Chain of Iron Page 7

  He excused himself from the line of guests and hurried toward her. They had moved to what Tessa called the Long Hall, the rectangular room that separated the entryway from the chapel. Through the wide double doors of the chapel itself, James saw that it had been transformed. The beams were festooned in garlands of chrysanthemums woven with winter wheat and tied with gold ribbons, the aisle strewn with golden petals. The ends of the pews were decorated with sprays of yellow-hearted lilies, Welsh daffodils, and marigolds, and gold velvet banners hung from the ceiling, stitched with designs of birds and castles—the symbols of the Herondale and Carstairs families, united. On either side of the altar—the altar where you will be standing, soon enough, murmured a voice inside his head—huge crystal vases stood, overflowing with more flowers. Candles glowed from every niche and surface.

  His mother and Sona had planned it all, he knew; they had truly outdone themselves.

  “Where have you been?” James whispered, catching up to his sister. She was wearing a peach-colored silk dress with a chiffon overlay and gold satin bows at the sleeves. The gold locket she was fond of glittered at her throat. He’d asked her before where she’d acquired it: Lucie had told him not to be silly, she’d had it for a long time, and indeed he recalled her pressing it to his lips the night he’d nearly died in Highgate Cemetery. For good luck, she’d said afterward. “Matthew’s not here yet and I’ve been greeting a thousand strangers all on my own. Including the Pangborns from the Cornwall Institute.”

  Lucie made a face at him. “Even Old Sticky Hands?”

  James grinned at their nickname for Albert Pangborn, who had taken over the running of the Cornwall Institute from Felix Blackthorn in 1850. “I believe Father required me to refer to him as ‘sir.’ And shake his sticky hand.”

  “Alas.” Lucie gazed at him loftily. “I,” she said, “must be by Cordelia’s side today, James. Not yours. I am her suggenes. She’s getting ready in my room.”

  “Why can’t I get ready in peace too?” James wondered—reasonably, he thought.

  “Because you are not the bride,” Lucie said. “You are the groom. And when you see her for the first time, in the chapel, in all her wedding attire, is meant to be magical.”

  They were silent for a moment. Lucie knew the truth perfectly well, but there was a stubborn set to her mouth that made James suspect now was not the time to point out that it wasn’t that sort of wedding.

  “Who lit all the candles?” James said. “It must have taken them an hour.”

  Lucie had sidled into the chapel and was gazing around. “Honestly, James. Not the thing you should be thinking about now. I suppose it could have been Magnus; he’s been very helpful.” She popped back out of the chapel, holding a fistful of yellow roses. “There we go. Good luck, James. I have to get back to Daisy.” She glanced behind him, brightening. “Oh, look, Thomas and Christopher are here. Matthew can’t be far behind.”

  James started across the room toward his friends, only to be descended upon by a whirl of aunts and uncles—Aunt Cecily and her husband, Gabriel Lightwood; Gabriel’s brother Gideon and his wife, Sophie, and with them, a woman he didn’t know.

  Gideon clapped James on the shoulder. “James! You’re looking splendid.”

  “What an excellent coat,” Gabriel said. “Did my daughter help you find that?”

  “Alas, this isn’t Anna’s work,” said James, straightening his cuffs. “My father took me to his ancient tailor—who absolutely couldn’t understand why I wanted a coat in gold and not a more gentlemanly color, like black or gray.”

  “Shadowhunters do not get married in gray,” said Cecily, her eyes sparkling. “And Will has been using that tailor for so long I have begun to wonder if perhaps he lost a bet to him at cards. Have you met Filomena yet?”

  James glanced over at the woman standing beside his uncles. She was probably about Anna’s age, with smooth dark hair caught up at the nape of her neck. Her lips were very red, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. She glanced at him and smiled.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure,” James said.

  “By the Angel, where are our manners?” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “James, may I present Filomena di Angelo? She has just arrived from Rome, on her travel year.”

  “Are you the groom?” said Filomena, in heavily accented English. “What a waste. You are very handsome.”

