Chapter 5: Realms Above

5REALMS ABOVE

Alas! they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth;

And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny; and youth is vain;

And to be wroth with one we love

Doth work like madness in the brain.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Christabel”

James couldn’t sleep. It wasthe first time he’d had a bedroom to himself in five days; he no longer had to contend with his father’s snoring and Magnus smoking his terrifying pipe, and he was exhausted. But still he lay awake, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling and thinking of Cordelia.

Will had managed to turn the conversation to the question of where the three of them would sleep, in the process—rather deftly, James thought, a reminder of why his father was good at his job—getting Malcolm to think of them less as invaders and more as houseguests.

The little cottage turned out to be much larger on the inside than the outside, and the upstairs corridor was lined with simple, clean rooms on both sides. Magnus magicked their things up from the carriage, and that was that.

Now that James was alone, though, thoughts of Cordelia came crowding back into his mind. He had thought he missed her before, had thought he had been tormented with regret. He realized now that having had his father and Magnus always present, having had a mission on which to focus, had blunted his feelings; he had not even begun to imagine the pain he could feel. He understood now why poets damned their hearts, their capacity for desolation and want. Nothing in the false enchantment of love he had felt for Grace had come near this. His mind had told him that his heart was broken, but he had not felt it, not felt all the jagged pieces of shattered hope, like shards of glass inside his chest.

He thought of Dante: There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy. He had never realized before how true that was. Cordelia laughing, dancing with him, her intent gaze as she held an ivory chess piece in her hand, the way she had looked on their wedding day, all in gold—all these memories tormented him. He feared he would hurt her if he begged her to understand what had truly happened, that he had never loved Grace. He feared even more not trying, condemning himself to a life utterly without her.

Breathe measured breaths,he told himself. He was grateful for all the training Jem had given him through the years: practice in controlling himself, controlling his emotions and fears. It seemed to be all that was keeping him from flying apart into pieces.

How had he not known? Matthew’s letter to him—much folded, much read, tucked in the pocket of James’s coat—had struck him like a bolt of lightning. He’d had no idea of Matthew’s feelings, and still did not know Cordelia’s. How had he been so oblivious? He knew some of it had been the spell of the bracelet—but in the parlor, he’d seen the way Lucie looked at Jesse, and known that she had been in love with him for a long time. Yet he’d had no inkling of anything going on with his sister—nor, it turned out, his parabatai or his wife. How were the people he loved the most in the world the ones he seemed to know the least?

Having thrashed the covers into an untenable knot, James flung the wool blanket off and got up. There was bright moonlight coming in the window, and in its pale glow he made his way across the room to where his jacket hung on a peg. In its pocket, still, were Cordelia’s gloves. He drew one of them out, running his fingers over the soft gray kidskin with its tracery of leaves. He could see her resting her chin on her gloved hand—he could see her face before him, her eyes shining, dark and fathomless. He could see her turning that gaze up to Matthew, cheeks flushed, lips parted. He knew he was torturing himself, as if he’d been running the fine, sharp edge of a dagger across his skin, and yet he could not stop.

A sudden flicker of motion distracted him. Something interrupting the moonlight, a break in the silvery illumination. He replaced the glove in his coat pocket and went over to the window. He had a view of the jagged rocks of Chapel Cliff from here, of wind-sculpted boulders tumbling down to a silver-black sea.

A figure stood at the edge of the cliffs, where the stone was rimed with ice. The figure was tall, slender; he wore a white cloak—no, not white. The color of bone or parchment, with runes inked at the hem and sleeves.

Jem.

He knew it was his uncle. It could be no one else. But what was he doing here? James had not summoned him, and if Jem had wished them all to know that he was present, surely he would have knocked and roused the house? Moving silently, James took his coat off the peg, put on his shoes, and slipped downstairs.

The cold hit him the moment he went out the door. There was no snow falling, but the air was full of stinging particles of frost. James was half-blinded by the time he circled the house and reached the cliffside where Jem stood. He wore only his thin robes, and his hands were bare, but cold and heat did not touch Silent Brothers. He glanced over as James appeared but said nothing, apparently content for the two of them to stand and look out across the water.

“Did you come searching for us?” James asked. “I thought Mother would have told you where we’d gone.”

She did not need to. Your father sent a letter, the night you departed London,Jem said silently. But I couldn’t wait for your return to speak with you. He sounded serious, and though Silent Brothers always sounded serious, there was something in Jem’s manner that made James’s stomach lurch.

“Belial?” James whispered.

To his surprise, Jem shook his head. Grace.

Oh.

As you know,Jem went on, she has been in the Silent City since shortly after you departed.

“She is safer there,” James said. And then, with a rancor he hadn’t planned, he added, “And the world is safer with her there. Under careful observation.”

Both those things are true,said Jem. After a brief silence, he said, Is there a reason you haven’t told your parents what Grace did to you?

“How do you know I haven’t?” James said. Jem regarded him silently. “Never mind,” James said. “Silent Brother powers, I gather.”

And a general knowledge of human behavior,said Jem. If Will had known what Grace did to you before he left London, his letter would have sounded quite different. And I rather suspect you have not told him since.

