Chain of Gold

by Cassandra Clare

  There was something hypnotic about the flames as they leaped from one set of drapes to another, like a bouquet being tossed down the corridor. If James stayed here, he would die on his knees, choking on the ashes of Tatiana Blackthorn’s bitterness. He spun and made for the stairs.

  * * *

  Matthew didn’t bother with an Open rune, just kicked the front door in and raced inside, Cordelia on his heels. The entryway was full of seething smoke.

  Cordelia looked around in horror. She could see into a parlor with a high chimneypiece: it had probably once been a grand room but now was covered in dust and mold. A table hung with spiderwebs stood in the middle, still with plates set out: they were covered in rotted food, and mice and blackbeetles ran freely over the surface.

  The floor was thickly coated in gray dust; a set of footprints wound up the stairs. Cordelia pointed and jostled Matthew’s shoulder: “That way.”

  They started toward the steps: at the top they could see a roaring inferno. Cordelia gasped as James appeared from the heart of the flames, racing down the stairs. He flung himself over the banister as the top steps caught alight, landing in the center of the entryway. He stared incredulously at Cordelia and Matthew.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded over the roar of the fire.

  “We came for you, idiot!” Matthew shouted.

  “And how were you expecting to get back?”

  “There’s a Portal in the greenhouse here that connects to the greenhouse in Chiswick,” Cordelia said. Grace had told her that; it felt like a million years ago. “We can return that way.”

  From somewhere deep within the manor came a deep, grinding noise, as of the bones of a giant crumbling to dust. Matthew’s eyes rounded. “The house—”

  “Is on fire! Yes, I know!” James shouted. “To the door, quickly!”

  It was a short way back to the front entrance. They ran, their feet sending up puffs of dust. They had nearly reached the door—Matthew was over the threshold—when the nearest wall caved in. Cordelia staggered back as a wave of hot air struck her; she saw a plaster-covered wooden beam break free of the wall and sweep toward her, heard Matthew shout her name, and then something struck her from the side. She rolled over in the dust, tangled up with James, as the beam hit the floor with immense force, shattering the parquet.

  She choked, gasped, and looked up: James had knocked her out of the way of the falling timber. His body pinned hers to the floor. The color of his eyes matched the flames all around them; she felt his breath, short and sharp, as they stared almost blindly at each other.

  “James!” Matthew shouted, and James blinked and got to his feet, reaching down to clasp Cordelia’s hand. The blue of her dress glimmered as she rose, dotted with a thousand tiny glowing points of fire where sparks had landed.

  It was not just her dress: everything was fire. In a daze, they raced for the front door, where Matthew stood; he had taken off his velvet jacket and was using it to beat out the flames consuming the threshold. James turned to lift Cordelia in his arms as if they were in some strange, fiery ballet, carrying her over the last burst of flames as they soared up and consumed the front doors of the manor.

  The three of them staggered a good distance from the house into the weeds and scraggly grass of the gardens. At last they stopped, and James raised his head to stare at the manor house. It was burning merrily, sending up gouts of black smoke, turning the sky above it to the color of blood.

  “You can put Cordelia down now,” Matthew said, a touch of acid in his tone. He was panting, his hair full of soot, his velvet jacket abandoned.

  James set Cordelia carefully on the ground. “Your leg…?” he began.

  She tried to push back a lock of her hair and found it full of ash. “It’s all right. It’s quite healed,” she said. “Did you, ah…”

  “Burn the house down? Not purposely,” said James. His already black lashes were clogged with soot, his face streaked with black.

  “It coincidentally burned down while you were in it?” grumbled Matthew.

  “If I could explain—”

  “You cannot.” Matthew shook his head, scattering ash. “I am completely out of patience. The bank of patience is exhausted! I am not even being extended any patience on credit! You and I and Cordelia are going home, and once home, I will berate you at enormous length. Prepare yourself.”

  James hid a smile. “I shall do exactly that. Meanwhile, the greenhouse. We should not linger here.”

