Chain of Gold

“I don’t want to go home, though,” Cordelia pointed out, as she and Lucie wove their way through the crowd of carriages. She squinted. “Is someone singing inside the Baybrook carriage?”

Lucie waved a dismissive hand. “Of course you’re not going home. You’re coming with me on an adventure.” She waved at something half-hidden behind the Wentworth carriage. “Bridget!”

It was indeed Bridget, her graying red hair wound into a chignon, having clearly just finished readying the Institute’s brougham and a fresh horse—Balios’s brother Xanthos. The two were a matched pair. Cordelia had heard a great deal about them growing up. Lucie went instantly to pat Xanthos’s soft, white-speckled nose; Cordelia tried to smile at Bridget, who was eyeing them both suspiciously.

“Carriage all ready for you, Miss Baggage,” Bridget said to Lucie. “Try to not get in trouble. It fusses your parents.”

“I’m just taking Cordelia home,” Lucie said, blinking innocently. Bridget wandered off, muttering about finding certain people stuck in certain trees while sneaking out of certain windows. Lucie bent to whisper something in Xanthos’s ear before gesturing for Cordelia to join her in the carriage. “It’s all glamoured,” she explained, as the brougham rattled under the open gate and into the streets of London. “It would just upset the mundanes to see a carriage racing about with no driver.”

“So the horse knows where to take us?” Cordelia settled back against the upholstered bench seat. “But it’s not to Cornwall Gardens?”

Lucie shook her head. “Balios and Xanthos are special horses. And we’re going to Chiswick House.”

Cordelia stared. “Chiswick House? We’re going to see Grace and Tatiana? Oh, Lucie, I don’t know—”

Lucie held up a hand. “There could be a time—a short time—during which you may have to distract them. But it is not a social call. I am on a mission.”

Cordelia did not think Grace seemed the sort of person who could be easily distracted. “I shan’t,” she said firmly. “Not unless you tell me what this mission is.”

Lucie was silent a moment, her face small and pale in the shadows of the carriage. “You know I can see ghosts,” she said, and hesitated.

Cordelia blinked. It was the last thing she’d expected Lucie to say. Ghosts were something all Shadowhunters knew existed, and when ghosts wanted to be seen, most Nephilim could see them. But the Herondales had a special ability: Will, James, and Lucie could all see ghosts that didn’t want to be seen. “Yes, but what—?”

“A ghost told me—” Lucie broke off for a moment. “Jessamine told me there is a ghost at Chiswick House that might know about these daylight demons,” she said at last. “Daisy, I have to do something for Barbara and the others. I cannot just sit about passing out tinctures. If there is anything I can do to help, I must do it.”

“Of course—but why not tell your father or your mother? They would surely understand.”

“I do not wish to raise hopes that may come to nothing,” said Lucie. “Besides, they might feel they needed to tell some of the others, and I—I have been told that being sought out by ghosts is not an appealing trait in a young woman.”

Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand with her own bandaged one. “Tell me who said that to you. I will kill them.”

Lucie sniffled and then laughed. “You needn’t kill anyone. Just come with me to Chiswick, and I will be perfectly satisfied.”

* * *

“We must bar the doors,” said James. “They don’t lock, and we can’t be interrupted.” He frowned. “Matthew, can you stand?”

The ballroom had been closed up after the ball; it was rarely used except for social functions. The room was warm and close as James, Christopher, and Thomas threw off their jackets and stripped down to shirtsleeves. Most were still wearing the same weapons belts they’d had on in the park: James had added several new daggers to his own.

Only Matthew was unarmed. Blinking and disheveled, he found his way to a plushly upholstered chair and fell into it. “I am quite all right,” he said, waving an airy hand. “Please continue with your plan.” He squinted. “What was your plan?”

“I’ll tell you in a moment,” James said. He was quite sure none of them were going to like it. “Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, seized hold of a heavy sideboard, and began to shove it in front of the ballroom doors. Christopher looked worriedly at Matthew. “Perhaps some water?” he said.

“I’m quite all right,” Matthew repeated.

“I found you drinking from a flask and singing ‘Elsie from Chelsea’ in the Baybrooks’ carriage,” said Thomas darkly.

“It was private there,” said Matthew. “And well-upholstered.”