“Why do you suspect that?”

I know you well, James,said his uncle. I know you do not like to be pitied. And you imagine that is what would happen if you spoke the truth about what Grace—and her mother—did to you.

“Because it’s true,” James said. “It’s exactly what would happen.” He stared out at the ocean; in the far distance, sparks against the darkness, were the lights of distant boats. He could not imagine how lonely it must be, out there in the darkness and cold, alone on the waves in a tiny craft. “But I suppose I’m not to have much choice. Especially if Grace is to stand trial.”

Actually,said Jem, the Silent Brothers have decided that Grace’s power should remain a secret, for now. We do not yet wish Tatiana Blackthorn to know that her daughter is no longer allied with her, nor do we wish her to be aware of what we know. Not until she can be questioned with the Mortal Sword.

“How convenient for Grace,” James said, and was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.

James,Jem said. Have I asked you to conceal the truth of what Grace and Tatiana did to you? The Silent Brothers want the truth withheld from the Clave, but I understand that you may need to tell your family, to ease your mind and theirs. But I trust that if you do, you will emphasize that it should not become widely known as yet. He hesitated. It was my impression that perhaps you did not want anyone to know. That you would be relieved that it remained a secret.

James held his tongue. Because he was relieved. He could imagine the pity that would fall upon him, the desire to understand, the need to discuss it, when the truth came out. He needed time before then—time to become accustomed to the truth—before everyone knew. He needed time to accept that he’d lived a lie for years, to no purpose.

“It is strange to me,” he said, “that you are speaking with Grace. That you may be the only person in the world to really have an honest conversation with her about what—what she did.” He bit at his bottom lip; he still had trouble calling it “the enchantment,” or “the love spell”; it was more bearable to say “what she did,” or even “what she did to me,” knowing Jem would understand. “I do not think she even told her brother. He seems to know nothing of it.”

The sharp wind lifted James’s hair, flung it into his eyes. He was so cold he could feel the shivery brush of his own eyelashes against his skin, damp as they were with sea spray. “He has certainly never mentioned anything about Grace’s power to Lucie—of that I am absolutely sure.” Lucie would not have been able to help herself; she would have flung herself at James the first moment she saw him, railing against Grace, furious on his behalf.

He does not know. At least, Grace has never told him. She has never told anyone, in fact.

“No one?”

Until her confession, no one but her mother knew,Jem said. And Belial, of course. I believe she was ashamed, for whatever that’s worth.

“It’s not worth all that much,” said James, and Jem nodded as if he understood.

It is my task as a Silent Brother,said Jem, to gain greater understanding. Whatever Belial’s plan is, I do not believe he is done with us. With you. He has reached for you in many ways. Through Grace, but when he finds that door is closed, it would be better to know where he will turn next.

“I doubt Grace knows,” James said in a leaden voice. “She didn’t know about his plan with Jesse. To be fair to her, I don’t think she would have gone along with it. I think Jesse might be the only thing in the world she actually cares about.”

I agree,said Jem. And while Grace may not know Belial’s secrets, knowing hers may yet help us find gaps in his armor. He tipped his head back, letting the wind stir his dark hair. But I will not speak to you of her again, unless I must.

“As you say,” said James carefully, “there are a few who I feel I must tell. Who deserve to be told.” Jem didn’t respond, only waited. “Cordelia is in Paris. I would like to tell her first, before anyone else knows. I owe her that. She was—more affected than anyone else but myself.”

It is your story to tell,said Jem. Only—if you do tell Cordelia, or… others, I would be grateful if you would let me know you have done so. You can reach me whenever you desire.

James thought of the box of matches in his pocket, each one a sort of signal light that, when struck, summoned Jem to his side. He did not know how the magic of it worked, nor did he think Jem would tell him even if he asked.

It is not easy for me,Jem said. His expression had not changed, but his pale hands moved, knotting together. I know I must listen dispassionately to Grace’s testimony. Yet when she speaks of what was done to you, my silent heart cries out: this was wrong, it was always wrong. You love as your father loves: wholly, without conditions or hesitancy. To use that as a weapon is blasphemy.

James glanced back at Malcolm’s house, and then at his uncle. He had never seen him so agitated. “Do you want me to wake up my father?” James said. “Did you want to see him?”

No. Don’t wake him,Jem said, and even though his speech was silent, there was a gentleness in the way he thought about Will that was for Will alone. James thought of Matthew, no doubt asleep somewhere in Paris, and felt a terrible admixture of love and anger like a poison in his blood. Matthew had been to him what Will was to Jem; how had he lost him? How had he lost him without even knowing it?

I am sorry to have told you all that. It is not a burden you should have to shoulder.

“It is not a burden to know there is someone in the Silent City who listens to all this, and thinks of it not just as a peculiarity of magic, but as something that had a true cost,” said James softly. “Even if you pity Grace, even if you must be unsentimental as a judge, you will not forget me, my family. Cordelia. That means a great deal. That you will not forget.”

