

James loves you,she had told Cordelia. He loves you with a force that cannot be turned aside, or broken, or made small or insignificant. For these past years Belial struggled against that force, and in the end he lost. And Belial is a power that can move the stars.

There was something very pleasant about giving people good news, Grace thought. She would very much like to have that feeling again. Specifically, she would like to give Christopher good news about his message experiments. She could imagine his face lighting up, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles—

“Gracie.” A giggle. One so familiar that it sent an arrow of terror through Grace. Her hands released their grip on Christopher’s papers; they fluttered to the floor. “Oh, my dear Grace.”

Grace turned, slowly. All the blood in her body seemed to have turned solid in her veins; she could barely breathe. There, at the barred door of her cell, stood her mother.

Her hair had lost every last bit of its color. It was bone-white, straggling about her face like a corpse’s hair. Her dress was filthy, matted with blood at the shoulder. She was grinning a shark’s grin, her mouth like a bloody slash.

“My little daughter,” she said. “Shall I come in?”

She put a hand to the cell door, and it swung open; Grace cringed back against the headboard of her bed as Tatiana drifted into the little space where she had been safe. But no space was safe from her mother, Grace thought. She had told Zachariah. He had not believed her.

Tatiana looked down at her. “It is astonishing,” she said, “how thoroughly you have failed me.”

Grace felt her lips pull back from her teeth. “Good,” she said, to her own surprise; the word came out savagely. “Leave me alone. I am no use to you now. They know my power. I can no longer be your tool—”

“Oh, do shut up,” said Tatiana mildly, and turned to snap her fingers. “Come along, then,” she said to someone in the hall. “We might as well be quick about it.”

To Grace’s astonishment, a Silent Brother stepped into the room. She did not recognize him as one she’d seen before, even among the group that gathered in the room of the Speaking Stars. He was tall and bony, with scar-like runes, and his face seemed to strain against the threads that closed his mouth and eyes. The hem of his white robe was caked with what looked like soot or ash.

Help me,Grace thought. This woman is your prisoner. Take her away from me.

But if the Silent Brother heard her, he gave no sign of it. He stood impassively as Tatiana took a step toward her daughter, then another. “I gave you a great gift, Grace,” she said. “I took you in when no one else would have you. And I gave you power, power with which you could attain anything on this earth you wanted. It was one of my most shameful mistakes, one I aim to rectify.”

Grace took a step back. “I am your daughter,” she said, with what voice she could muster. “I am more than just your instrument. I have feelings of my own, thoughts of my own. Things I wish to do. Things I wish to be.”

Tatiana chuckled. “Oh, the naivete of youth. Yes, we all have those at some point, my dear. And then the truths of life come and crush them beneath their wheels.”

“And so you ally with a Prince of Hell?” said Grace.

“You owe that prince everything you have,” her mother spat. “The power you have squandered. Your place in London society, which you have also squandered. You were never worthy of the gifts you were given,” Tatiana went on. “I should never have invested so much effort into you.”

“I wish you had not,” Grace said. “I wish I had been left alone. I would have grown up in an Institute, and my guardians might not have loved me, but they would not have done to me what you have done to me.”

“What I have done to you?” Tatiana echoed in astonishment. “Given you opportunities you could never have had otherwise? The ability to have anyone or anything you wanted, by giving a single command? Why can you not be more like Jesse? He is loyal in his heart. Recognizing that Herondale witch’s connection to our benefactor, becoming her confidant, guiding her toward effecting his resurrection—”

“That’s what you think?” After all this time, it seemed, Grace’s mother could still shock her. “My God. You do not understand Jesse at all.”

“Listen to you. Calling upon God,” said Tatiana, with derision. “God has no use for you, child. Heaven will not help you. And you will learn the price of spurning Hell.”

Grace twisted around to look at the motionless Silent Brother who stood beside Tatiana. Her power was still there, though it felt like years since she had used it. She did not want to use it now, and yet what other choice did she have? “I command you to take hold of my mother,” she said, her voice echoing off the cell walls. “I command you to remove her. To take her back to her cell—”

The Silent Brother did not move, as Tatiana laughed out loud. “Grace, you fool. Your power only affects the minds of men, and this one here is not a man. He is not even a Silent Brother.”

Not even a Silent Brother? What does that mean?

“And now you wish you could use it, don’t you? The gift you spurned,” Tatiana hissed. “But it is too late. You have proven yourself unworthy of it, over and over.” She turned to the Silent Brother who was not a Silent Brother. “Take it from her. Now.”

The Silent Brother’s eyes opened. Not like human eyes—they ripped open, leaving dangling threads where they had once been sewn shut. From between his lids shone a terrible light, a light that burned pale green like acid.

He moved toward Grace. Soundless, fast, almost crouching, he came at her, and noise exploded inside her head. It was like the Silent Brothers’ unspeaking communication, yet it barely sounded like human speech at all—it was a grinding, scratching roar, as though someone were scraping at the inside of her skull with a fork.

Grace began to scream. She found she could not stop screaming, over and over. But nobody came.