  Cordelia and Matthew fervently agreed. The three made their way to the greenhouse, which was empty save for a fallen-down grapevine, some bottles, and the Portal itself, which shone like a mirror, reflecting back the glaring red light of the fire.

  James placed his hand on its surface. It shimmered, and Cordelia saw, as if at a distance, the Blackthorn house in Chiswick, and beyond that, the glittering skyline of London.

  She stepped through.

  * * *

  The room at the Devil Tavern was cozy, a low fire burning in the grate—Cordelia had thought she might never want to see fire again, but she was pleased to have this one. The Merry Thieves were sprawled all about on the battered furniture: Christopher and Thomas on the old chesterfield sofa, James in an armchair, and Matthew in a seat at the round wooden table.

  James had taken off his jacket, which had several burn holes in it, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up. They had all done what they could to clean up when they arrived at the tavern, but there was still soot on his collar, and in Matthew’s and Cordelia’s hair, and the kingfisher-blue dress was, Cordelia suspected, utterly ruined.

  Matthew was turning a glass in his hand, looking thoughtfully at the pale amber contents.

  “Matthew, you should really drink some water,” said Christopher. “Alcohol won’t help with the dehydration after you inhaled all that smoke.”

  Matthew raised an eyebrow. Christopher seemed undeterred—Cordelia had noticed when Christopher first came in that he seemed a little different: less shy and owlish, more assured.

  “Water is the devil’s brew,” said Matthew.

  Cordelia glanced at James, but he only said, “That is why you are always dyspeptic, Math.” His expression was unreadable. The Mask had slipped briefly at Blackthorn Manor, she thought, when he had saved her life. It was back now.

  She wondered if he was thinking of Grace. The pain in her chest had gone from a sharp pain to a dull throb that ached with every heartbeat.

  Footsteps sounded on the steps and Lucie burst in, nearly staggering under the weight of a pile of clothes: two suits for James and Matthew, and a plain cotton dress for Cordelia.

  She was greeted with a round of applause. When Cordelia, James, and Matthew had first stumbled out of the greenhouse in Chiswick, they had realized that not a one of them could return home in their singed state. Even Will would be apoplectic, James had to admit. “We have got to start keeping spare clothes at the Devil for such occurrences as this,” James had said.

  “There had better not be any more occurrences such as this,” Matthew had glowered.

  They had flagged down a hansom cab to Fleet Street, where they had been the recipients of many curious stares from patrons of the Devil Tavern. Matthew and Cordelia had taken refuge in the upstairs room, while James had tracked down a few of the Irregulars and sent them to Thomas and Christopher with messages saying to come immediately and bring new outfits for all three. Thomas and Christopher, unfortunately, had been unable to lay hands on anything: they had come running, but without any extra clothes. An Irregular had been dispatched immediately to Lucie, which, Cordelia pointed out, was what should have been undertaken in the first place. Lucie knew how to get things done.

  Lucie dumped the clothes into her brother’s lap and glared at him. “I cannot believe,” she said, “that you burned down Blackthorn Manor without me!”

  “But you weren’t around, Luce,” James protested. “You went to see Uncle Jem.”

  “It’s true,” Lucie sa
id. “I just wish I had been with you. I never liked the manor when we were growing up. Besides, I’ve always wanted to burn down a house.”

  “I assure you,” said James, “that it is overrated.”

  Lucie plucked the dress from James’s lap and gestured for Cordelia to follow her into the adjoining bedroom. She set about helping Cordelia undo the hooks at the back of her blue dress. “I will mourn this one,” said Lucie, as it crumpled to the floor in a charred heap, leaving Cordelia standing in her petticoat and combination. “It was so pretty.”

  “Do I smell like burnt toast?” Cordelia inquired.

  “A bit, yes,” Lucie said, handing Cordelia the cotton dress. “Try this. I borrowed it from my mother’s wardrobe. A tea gown, so it ought to fit.” She regarded Cordelia thoughtfully. “So. What happened? How did James come to burn down Blackthorn Manor?”