Jem brushed James’s hair from his forehead, a light benediction. Never, he said, and then, in between one crash of a wave and another, he was gone, melting into the shadows.

James returned to the house, crawling into bed with his coat still on. He felt cold down in the center of his being, and when he slept, it was restlessly: he dreamed of Cordelia, in a bloodred gown, standing upon a bridge made of lights, and though she looked directly at him, it was clear she had no idea who he was.

---

There was a splotch on the ceiling above Ariadne’s head that was shaped somewhat like a rabbit.

Ariadne had thought she would fall instantly into an exhausted sleep the moment she lay down. Instead here she was, still awake, her mind racing. She knew she ought to be thinking about her father’s disturbing papers. About her mother, in tears, telling her that if she would only admit it wasn’t true, if she would only take her words back, she wouldn’t have to leave. She could stay.

But her mind was on Anna. Anna, who lay sleeping a few feet away, her long, elegant body draped across the violet chaise longue. She could picture her so clearly: her arm behind her head, her dark hair curling against her cheek, her ruby necklace winking in the sculpted hollow of her throat.

Or perhaps Anna was not asleep. Perhaps she was awake, just as Ariadne was. Perhaps she was rising to her feet, tightening the belt of her dressing gown as she stepped silently across the floor, her hand on the bedroom door.…

Ariadne closed her eyes. But her whole body remained awake. Tense and waiting. She would feel Anna sit down on the bed beside her, feel it sink under her weight. She would feel Anna lean over her, the heat of her body, her hand on the strap of Ariadne’s nightgown, sliding it slowly down her shoulder. Her lips on Ariadne’s bare skin…

Ariadne rolled onto her side with a muffled gasp. Of course, nothing of the sort had happened. She had firmly told Anna to stay away from her the last time they had seen each other, and it was not like Anna to ever place herself where she was not wanted. She stared glumly around the bedroom: it was a small space, containing a wardrobe spilling clothes, and shelves and shelves of books.

Not that Ariadne could imagine reading right now, not when every cell of her body seemed to cry out Anna’s name. She had told herself she had purged her desire for Anna, that she understood that Anna could never give her what she wanted. But at the moment, all she wanted was Anna: Anna’s hands, Anna’s whispered words in her ears, Anna’s body molded against hers.

She turned on her elbow and reached for the jug of water on the nightstand. There was a shallow wooden shelf on the wall above it, and her sleeve caught against an object perched there, which tumbled to the nightstand next to the jug. Picking up the object, she saw that it was a palm-sized doll. She sat up, curious; she would not have thought of Anna, even as a child, as a one for dolls. This one was of the sort often found in dollhouses, its limbs stuffed with cotton, its face blank porcelain. It was the gentleman doll, the kind that usually came with a wife and a tiny porcelain baby in a miniature cradle.

Ariadne had owned similar dollhouse inhabitants when she was a child: nothing really differentiated the male dolls and the female dolls save the carefully sewn tiny clothes they wore. Ariadne imagined Anna playing with this little toy, in its natty striped suit and top hat. Perhaps, in Anna’s mind, the doll had been the lady of the house, only in the sort of outfit Anna felt the lady would prefer; perhaps the doll had been a rakish bohemian, composing infinitesimal poems with a miniature pen.

With a smile, Ariadne set the doll carefully back on its shelf. Such a tiny thing, yet a reminder that here she was, for the first time in Anna’s house, among Anna’s things. That even if she did not have Anna, her feet were set now on the same path of independence that Anna had chosen for herself years ago. It was Ariadne’s turn to seize that freedom and choose what to do with it. She curled up on the bed and closed her eyes.

---

Cornwall Gardens was not a short walk from Thomas’s house—easily forty-five minutes, an hour if one stopped to enjoy the park along the way—but Thomas didn’t mind. It was a rare sunny winter’s day in London, and even though it was still cold, the air was clear and bright, seeming to throw every tiny detail of the city into relief, from the colorful advertisements on the sides of omnibuses to the darting shadows of tiny sparrows.

The darting shadows of tiny sparrows,he thought. Thomas, you sound like an idiot. Blast. What would Alastair think if he turned up at Cornwall Gardens with a ridiculous smile on his face, twittering about birds? He would send Thomas away, sharpish. Sadly, even that thought did not break Thomas’s good mood. His thoughts seemed all awhirl; it was necessary to go back to the beginning to sort them out.

At breakfast—where he had been calmly, innocently eating toast—a runner had come for him with a message; his parents had been surprised, but not nearly as surprised as Thomas.

The message was from Alastair.

It took a full five minutes for Thomas to digest the fact—the message was from Alastair, Alastair Carstairs, not some other Alastair—and it contained the following information: Alastair wanted to meet with Thomas at Cornwall Gardens, as soon as possible.

Message digested, Thomas bolted upstairs so quickly he knocked over a teapot and left his confused parents staring at Eugenia, who merely shrugged as if to say one could never truly hope to unravel the beautiful mystery that was Thomas. “More eggs?” she suggested, holding out a plate to her father.