“At least it wasn’t the Bridgestocks’ carriage, because they have already experienced enough tragedy today. Nothing bad has happened to the Baybrooks,” said Christopher, with great sincerity.

“Nothing until now,” said James. “Christopher—was everything all right, dropping off Miss Blackthorn?”

He tried not to sound as if he were too invested in the answer. Matthew raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

“Oh, perfectly,” said Christopher. “I told her all about culturing bacteria, and she was so fascinated that she never spoke a word!”

James had gone to pile chairs in front of the doors to the withdrawing room. He hoped Grace had not expired from boredom. “Did you have to tell Mrs. Blackthorn what had happened at the park? She can’t have been pleased.”

Christopher shook his head. “I confess I didn’t see her. Miss Blackthorn asked that I drop her at the gates, not the front door.”

“She probably doesn’t want anyone to see the state of the place,” said Matthew, yawning. “The gates alone are festooned in rust.”

James eyed him. “Thomas,” he said, in a low voice. “Maybe a healing rune?”

Thomas nodded and approached Matthew cautiously, as one might approach a stray cat on the street. Some time ago James had discovered that healing runes sobered Matthew up: not entirely, but enough.

“Push up your sleeve, then, there’s a good fellow,” Thomas said, seating himself on the arm of Matthew’s chair. “Let’s wake you up and James can tell us whatever mad thing he has planned.”

Done with the chairs, James cast a glance around the room, dusted off his hands, and said, “We’d better check the locks on all the windows. Just to be sure.”

“It seems somehow blasphemous to use Marks to rid oneself of the effects of alcohol,” Matthew added, as Thomas put his stele away. The Mark in question gleamed, new-made, on Matthew’s wrist. He looked already more clear-eyed, and less as if he were about to fall asleep or be sick.

“I’ve seen you use your stele to part your hair,” said James dryly, as he began to examine the window locks.

“The Angel gave me this hair,” replied Matthew. “It’s one of the Shadowhunters’ gifts. Like the Mortal Sword.”

“Now that is blasphemy,” said Thomas. Christopher had joined James in checking the window fastenings, though James desperately wished he could open one and get some air into the room.

“A thing of beauty is a joy forever, Thomas,” said Matthew. “James, why are we locking all the windows? Are we afraid of overcurious pigeons?”

James slammed a bolt home and turned to look at the others. “I have spent the past four years of my life trying to train myself not to do what I’m about to do. I don’t wish to even consider the possibility of being interrupted.”

“By a pigeon?” said Matthew, but the look in his eyes was sympathetic, despite his lightly mocking words. “Jamie, what are we doing here?”

James took a deep breath. “I am going to deliberately send myself into the shadow realm,” he said.

The Merry Thieves exploded in a chorus of protest. Matthew stood up, his eyes glittering. “Certainly not,” he said. “The danger—”

“I do not think there will be danger,” said James. “I have been in and out of the shadow realm many times in my life. It has been ages since I fell accidentally into that world. Yet in the past week, I have seen it three times, once just before the attack today. I cannot think that is a coincidence. If I can use this ability to help Barbara, Ariadne, all of us—you must let me do it.”

“Bloody hell.” Matthew rubbed at his eyes. “If we don’t help you here, you’ll just try to do this after we’re all gone, won’t you?”

“Clearly,” said James. He tapped the daggers at his waist. “I’m armed, at least.”

Matthew twisted the signet ring on his finger, marked with MF. It had been a gift from James when they had become parabatai, and he tended to fiddle with it only when distressed. “Very well, James. As you wish.”

James cleared his throat. “All right. Let’s get on with it.”

He was met with the gaze of six expectant eyes.

“Well?” Thomas said hopefully, after a long pause. “Go on into the shadow realm, then.”

James concentrated. He stared at the blank floor and tried to conjure up images in his mind of the shadow realm. The scorched gray sky and dimmed sun. He imagined the ballroom wrong, the windows set oddly into the walls, the chandeliers melting and sagging.

He opened his eyes and yelled. A pair of eyes was staring directly into his, so close that he could make out the details inside the green irises, the faint splotches of brown and black. “Matthew!”

“I really don’t think staring at him is going to help, Matthew,” said Thomas, and Matthew took a reluctant step back from his parabatai. “Jamie, is there anything that might help you begin the process? We’ve all seen you do it.… You start to get shadowy, and turn a bit blurry around the edges.”