  “Well, you know what they say,” said James. “All the best men are either married or Silent Brothers.”

  Cecily burst into giggles. James was spared from further discourse by the sudden appearance of Charles Fairchild, who cut into the conversation with a loud “Congratulations!” He slapped James enthusiastically on the back. “Have you seen either of your parents lately?”

  Luckily, Will appeared, having apparently seen Charles’s bright red hair across the room. “Charles,” he said. “You were looking for us?”

  “I wanted to confer with you about Paris,” Charles began, and pulled Will aside to speak in hushed but intense tones. The Lightwoods had fallen into a discussion with Filomena about the long absence of demons from London, and the Clave’s annoyance that their numbers were climbing back up again now, necessitating nightly patrols. Feeling there was little he could add to the conversation, James turned, intending to search for Matthew.

  Standing in front of him, as if she had emerged, ghostlike, from a nearby wall, was Grace.

  * * *

  A flash of Tennyson went through James’s mind. My heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed.

  He couldn’t remember what happened in the poem after that, just the poet dreaming of the girl he loved walking over his grave.

  Other than at Enclave parties, when he had spotted her from afar and not approached, it had been months since James had seen Grace. It had certainly been that long since he had spoken to her. He had kept to his vow. No communication with Grace. No contact.

  If he had hoped it would change the way he felt, he knew in this moment it hadn’t. Her dress was cloudy gray, the color of her eyes: there was a little color in spots on her cheeks, like drops of blood tinting pale wine. She was as beautiful as a dawn that came without color, a sweep of gray sea unmarred by whitecaps or waves. She filled up his vision like a lamp blotting out the stars.

  Somehow he had caught her wrist; he had drawn her behind a pillar, out of sight of the rest of the guests. “Grace,” he said. “I didn’t know if you would come.”

  “I could have no reasonable excuse to stay away.” Everything about her—the way she looked, the clear sound of her voice, her small wrist under his grasp—went through him like a knife. “Charles expected me to accompany him.”

  He released her wrist, glancing around hastily. The only person nearby was a freckle-faced housemaid, who edged away awkwardly. James didn’t recognize her, but then, he didn’t know most of the servants in the Institute today; they’d been brought in by Bridget to help with the wedding. “I would rather you hadn’t.”

  “I know.” She bit her lip. “But I must speak with you alone before the ceremony. I must. It is important.”

  James knew he should refuse. “The drawing room,” he said quickly, before his own better sense could kick in. “In ten minutes.”

  “Oh, no you don’t.” It was Matthew: James looked up in surprise. How his suggenes had found them, he had no idea, but found them he had. He was glowering at the both of them like an owl who had been mortally offended by another owl. “Grace Blackthorn, it is James’s wedding day. Leave him alone.”

  Grace did not look in the least intimidated. “I shall quit James’s company if he asks me to do it, not if you ask me to do it,” she said. “I owe you nothing.”

  “I’m not sure that’s true,” Matthew said. “If nothing else, you owe me for the pain you have put my parabatai through.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Grace, a light, mocking tone to her voice, “you feel his pain, don’t you? If his heart shatters, does yours shatter? Does he feel what you feel
? Because I can see how that might be awkward.”

  “Grace,” James said. “Enough.”

  She looked startled; he supposed it was rare enough that he’d spoken to her harshly. “I have never meant to hurt you, James.”

  “I know,” James said quietly, and saw Matthew shake his head, his cheeks flushed with anger.

  “Ten minutes,” Grace murmured, slipping away; she crossed the room, returning to Charles.

  Matthew was still glowering. He was splendidly dressed in a morning coat over a stunning brocade waistcoat of Magnus Bane levels of magnificence, embroidered with a spectacular battle scene. He had a gleaming silk ascot at his throat that looked to be woven of pure gold. But the effect was somewhat spoiled by his tousled hair and look of fury. “What did she want with you?”

  “Congratulations on your wedding day to you, too,” James said. He sighed. “Sorry. I know why you’re concerned. She said she needed to speak with me before the ceremony, that’s all.”