Thomas, meanwhile, had worked himself into a panic over what to wear, despite the fact that it was difficult finding clothes that fit someone of his height and breadth, and that as a result, he possessed a fairly dull wardrobe of browns and blacks and grays. Remembering that Matthew had said that a particular green shirt brought out the color in Thomas’s hazel eyes, Thomas put it on, brushed his hair, and left the house—only to return a moment later, due to having forgotten his scarf, his shoes, and his stele.

Now, as the clay-red brick of Knightsbridge, crowded with shoppers, slowly melted into the quiet streets and dignified white edifices of South Kensington, Thomas reminded himself that just because Alastair had sent him a message did not necessarily mean anything. It was possible that Alastair wanted something translated into Spanish, or needed a very tall person’s opinion on a matter. (Though Thomas could not imagine why this would be the case.) It was even possible he wanted, for some reason, to talk about Charles. The thought made Thomas’s skin feel as if it were tying itself into knots. By the time he arrived at the Carstairs’ house, he was subdued—or he was, at least, until he turned onto the walk and caught sight of Alastair, messy-haired and in shirtsleeves, standing outside his front door and holding a very recognizable sword.

Alastair’s expression was a grim one. He looked up as Thomas approached. Thomas noticed two things immediately: firstly, that Alastair, with his smooth, light brown skin and graceful build, was still vexingly beautiful. And secondly, that Alastair’s arms were covered in vicious-looking scratches, his shirt stained with black, acidic-looking patches.

Demon ichor.

“What happened?” Thomas stopped in his tracks. “Alastair—a demon? In the middle of the day? Don’t tell me—” Don’t tell me that they’re back. They’d been plagued some months ago with demons that had possessed the ability to appear in daylight, but that had been because of Belial’s meddling. If it was happening again…

“No,” Alastair said quickly, as if he sensed Thomas’s alarm. “I had, rather stupidly, gone into the mews house to look for something. It was dark in there, and one of the demons had apparently decided to lurk in wait.”

“One of what demons?” Thomas said.

Alastair waved a vague hand. “It was a good thing I had Cortana with me,” he said, and Thomas, surprised all over again, said, “Why do you have Cortana with you?”

Cortana was Cordelia’s sword, passed down through generations of the Carstairs family. It was a precious heirloom, forged by the same Shadowhunter smith who had created Durendal for Roland, and Excalibur for King Arthur. Thomas had rarely seen Cordelia without it.

Alastair sighed. Thomas wondered if he was cold standing about with his sleeves rolled up, but decided not to mention it because Alastair had lean, muscular forearms. And maybe the cold didn’t bother him anyway. “Cordelia left it behind when she went to Paris. She thought she should give it up because of the paladin business.”

“It’s odd,” Thomas ventured, “isn’t it, Cordelia going to Paris with Matthew?”

“It’s odd,” Alastair allowed. “But Cordelia’s business is her own.” He turned Cortana over in his hand, letting the watery sunlight spark off the blade. “Anyway—I’ve been keeping the sword close to me as much as I can. Which is fine during the day, but not so much once the sun sets. Bloody demons seem to swarm to it like a beacon every time I step outside.”

“Are you sure they’re attacking you because of the sword?”

“Are you suggesting it’s my personality?” Alastair snapped. “They weren’t attacking me like this before Cordelia handed the sword off to me, and she gave it to me because she didn’t want anyone to know where it was. I suspect these ratty demon creatures are intended as spies, sent by someone looking for Cortana—Lilith, Belial, there’s really an appalling pantheon of villains to choose from.”

“So whoever it is—whoever’s looking for it—they know you have it?”

“They certainly suspect I have it,” said Alastair. “I think I’ve killed all the demons before they could report back definitively. Nothing nastier has shown up to attack me yet, in any case. But it’s not a sustainable way to live.”

Thomas shifted his feet. “Did you, ah, ask me here to help?” he said. “Because I’d be happy to help. We could put a guard on you. Christopher and I could take it in turns, and Anna would surely help—”

“No,” said Alastair.

“Just trying to be helpful,” said Thomas.

“I didn’t ask you here for help. You just happened to turn up right after—” Alastair made a gesture apparently intended to encompass demons hiding in stables, and slid Cortana back into its scabbard at his hip. “I asked you here because I wanted to know why you sent me a note calling me stupid.”

“I didn’t,” Thomas began indignantly, and then recalled, with a moment of freezing horror, what he had written in Henry’s laboratory. Dear Alastair, why are you so stupid and so frustrating, and why do I think about you all the time?

Oh no. But how—?

Alastair produced a burnt piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Thomas. Most of the paper had been charred beyond legibility. What was left read:

Dear Alastair,

why are you so stupid

I brush my teeth

don’t tell anyone

—Thomas

“I don’t know why you don’t want anyone to know you brush your teeth,” Alastair added, “but I will, of course, keep this news in strictest confidence.”

Thomas was torn between a feeling of terrible humiliation and a strange excitement. Of course this would be the one time Christopher’s ridiculous experiment would partially work, but on the other hand—it had partially worked. He couldn’t wait to tell Kit.

“Alastair,” he said. “This writing is just nonsense. Christopher had me scribble some words down for an experiment he was doing.”

