Chain of Gold

“When I go into the shadow realm, the realness of my presence here begins to fade,” James said. He did not mention that in the past, he had “faded” enough in this world to pass through a solid wall. He did not intend to do it again. “But it is not what drives me into the shadow realm. More of a side effect of being there.”

“Often it happens when you are upset or shocked,” said Christopher. “I suppose we could try upsetting or shocking you.”

“Given everything that’s happened, that shouldn’t be too hard,” said James.

“Nonsense,” said Matthew, hopping up on a nearby occasional table. It was quite frail-looking, with thin gold-painted wooden legs, and James eyed it worriedly. “The last time I saw you shocked was when that Iblis demon was sending Christopher love letters.”

“I have a dark charm,” said Christopher sadly.

“Please recall that I am the pale neurasthenic one and you are the stern heroic one,” Matthew said to James. “It is very tedious when you mix up our roles. We will have to think of something quite impressive to startle you.”

“So what is my role?” said Christopher.

“Mad inventor, of course,” said Matthew promptly. “And Thomas is the one with a good heart.”

“Lord, I sound dull,” said Thomas. “Look, James, come here for a second.”

James moved toward Thomas, who seemed to have decided on something: in moments like this, he looked very like his mother, with her brilliant hazel eyes and ferocious mouth.

A fist came sailing out of the air and landed squarely in James’s solar plexus. He went flying backward, hitting the floor with a gasp. His head swam.

Matthew dropped down by his side, as James heaved himself up onto his elbows, gasping. The pain wasn’t bad but the feeling of trying to catch his breath was sickening.

“Thomas!” Matthew yelled. “What were you trying to—?”

“I was trying to surprise him!” Thomas yelled back. “This is important, Matthew!” He darted a worried look at James, belying his angry words. “You don’t mind, do you, Jamie?”

“It’s all right,” James said breathlessly. “Only it didn’t work. If I turned into a shadow every time something hit me, I couldn’t patrol.” He stared up at the ceiling, which had mirrors on it. He could see himself lying splayed on the parquet, hair very black against the white, Matthew kneeling over him like a squire over the body of a dead knight.

He could see Christopher and Thomas in the mirror as well, or at least the tops of their heads. Christopher was reaching up to pull something down from the wall. Thomas had his arms crossed.

Matthew jumped to his feet with the agility of a fox and held out a hand to help James up after him. James had only just regained his footing when an arrow shot past his head. One of the windows shattered, and Matthew threw himself against James. They tumbled to the floor again, knocking the breath out of James for the second time in five minutes.

He rolled into a sitting position, shouldering Matthew aside, to find Thomas goggling at Christopher, who was clutching one of the bows that had been hanging on the wall.

“In case anyone was wondering if those were purely ornamental,” said James, getting to his feet, “they are not.”

“In the name of a million bloody angels, Christopher, what the hell did you just do?” Matthew demanded, leaping up after James. “Did you try to kill James?”

Christopher lowered the bow. James thought he could hear noises in the Institute: doors slamming in the distance and running feet. Bloody hell.

“I was not trying to kill James,” said Christopher in an injured tone. “I was hoping the shock of the arrow flying past would startle him into the shadow realm. Pity it didn’t work. We must think of a new plan to grievously alarm James at once.”

“Christopher!” James exclaimed. “I cannot believe you would say that! I also cannot believe you would shoot at me.”

“It had a seventy-two percent chance of working, in perfect laboratory conditions—”

“We are not in perfect laboratory conditions!” James shouted. “We are in the ballroom of my house!”

At that moment, the doors of the ballroom rattled. “What’s going on?” It was Will’s voice. “James, are you in there?”

“Bloody hell. My father,” James said, casting about. “Look, all of you—get out through the windows. Well, the broken one anyway. I’ll take the blame. I’ll say I shot the window out.”

“In the ballroom?” Thomas said practically. “Why would you do such a rattle-headed thing?”

“I’m capable of anything!” James made a grab for Christopher’s bow; Christopher ran around behind Thomas as if his friend were a maypole. “Come on, Kit, give it over—”

Thomas rolled his eyes. “He’s going to say, ‘Because I’m a Herondale,’ isn’t he?”

The pounding on the door increased. James turned his fiercest glare on the others. “I am a Herondale,” he said. “And I am telling you to get out of my Institute so the only one who gets punished here is me.”