  Cordelia told her the story as Lucie deftly helped brush the ash out of her hair and pin it back up in something resembling a passable style. When she was done with the tale, Lucie sighed.

  “So it was at Grace’s request,” she said. “I thought—I hoped—well, never mind.” She set the brush down on the vanity table. “Grace is still marrying Charles, so it can only be hoped James will forget her.”

  “Yes,” Cordelia said. She, too, had thought and hoped. She, too, had been wrong. The dull ache in her chest increased, as if she were missing a piece of herself, some vital organ she could barely breathe without. She could feel the hard shape of Layla and Majnun still secured under her jacket. Perhaps she should have thrown it into the flames of the manor.

  They went back into the main room, where the Merry Thieves appeared to be arguing among themselves. Thomas had joined Matthew in brandy drinking; the other two had not.

  “I still cannot believe you burned down a house,” Thomas said, toasting James.

  “Most of you never saw inside that house,” said Lucie, perching herself on the edge of the sofa, near James. “I peeked in the windows when I was a little girl. All the rooms full of dry rot and blackbeetles, and the clocks all stopped at twenty to nine. No one will think it burned down for any reason save neglect.”

  “Is that what we’re claiming?” asked Christopher. “To the Enclave, I mean. There is the meeting tomorrow to consider.”

  James templed his fingers under his chin. The bracelet on his right wrist gleamed. “I should be willing to confess to what I did, but I wish to leave Matthew and Cordelia out of it, and I cannot speak of the reason I went in the first place. It would be breaking my promise to Grace.”

  Christopher looked puzzled. “Then are we meant to invent a reason?”

  “You could always say you burned it down to improve the view from Herondale Manor,” said Matthew. “Or perhaps to raise the property value.”

  “Or you could claim to be an incorrigible pyromaniac,” said Lucie cheerfully.

  Thomas cleared his throat. “It seems to me,” he said, “that many people will be harmed if you tell the story of what happened tonight. Whereas if you keep the story to yourselves, an evil old house full of dark magic items will have been destroyed, along with a dangerous automaton. I would strongly urge you not to say anything.”

  Matthew looked startled. “Really? Our True Thomas, who so often counsels honesty?”

  Thomas shrugged. “Not in every situation. I do think the Clave will need to be told of Tatiana’s dangerous proclivities eventually. But it seems the loss of Blackthorn Manor will leave her harmless for a while.”

  “Once Grace and Charles formally announce their engagement,” said James quietly. “We can do it then.”

  “I am happy to keep silent for now,” said Cordelia. “It was, after all, Grace’s request, and we ought to protect her.”

  James shot her a grateful look. She glanced down, twisting the fabric of her gown between her fingers.

  “It is a pity, actually, that no one will ever know how James, Cordelia, and Matthew are heroes for foiling a demonic plan to attack Idris,” said Lucie.

  “We will always know,” said Thomas, and raised his glass. “To being secret heroes.”

  “To standing by each other no matter what,” said Matthew, raising his own, and as they all cheered and toasted, Cordelia felt the iron band around her heart loosen, just a little.

  22 THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

  “O ’Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!

  Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?

  And whence such fair garments, such prosperity?”—

  “O didn’t you know I’d been ruined?” said she.…

  —“I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,

  And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!”—

  “My dear—a raw country girl, such as you be,

  Cannot quite expect that. You ain’t ruined,” said she.

  —Thomas Hardy, “The Ruined Maid”

  Cordelia had never attended a meeting of the entire Enclave before. Her family had moved so frequently until this summer, and she was still underage. Luckily, as many young Shadowhunters had been directly involved with the incidents under discussion, the age limit had been waived for the meeting. They had all jumped at the chance to attend; Lucie had even brought her writing materials with her, in case she was inspired.

  The Sanctuary had been set up to be a meeting place, with rows of chairs facing a lectern. Golden statues of Raziel were set in each alcove, and Tessa had hung tapestries showing the crests of every London Shadowhunter family on the walls. James and Christopher had both been seated at the front of the room. Every chair was filled and many were standing; the room was stuffed to bursting. Cordelia had come with her family, but had split off from Alastair and Sona so she could sit with Lucie and Matthew.