Alastair looked dubious. “If you say so.”

“Look,” said Thomas. “Even if you didn’t ask me here to help, I do want to help. I—” I hate the idea of you being in danger. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be constantly attacked by demons, and I doubt Cordelia would have left the sword with you if she thought that would happen.”

“No,” Alastair agreed.

“Why don’t we hide it?” Thomas suggested. “Cortana, I mean.”

“I know, that’s the sensible solution,” said Alastair. “But it’s felt safer to keep it with me, even though I keep being harassed. If it were hidden, I would just constantly worry that whoever’s looking would find it, and then what would I tell Cordelia? And also what if the demon who wanted it used it to destroy the world, or something? I would be mortified. I just can’t think of a hiding place safe enough.”

“Hm. What if I had a hiding place that would be safe enough?”

Alastair raised his dark, arched eyebrows. “Lightwood, as always, you are full of surprises. Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Thomas did.

---

Cordelia emerged from her bedroom, wearing her striped walking dress, to find Matthew buttering a croissant at the breakfast table. The day was bright, daisy-yellow sunshine spilling in through the high, arched windows, turning Matthew’s hair to a halo of spun gold.

“I wasn’t going to wake you,” he said, “as we were up rather late last night.” He leaned back in his chair. “Breakfast?”

The table was covered in a daunting spread of croissants, butter, marmalade, fruit jams and jellies, porridge, bacon and fried potatoes, crumpets, kippers, buttered eggs, and tea. “What army are we feeding?” she inquired, sliding into the chair opposite him.

He lifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat, so I got everything.”

Cordelia felt her heart soften. She could tell Matthew was nervous, though he hid it well. She had been badly shaken last night. She remembered his arms around her as she stood under the gaslight on the Boulevard de Clichy, fiacres rumbling by like trains. She had told him he had been nothing but kind to her, and it was true.

As she poured out a cup of tea, Matthew said, “I thought today we could visit the Musée Grévin? It has wax sculptures, and a hall of mirrors that resembles the inside of a kaleidoscope—”

“Matthew,” she said. “Tonight I would like to return to the Cabaret de l’Enfer.”

“I didn’t think—”

“That I enjoyed myself?” She fiddled with her spoon. “I suppose I didn’t, exactly, but if—if that was truly my father—I want to know the truth. I would like to ask Madame Dorothea a question to which only my father would know the answer.”

He shook his head, disarranging his blond curls. “I can’t say no to you,” he said, and Cordelia felt herself flush. “But—only as long as we can spend today just enjoying ourselves. And not thinking about ghosts, or dire warnings. Agreed?”

Cordelia agreed, and they spent the day sightseeing. Matthew insisted on taking the little Brownie camera he had bought, so in the Musée Grévin, Cordelia obligingly posed with wax versions of the pope, Napoléon, Victor Hugo, Marie Antoinette, and various figures in rooms set with scenes from the French Revolution, some of which were so lifelike it felt very strange to walk into the midst of them.

Matthew declared himself in need of fresh air, so they flagged down a fiacre to take them to the Bois de Boulogne. “Everything is better in Paris,” he said as they rolled past the Opéra and slowly made their way down the Rue Saint-Lazare, “except, perhaps, the traffic.”

Cordelia had to agree: as they passed the Arc de Triomphe and approached the Bois de Boulogne, what seemed like hundreds of carriages poured in a flood toward the entrance, mingled with cars tooting their horns, riders on horseback, groups of bicyclists, and crowds and crowds of people on foot. The fiacre, trapped in the throng, was buffeted slowly down an allée lined with trees, which ended at the edge of a lake, where a cheerfully rowdy group of young students were determinedly having a picnic despite the cold weather.

As they crawled gratefully out of the cab, Cordelia could not help but think about the picnic in Regent’s Park that had been her early introduction to the Merry Thieves. She thought of Christopher eating lemon tarts, of Thomas’s easy smile and Anna’s laughter, of Lucie’s inquisitiveness, of James—

But she would not think of James. She could not help a wistful glance at the picnicking students, though they seemed to her so very young—younger than herself and her friends, though they were likely in university. They did not know of the Shadow World, did not see it, did not imagine what lurked beyond the thin scrim of illusion separating them from a darker universe.

She envied them.

Eventually, she and Matthew found an unoccupied park bench and settled on it. Matthew tipped his face up to the pale winter light; in its glare, Cordelia could see how tired he looked. Matthew had the delicacy of extremely pale skin, to go with his fair hair; it showed every bruise and shadow, and right now the crescents below his eyes were dark, as if they had been painted on. Of course, he had been up half the night, Cordelia reminded herself with a pang of guilt, holding her hand as she drifted in and out of restless sleep.

“Matthew,” she said.

“Hmmm?” he asked, not opening his eyes.

“I thought perhaps we should discuss,” she said, “my brother and your brother.”

Matthew did not open his eyes, but he went still. “Alastair and Charles? What about them?”