“Answer me, James!” Will shouted. “Why have you blocked this door? I demand to know what’s going on!”

“James isn’t here!” Matthew called, moving closer to him. “Go away!”

James looked at Matthew, puzzled. “Really?”

“I heard breaking glass!” Will called.

“I was practicing fighting moves!” Matthew answered.

“In the ballroom?”

“We’re trying to distract Thomas! It’s been a very emotional day!” Matthew shouted back.

“What?” Will’s voice was incredulous.

“Don’t you blame this on me!” Thomas whispered.

“James.” Matthew put his hands on James’s shoulders and turned James toward him. Now that the window of the ballroom was shattered, cooler air came in, lifting Matthew’s sweat-dampened hair off his forehead. His eyes were intent, black in the dimness, fixed on James. James found himself startling at the seriousness of Matthew’s gaze. “If you’re going to do this, you need to do it now.”

“I know,” James said. “Math—help me.”

It was an old nickname for Matthew, given to him by Will, after the Welsh king Math ap Mathonwy—the keeper of all wisdom and knower of all things. Will always said Matthew had been born knowing too much. There was a dark awareness in his gaze now as he leaned in toward James’s ear.

“Jamie,” he whispered. “I’m sorry to have to do this.” He swallowed. “You are cursed. A child of demons. It is why you can see the shadow realm. You are seeing the place you belong.”

James jerked back, staring at Matthew. Matthew, who smelled of brandy and familiarity. Matthew, who could be cruel but never to James.

James’s vision began to slide into grayness.

Matthew went white. “James,” he said. “I didn’t mean it—”

But James could no longer feel Matthew’s hands on his shoulders. He could no longer feel the ballroom floor under his feet. The doors of the ballroom were beginning to crack open, but he could no longer hear them.

The world had gone monochrome. James saw broken black walls, a splintered floor, and dust that glittered like dull jewels scattered across the place where Barbara had fallen. He bent to reach for it as the universe jerked beneath his feet and he was thrust forward into nothingness.

DAYS PAST: IDRIS, 1900

James was just over the scalding fever, reunited with his family in the bright meadows and cool forests of Idris. And yet he felt uneasy as he opened the windows in his bedroom at Herondale Manor, bringing fresh air to the room for the first time in months. Perhaps it was how quickly one traveled, through Portals. He had only just been waving goodbye to Cordelia and her parents, and feeling about Cordelia in a manner that he could not possibly put into words, it was so excellent and strange and perplexing. He could have used several days at sea, or aboard a train, to gaze out at the landscape and feel complicated things. Instead, ten minutes after being at Cirenworth, he was pulling protective sheets off furniture and lighting witchlights, and his father was loudly proclaiming the healing quality of the Idris air.

James was unpacking his things when his mother came into the bedroom, sorting through correspondence. She held out a small envelope. “One for you,” she said, and left him in privacy with the letter.

James didn’t recognize the handwriting. It was in a refined feminine hand. He briefly thought, But I don’t know anybody in Idris to send me a letter, and then realized: Grace.

He sat on the bed to read it. All it said was, Meet me at our Place. Tomorrow, dusk. Yrs, GB.

He felt a bit guilty; he had not thought of Grace in a time. He wondered if she had done anything this past year and, with a start, realized it was plausible that she had gone nowhere and talked to nobody. Tatiana Blackthorn was notorious for avoiding all Shadowhunter society, and especially with the Herondales not in residence, she had very few neighbors, and those some distance away.

By the Angel, he thought. Am I Grace’s only friend?

* * *

“I have no one else, no,” Grace said.

They sat together on the forest floor, James leaning against a high looping oak root and Grace upon a stone. Grace’s look of sorrow turned quickly back to her usual calm composure.

“I have no news to report since our last meeting, I fear,” she said. “But you look as though you have battled against something. More than tired.”

“Oh!” said James. “Well, that is one thing that has happened to me since I last saw you. I’m just getting over scalding fever, I’m afraid.”

Grace mock-flinched away, then laughed. “No, I’ve had it, don’t worry. My poor James! I do hope you weren’t lonely.”

“I was lucky there,” said James. He felt a slight twinge in the pit of his stomach, for no reason he understood. “Cordelia and her mother had both had it, so they could stay. They took good care of me. Cordelia especially. It really made the situation much more tolerable. Much less bad. Than it could have been. If she had not been there.”