  Will Herondale stood up at the lectern, handsome in a gray coat and waistcoat with pin-striped trousers; he appeared to be having a friendly argument with Gabriel Lightwood as Tessa looked on. Inquisitor Bridgestock was not far away, glowering.

  Lucie was quick to point out to Cordelia all those in attendance who had recovered from the poison: Ariadne Bridgestock was there, looking calm and very beautiful in a deep aubergine dress, with a matching bow in her dark hair. Cordelia could not help but remember Anna reaching for Ariadne’s hand as Ariadne lay deathly still, her eyes swollen shut.

  Please don’t die.

  Rosamund Wentworth was also there, as were Anna and Cecily Lightwood, who were playing with little Alexander at the edge of the dry fountain. Alexander appeared to be tossing something shiny and likely breakable into the air.

  Sophie and Gideon Lightwood, freshly back from Idris, were smiling over at Cecily and little Alex, but Sophie’s eyes were sad. Thomas and his sister Eugenia sat close by. Eugenia resembled a sharper version of Barbara: she was small but angular, with dusky hair upswept in a Gibson girl pompadour.

  Seated at the very edge of the group of Shadowhunters, near Mrs. Bridgestock, was Tatiana Blackthorn, rigidly upright in her chair; she had not removed her hat, and the ornate stuffed bird atop it glared menacingly. She was thinner than ever, her hands tightly clenched in her lap, her face rigid with fury.

  Grace sat some distance from her mother, beside Charles, who was chattering away in her ear. She and Tatiana did not look at each other. Cordelia knew from James that Grace had gone to stop her mother from taking desperate action the night before: it seemed to have worked, but she could not help but wonder what had happened between them—not to mention whether they knew yet of the fate of Blackthorn Manor.

  The most surprising guest was Magnus Bane, sitting across the room with his legs elegantly crossed. He seemed to sense Cordelia looking at him and glanced over with a wink.

  “I idolize him,” said Matthew sorrowfully.

  Lucie patted his hand. “I know.”

  Matthew looked amused; Cordelia sensed something had changed in his interactions with Lucie. She couldn’t quite put a finger on it. It was as if a certain tension had gone out of the
m.

  “Welcome, everyone.” Will’s voice echoed through the room; the lectern had been carved with runes to amplify his voice. “I’ve just received word that the Consul has been delayed but is on her way. It would be ideal if everyone could be patient a bit longer and refrain from breaking any of the valuable objects in the Sanctuary.”

  He shot a meaning glance at Cecily, who made a sisterly face at him.

  “In the meantime—”

  Will broke off in surprise as Charles joined him at the lectern. He wore a stiffly formal frock coat, his red hair slicked back and gleaming. “I’d just like to thank everyone for placing their trust in me as acting Consul,” he said, his voice echoing off the walls. “As you all know, the antidote to this awful disease was developed in my father’s laboratory at Grosvenor Square.”

  Cordelia glanced over at Alastair. To her pleased surprise, Alastair rolled his eyes. In fact, if Charles had been hoping for a round of applause, it did not come: the room was silent.

  Charles cleared his throat. “But of course there are many brave Shadowhunters who should be acknowledged, in addition to myself. Christopher Lightwood, of course, as well as Cordelia Carstairs and James Herondale.”

  Tatiana Blackthorn shot to her feet. The bird on her hat trembled, but in that moment she did not seem ridiculous, as she often did. She seemed menacing. “James Herondale is a fraud!” she cried in a hoarse voice. “He has ties to demons! No doubt he worked in concert with them to orchestrate these attacks!”

  Lucie made a choking sound. A murmur of astonishment raced around the room. Inquisitor Bridgestock looked absolutely flabbergasted. Cordelia looked over at James: he sat frozen, utterly expressionless. Christopher had his hand on James’s shoulder, but James had not moved.