“Well,” said Cordelia, “it cannot have escaped your notice—”

“It hasn’t.” She didn’t think she’d heard Matthew’s voice so cool before, certainly not when directed at her. She remembered the first time she’d really met him, how she’d wondered if he disliked her, how he’d charmed her anyway. Fair hair, sideways looks, a blur of a smile. “I am not an idiot. I have seen the way Charles looks at your brother, and the way your brother does not look at him. Love, unrequited.” Now he did open his eyes. They were a very light green in the sunlight. “And to be fair, I doubt my brother did anything to deserve the kind of love he clearly felt himself.”

“Really? You think Charles felt so much as all that for Alastair? He was the one who wanted it kept secret.”

“Ah, because of his career, I’m sure.” Matthew bit off the words. “I suppose it depends on your definition of love. Love that will give up nothing, love that one is willing to sacrifice for a more comfortable life, is not love, in my opinion. Love should come above all other things.”

The intensity of his words startled Cordelia. She felt them as a sort of accusation: Should she have been willing to give up more, sacrifice more for James? For Lucie? For her family?

“Never mind,” Matthew said, in a gentler tone. “I believe Alastair’s affections no longer rest with Charles, so the whole business will fade away in time. I find I have a bit of a headache. We should talk about something else.”

“I’ll tell you a story, then,” Cordelia said. “Maybe something from the Shahnameh? Would you like to hear about the defeat of Zahhāk, the evil Serpent King?”

Matthew’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely,” he said, settling back against the bench. “Spin me a tale, my dear.”

---

James rose feeling still tired, as if he’d barely slept at all. He went to the washstand and splashed ice-cold water on his face, which woke him up promptly. He took a moment to look at himself in the mirror—tired eyes, drooping at the corners; wet black curls; a sharp downturn to the corner of his mouth he didn’t recall having before.

No wonder Cordelia doesn’t want you.

He told himself, savagely, to stop it, and went to get dressed. As he was buttoning his cuffs, he heard a rustle in the hall outside his room, as if a curious mouse was in the corridor. He reached the door in two strides and threw it open. With no surprise whatsoever, he found Lucie—in a lace-trimmed blue dress, looking unseasonably summery—standing right behind it, glaring at him.

“If it isn’t Secret Princess Lucie,” he said mildly. “Come to visit her terrible family.”

Lucie put her hand on his chest and walked him back into the bedroom. She kicked the door shut behind her. “We need to talk, before we go downstairs.”

“Be careful,” said James. “You sound just like Mother used to before she gave us a scolding about something or other.”

Lucie dropped her hand with a little shriek. “I do not,” she said. “Though, speaking of parents, do you remember when we bought that enormous guinea pig? And then when Mama and Papa found out, we told them it was a special gift from the Lima Institute?”

“Ah yes, Spots,” said James. “I remember him well. He bit me.”

“He bit everyone,” said Lucie dismissively. “I’m sure he intended it as a compliment. My point is, that story worked because you and I had the same story and were working from the same information.”

“So true,” said James. He was pleased to realize that as low as he felt, he could still wind his sister up. “Halcyon memories of a golden past.”

“And,”went on Lucie impatiently, “I have no idea how much you’ve said to Father—about anything—even though you know everything I’ve told, and anyway, it isn’t fair. Or a good idea.”

“Well, I told them—Magnus, too—most everything, I think.” James sat down on the bed. “Everything I knew, anyway. Whatever gaps I might have left in their knowledge, I expect they’ve been filled in by the events of last night.”

“Everything?”Lucie demanded.

“Nothing about Cordelia,” James allowed. “Nothing about Lilith, or paladins, or—any of that.”

“Good.” Lucie relaxed a fraction. “I don’t think we can tell them, can we? It’s Cordelia’s secret. It wouldn’t be fair to her.”

“Agreed,” said James. “Look, Luce—why did you never tell me about Jesse? I don’t mean about trying to raise him,” he said quickly, as Lucie began to protest. “I understand not telling me about that. You knew I wouldn’t like it, and you knew I wouldn’t like that you were working with Grace.”

“You wouldn’t,” Lucie said.

“I still don’t,” James admitted, “but I understand why you felt like you had to do it. But why did you never tell me you could see Jesse, or that he existed at all?”

Lucie, with an uncharacteristic shyness, kicked at a dust ball with the toe of her shoe. “I suppose… I knew there was something strange about being able to see him. Something dark and uncanny. Something people wouldn’t like.”

“Luce, I know better than anyone else what it means to have a power other people find unsettling. Even grotesque.”

She looked up quickly. “You’re not grotesque, Jamie, or horrible, or anything like that—”

“Our powers come from the same place,” James said. “Belial. Who would understand better than I would, how one struggles with that? I have to believe I can do good even with a power that comes from darkness. I believe that for myself, and I believe it for you, too.”

Lucie blinked quickly, then sat down beside James on the bed. They remained there for a moment in comfortable silence, their shoulders touching. “James,” she said at last. “Jesse is going to need you. There are things you can help him with that—that I can’t. Being possessed by Belial, having the Marks of dead Shadowhunters on his skin. It’s hurting him. I can see it in his eyes.”