  “Don’t,” said Matthew. “Whatever she has to say will only hurt you. It’s all she ever does.”

  “Math,” said James gently, “she is hurting too. This is not her fault. It is my fault, if it’s anyone’s.”

  “To feel hurt, she’d have to have feelings,” Matthew began; seeing James’s expression, he visibly bit down on the words.

  “Perhaps if you got to know her better—” James started.

  Matthew looked fleetingly, genuinely puzzled. “I do not believe I have spoken to her alone,” he admitted. “Or if I have, I do not recall it.” He sighed. “Very well. As your suggenes, it is my job to help you. I will withhold my judgment. Whatever you may need, I can see it is not that.”

  “Thank you.” James laid his palm against Matthew’s chest and found it surprisingly hard and metallic. He tapped Matthew’s lapel with his fingers; with a sideways smile, Matthew reached into his jacket and James glimpsed his silver flask.

  “Dutch courage,” Matthew said.

  “I’m the one who ought to need that, aren’t I?” James said lightly. He hoped Matthew wouldn’t drink too much before the ceremony, but he knew better than to say that. Sometimes he felt foolish for worrying—Anna was famous for her absinthe parties, and they all drank at the Devil Tavern. And yet.

  But mentioning alcohol to Matthew would only earn a glib remark, and a blank stare if James persisted. Instead he smiled and withdrew his hand. “Well, then, as my suggenes, try to draw Inquisitor Bridgestock into conversation, will you? I think he’s yearning to impart some manly advice to me, and I’m not sure I can keep a straight face.”

  * * *

  The voices around Grace were beginning to blend together into an unpleasant roar. She had been half listening to Charles’s conversation with James’s parents—something about vampires—and watching the hands crawl slowly on the face of a grandfather clock against the wall.

  She waited nine minutes exactly. When they had passed, she whispered to Charles, “If you’ll excuse me a moment—I see the Wentworths have arrived, and I should say hello to Rosamund.”

  Charles nodded absently and returned to his conversation with Will Herondale. Not that Grace minded. Better he was distracted, and she had hardly chosen him for his devotion to her.

  She slipped away, through the crowd of wedding guests, heading for the stairs that led to the main part of the Institute. It felt good to be away from the clamor. Most of the members of the London Enclave looked at Grace oddly, with the exception of the Lightwoods, and their friendly attentions were even worse than the sidelong glances.

  Gideon and Sophie Lightwood offered her a room in their house practically every time they saw her, saying that as their niece and Thomas and Eugenia’s cousin, she was always welcome. Cecily and Gabriel Lightwood had made the same offer, though they weren’t as inclined to repeat it as Gideon and his wife were. Grace, for her part, felt no relationship to any of them at all. She supposed that was Tatiana’s doing. She had characterized her brothers as monsters, though it seemed they were quite ordinary men.

  Ordinary as they were, they could never be made to understand that for Grace to take shelter with her uncles would be the worst betrayal of her mother that she could think of. And Grace didn’t believe for a moment that Tatiana would remain in the Adamant Citadel forever, regardless of the Clave. She would find a way out eventually, and there would be hell to pay.

  Having reached the next floor, Grace heard footsteps behind her and turned—James, perhaps, catching up to her? But it was Lucie, carrying a bunch of yellow flowers. The Blackthorn locket—Jesse’s locket—glittered at her throat; Lucie always wore it with the inscribed side against her skin, the telltale circlet of thorns safely hidden. But Grace knew the truth.

  “Grace?” Lucie said in surprise.

  An accidental meeting, but perhaps a convenient one, Grace thought. She always feared sending messages to Lucie, lest they be intercepted. Better to talk in person. “Lucie,” she said. “You said you wanted to consult a warlock about our—project. What about Malcolm Fade?”

  The flowers wobbled in Lucie’s hands; she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, indeed. He’s easy enough to find—he’s always at the Hell Ruelle—and the Enclave trusts him. But do you think that he’d be willing to help us with this… particular matter?”

  “Ordinarily, perhaps not,” Grace said. “But I think I know something that could persuade him to aid us.”