So can I,James thought. “I can talk to him. When we get back to London.”

Lucie smiled. It was a quiet sort of grown-up smile, a bit sad, a smile James did not associate with his little sister. But she had changed, he supposed. They all had. “Papa told me,” she said. “About Cordelia. And Matthew. That they went to Paris together. He seemed to think you didn’t mind, but I—” She turned to look at him. “Do you mind?”

“Desperately,” James said. “More than I ever thought I would mind about anything.”

“So you don’t love Grace?”

“No. No,” James said. “I don’t think I ever did. I—” For a moment, he stood on the precipice, wanting to tell his sister the truth. It was a spell, I never cared for her, those feelings were forced upon me. But it would not do to tell Lucie before he had told Cordelia. Cordelia had to know first. “Do you think Cordelia loves him? Matthew, I mean. If she does…”

“I know,” Lucie said. “If she does, you’ll go away quietly and leave them to their happiness. Believe me, I am well acquainted with the self-sacrificing nature of Herondale men. But—if she feels anything for Matthew, she’s never given a sign of it to me, or said anything about it. Still…”

James tried to look politely inquiring.

“Still,” Lucie said. “Paris is a romantic place. I’d get myself over there and tell Cordelia what you really feel, posthaste.” To make her point, she punched him in the shoulder. “Don’t dawdle.”

“You hit me,” James said. “Must you hit me for emphasis?”

There was a knock, and Magnus leaned in through the open doorway. “I hate to interrupt this moment of beautiful sibling amity,” he said, “but Malcolm would like to speak with all of us downstairs.”

---

Malcolm was sitting on a chair by the fireplace when Lucie and James came downstairs. He had an enormous book on his lap, bound in black leather with hammered metal reinforcements along the corners. He was still wearing the same clothes he’d been wearing the night before.

Magnus and Jesse were on the sofa, while Will paced slowly back and forth behind them, his brow crinkled in thought. Jesse gave Lucie a tight smile; she knew he meant to be reassuring, but his own worry showed through clearly. She wished she could cross the room and hug him but knew it would only scandalize her brother, her father, and the two warlocks in attendance. She would have to wait.

When they were all settled, Malcolm cleared his throat. “I have spent the night looking into the question posed last night, and I believe I have an answer. I believe that Jesse should return to London, and that he should do so as a Blackthorn.”

Will made a surprised noise.

“He is unmistakably a Blackthorn in his appearance,” Malcolm added, “and I don’t think he will be able to pretend to be anything else. He looks as much like his father as if he were an artist’s copy.”

“Indeed,” said Will impatiently, “but we’ve already discussed that it will be a problem for him to reappear as himself. Not only does it bring up issues of necromancy, but the last anyone in the Clave heard of him, he was a dead body possessed by a demon in order to murder Shadowhunters.”

Jesse looked down at his hands. At the Voyance rune that had once belonged to Elias Carstairs. He moved his left hand away, as if he could hardly bear to look at it.

“Yes, we’ve been through all that,” said Malcolm tightly. “I am not suggesting he present himself as Jesse Blackthorn. How many people saw him, actually saw him as he is now, after he was possessed?”

There was a short silence. James said, “Lucie, of course. I did. Matthew, Cordelia—the Silent Brothers who prepared his body—”

“Most of the Enclave heard the story of what had happened,” said Malcolm. “But they did not see Jesse.”

“No,” Will said. “They didn’t.”

“You must understand, I have ties to the Blackthorn family that none of you share,” said Malcolm. “I was their ward—the ward of Felix and Adelaide Blackthorn—a hundred years ago.”

“They raised you?” said James.

Malcolm’s mouth set in a hard line. “I wouldn’t call it that. To them, I was their property, and for the privilege of being fed and clothed and housed by them, I was obliged to perform magic at their command.”

Will said, “Some Shadowhunters have always been bastards. My family has good cause to know it.”

Malcolm waved this off. “I don’t hold the Nephilim at large responsible for the actions of the Blackthorns. They are the only ones who should ever have to answer for those actions. For the purposes of this discussion, what is important is only that Felix and Adelaide had four children: Annabel, Abner, Jerome, and Ezekiel.”

“Terrible names they had in olden times,” Lucie murmured, “simply terrible.”

“The children had… different attitudes from their parents,” Malcolm went on, “regarding the treatment of Downworlders. Ezekiel, especially, found their bigotry and cruelty as unpleasant as I did. When he reached the age of majority, he renounced the family and struck off on his own. You will find in the Silent City no record of Ezekiel leaving any children after him, but I know that not to be the case.”

Jesse looked up.

“I happen to know,” said Malcolm, “that Ezekiel did have children. That he went to America, then a very new nation where Shadowhunters were few and far between, and married a mundane woman. They raised their children as mundanes, but of course, Nephilim blood breeds true, and his descendants are Shadowhunters just as much as any of you.

“I propose, then, that Jesse present himself as one of Ezekiel’s grandchildren, come to rejoin the Nephilim and seek out his cousins. That when he learned the truth of his heritage, he wished to be a Shadowhunter and presented himself to Will at the Institute. After all, Will has a not dissimilar history.”

It was true enough, Lucie thought; her father had thought himself a mundane until he learned the truth, whereupon he had walked all the way from Wales to London to join the Enclave. He had only been twelve years old. “An excellent plan,” she said, though Will and Magnus still looked dubious. “We shall call Jesse Hezekiah Blackthorn.”

“We shall not,” said Jesse.

“What about Cornelius?” said James. “I’ve always fancied Cornelius.”

“Definitely not,” said Jesse.

“It should be something with a J,” Will said, his arms folded. “Something it will be easy for Jesse to remember, and to respond to. Like Jeremy.”

“Then you agree with Malcolm?” Magnus said. “This will be the scheme? Jesse is to be Jeremy?”

“Have you a better plan?” Will looked tired. “Other than letting Jesse fend for himself in the world? At the Institute, we can protect him. And he is a Shadowhunter. He is one of our own.”

Magnus nodded thoughtfully. James said, “Can we at least tell the Lightwoods the truth? Gabriel and Gideon, Sophie and Cecily? They are Jesse’s family, after all, and he doesn’t even know them.”

“And my sister,” Jesse said. “Grace must know the truth.”

Lucie saw James’s face tighten.

“Of course,” said Will. “Only Jesse… I don’t know if you’ve been told, but…”

“Grace is in the Silent City,” said James, in a stony voice. “In the custody of the Silent Brothers.”

“After the discovery of what your mother did to you, she took herself there,” Will said swiftly. “The Silent Brothers are making sure that no similar dark magic was worked upon her.”

Jesse looked stunned. “In the Silent City? She must be terrified.” He turned toward Will. “I have to see her.” Lucie could tell he was expending effort to seem calmer than he was. “I know that Silent Brothers are our fellow Shadowhunters—but you must understand, our mother raised us to think of them as fiends.”

“I’m sure a visit can be arranged,” said Will. “And as for thinking of the Silent Brothers as fiends—if a Silent Brother had done your protection spells, and not Emmanuel Gast, you would not have been harmed as you were.”

“His protection spells!” Lucie sat up straight. “They must be done again. Until they are, he will be vulnerable to demonic possession.”

“I will arrange for it with Jem,” said Will, and Lucie saw an odd look flash across James’s face. “We cannot carry out this deception without the cooperation of the Brothers; I will make it known to them.”

“Malcolm, is there anyone else besides you who has access to this information about the American branch of the Blackthorns?” said Magnus. “If anyone were to suspect—”

“We should organize this plan,” said James. “Sit down and think of every objection, every question anyone might have about Jesse’s story, and come up with answers. This must be a complete deception, with no weak spots.”

There was a chorus of agreement; only Jesse did not join it. After a moment, when it was quiet again, he said, “Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me.”

Magnus mimed raising a glass in his direction. “Jeremy Blackthorn,” he said. “Welcome, in advance, to the London Enclave.”

---

That night Cordelia put on her red velvet dress and her fur-trimmed cloak, along with a pair of elbow-length silk gloves, and joined Matthew in a fiacre bound for Montmartre. Paris slid by outside the windows as they rode, passing up the Rue de la Paix, lights glimmering from the rows of shopwindows, squares of illumination in the darkness.

Matthew had matched his waistcoat and spats to Cordelia’s dress—scarlet velvet, which flashed like rubies as they passed beneath the light of intermittent gas lamps. His gloves were black, his eyes very dark as he watched her. “There are other clubs we could investigate,” he said as the carriage rattled past the church of Sainte-Trinité with its great rose window. “There is the Rat Mort—”

Cordelia made an amused face. “The Dead Rat?”

“Oh, indeed. Named after and featuring the mummified body of a rodent put to death for annoying the customers.” He grinned. “A popular place to eat lobster at four in the morning.”

“We can certainly go—after L’Enfer.” She raised her chin. “I am quite determined, Matthew.”

“I understand.” His voice was level. “We all have those we wish to reach, by any means possible. Some are separated from us by death, some by their refusal to listen, or our inability to speak.”

Impulsively, she took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His black gloves were striking against her scarlet ones. Black and red as the pieces on a chessboard. She said, “Matthew. When we return to London—for someday, we will—you must talk to your parents. They will forgive you. They are your family.”

His eyes seemed more black than green. He said, “Do you forgive your father?”

The question hurt. “He never asked for my forgiveness,” she said. “Perhaps, if he had—and perhaps that is what I want to hear, why I wish I could speak to him one more time. For I wish I could forgive him. It is a heavy weight to bear, bitterness.”

His hand tightened on hers. “And I wish I could take the weight for you.”

“You carry enough already.” The carriage began to slow, rolling to a stop before the cabaret. Light spilled from the open doors of the demon’s mouth. Cordelia squeezed Matthew’s hand and drew her own back. They were here.

The same bearded, heavy-shouldered guard stood beside the cabaret door as Cordelia approached; Matthew was a few steps behind her, having paused to pay the driver. As she drew near the entrance, Cordelia saw the guard shake his head.

“No entrance for you,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Paladin.”