  “My goodness, what?” Lucie looked intrigued, but before she could insist on more information, a voice down the hall called her name. “You’ll have to tell me later,” she said, and dashed off in the direction of the wedding preparations, her flowers waving like yellow banners.

  Excellent, Grace thought. With any luck, she’d kill two birds with one stone on this little excursion. It was odd, this business with Lucie—odd to find herself so deep in a partnership with someone she could not influence or control. But it was for Jesse. She would do anything for him.

  It was easy to find the drawing room. It was the room in which, four months ago, Grace had taken her silver bracelet back from James and told him she would not marry him. It had been summer then, and now white gusts ghosted past the windows. Otherwise, not much had changed: here was the same flowered wallpaper, the velveteen settee and wing chairs, the faint scent of ink and writing paper.

  It brought back that day to her, too sharply. The stricken look on James’s face. The things he had said to her.

  She knew there ought to have been pleasure in causing him pain. There would have been for her mother, but there was none for her. For years she had lived with the knowledge of James’s love like a weight on her shoulders. She thought of it as chains—iron chains that bound him to her. The Herondales are made to love, her mother had said. They give all they have and keep back nothing.

  She did not love him. She knew he was beautiful—she had watched him grow into himself, every summer, as if she were watching a painting by Rossetti turn from a sketch into gorgeous, vivid art—but what did it matter? It seemed it had never occurred to her mother—and would not have mattered to her if it had—that just as it was a torment to love, it might be a torment to be loved. To be loved, and to know it was not real.

  She had tried to release him from the chains once before, in this very room. She had seen the way he looked at Cordelia, and she had known: the chains would break, and he would hate her as a monster. Better to let him go, while her mother slept. Better to do a deed that could not be undone.

  It is impossible between us, James.

  She had thought there would be nothing her mother could do. She had been wrong, then. And perhaps she was wrong, now, to try again—but it had been four months. Four months in which she had not approached James, had barely spoken to him, and no message from her mother had come. With every week that passed, hope had risen in her heart: Surely she was forgotten? If she were to tell James—well, surely such power would not work if one were aware of it?

  The door rattled; Grace tur
ned quickly. She had expected James, but it was the young housemaid she had seen downstairs, the one with light brown hair and freckles on her nose. She was carrying a small whisk broom and dustpan. She looked at Grace in surprise, no doubt wondering how she had managed to wander away from the party. “Can I help you, miss?”

  Grace tried not to scowl. “I had been hoping to find the library.”

  The maid moved toward Grace. Now that she was closer, Grace could see she had an odd, fixed smile on her lips. “Lost, then, are you?”

  Unsettled, Grace started to move toward the door. “Not at all. I’ll just return to the party.”

  “Oh, Grace.” The whisk broom dangled at an odd angle, Grace realized. As if there were something wrong with the girl’s hand. Her eyes stared, unfocused. “Oh, you are lost, my dear. But it’s all right; I’ve come to find you.”

  Grace made for the door, but the maid was faster. She darted in between Grace and the exit. “Don’t you know me, dear?” The maid giggled, a sound that grated like an out-of-tune piano chord, discordant and strangely hollow.

  Four months. Four months. Grace swallowed the bile rising in her throat. “Mama?”

  The maid giggled again; her lips moved out of sync with the sound. “Daughter. Are you truly surprised to see me? You must have known I’d wish to see this wedding day.”

  “I did not know you had the power to possess people, Mama,” said Grace wearily. “Is he helping you?”

  “He is,” breathed her mother. “Our patron, who gave you your gift, very kindly helped me into this body, though I doubt it will hold up for long.” She eyed the housemaid’s trembling hands critically. “He could have sent a shape-changing Eidolon demon, of course, or any of his other servants, but he wished me to see to this personally. He does not want his gift squandered. And you would not wish to anger him. Would you?”

  His gift. The power that allowed Grace to control the minds of men, to make them do as she wished. Only men, of course—Tatiana would never have thought of women as having power or influence worth bothering to subvert.