Chain of Gold

“No one ever just wants to have tea,” said Anna. “Tea is always an excuse for a clandestine agenda.”

“Anna, Cordelia is a proper young lady,” said Matthew. “She may not wish to risk her reputation by sallying out with Downworlders and reprobates.”

“Cordelia wants to be a hero,” said Anna. “One cannot do that by staying at home stitching samplers.” Her eyes gleamed. “I was at the Enclave meeting today; you were not. I know how the Enclave has decided to handle our current situation, and I do not think it will help those who are stricken, or prevent the attack at the lake from happening again.”

When Matthew spoke, the brashness had gone out of his voice. “I thought Barbara was getting better. Thomas said—”

“The Silent Brothers have put all the wounded to sleep,” said Cordelia, who had heard this from Alastair. “They hope that they will heal, but…”

“Hope is not a solution,” said Anna. “The Clave insists this was a random demon attack, which took place not in daylight but under cloud cover. They have set patrols in Regent’s Park.”

“It was not random,” said Cordelia. “There were mundanes in the park, too—none were attacked.”

“And the demons came before the cloud cover did,” said Matthew. “When Piers fell screaming, the sun was still visible.”

“You begin to see the problem,” said Anna. “Several Enclave members made those points, among them my parents, but the majority prefer to think of this as the sort of problem they have faced before. Not something new.”

“And you think it’s something new,” said Cordelia.

“I am sure of it,” said Anna. “And when a new supernatural threat enters London, who are the first to know of it? Downworlders. We should be asking questions in Downworld. There was a time when the Clave had connections with High Warlocks, with the leaders of the vampire and werewolf clans. With the Queen of the Seelie Court.” She shook her head in frustration. “I know Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa have done all they can, but these alliances have been left to fray and now Shadowhunters can only imagine relying on themselves.”

“I see,” said Matthew, whose eyes had begun to sparkle. “We shall be going to the Hell Ruelle, then.”

“Matthew and I occasionally attend an artistic salon in a building owned by the High Warlock of London,” said Anna. “Malcolm Fade.”

“Malcolm Fade?” Cordelia had heard of him. High Warlocks of cities were sometimes elected. Sometimes they simply claimed the title. Malcolm Fade had appeared in London somewhere around the turn of the century and announced that he would be High Warlock as Ragnor Fell was stepping down and no one had seen Magnus Bane recently.

Lucie had been electrified, especially when he came to pay a call on the Institute and chat with Will and Tessa. She said he had hair the color of salt and eyes the color of violets and she had been in love with him for almost a week, her letters full of nothing else.

“Every Downworlder who is anyone will be there,” said Anna. “It is time for us to do what we do best.”

“Drink?” said Matthew.

“Be charming,” said Anna. “Ask questions. See what we can learn.” She held out a gloved hand. “Come, come. Get up. Is the carriage downstairs, Matthew?”

“At your service,” said Matthew. “Are you quite sure you want to come, Cordelia? It will be scandalous.”

Cordelia didn’t bother to reply, just retrieved Cortana as they left the flat. It was dark outside; the air was chilly and dank. A carriage with the Consul’s coat of arms painted across the door waited for them at the curb. Someone had left a pile of roses with the heads snipped off on the front steps. Evangeline, or a different girl?

“So what kind of salon is this, exactly?” Cordelia inquired, as the carriage door swung open and Matthew helped her inside. One of the Consul’s servants, a middle-aged man with brown hair, sat impassively up front in the box seat.

She had heard of salons, of course—gatherings where the great and the famous and the noble came together to appreciate art and poetry. It was rumored that more daring things happened at salons as well, in the shadows and the dark gardens, couples gathering to tryst where no one could see them.

Anna and Matthew scrambled up after her, Anna disdaining Matthew’s helping hand. “An exclusive one,” said Anna, settling back on the velvet bench seat. “Some of the most famous Downworlders in the world attend.”

The carriage set off at a clip.

Anna said, “Some you may have heard of; some you may not. Some with reputations they don’t deserve—and some with reputations they more than do.”

“I never thought of Downworlders as being interested in painting and poetry,” said Cordelia. “But I suppose there is no reason they shouldn’t be, is there? It’s just those aren’t things that Shadowhunters do. We don’t create like that.”

“We can,” Matthew said. “We are simply told we shouldn’t. Do not confuse conditioning with a native inability.”

“Do you create, Matthew?” asked Cordelia, looking at him sharply. “Do you draw, or paint, or pen poetry?”

“Lucie writes,” said Matthew, his eyes like dark water. “I thought she wrote for you, sometimes.”

“Lucie worries,” said Cordelia. “She doesn’t say so, but I know she worries, that all her writing will come to nothing, because she is a Shadowhunter and that must come first.” She hesitated. “What does it mean, ‘Hell Ruelle’?”

Anna’s eyes gleamed. She said, “Official academic gatherings in Paris have always been controlled by men, but salons are a world ruled by women. One famous noble lady seated her artistic guests in her ruelle—the space between her bed, any lady’s bed, really, and the wall. A scandalous spot. Informally, an artistic gathering presided over by a woman came to be known as a ‘ruelle.’  ”

“But you said Malcolm Fade ran this one, I thought.”

“He owns the building,” said Anna. “As for who runs it, you will see soon enough.”

Cordelia did not like having to wait to find things out. She sighed and glanced at the window. “Where are we going?”

“Berwick Street,” said Anna, and dropped a wink. “In Soho.”

Cordelia didn’t know much of London, but she did know that Soho was where bohemians roamed. Dissolute writers and starving artists, penniless socialists and aspiring musicians, rubbed shoulders with a mix of shopkeepers, tradesmen, aristocrats who had fallen down in the world, and ladies who were no better than they should be.

It had always sounded wildly exciting, and exactly the sort of place her mother would never let her go.

“Soho,” she breathed, as the carriage rattled down a narrow, dark street on whose pavement the stalls of a public market had been set up. Naphtha beacons illuminated the faces of stall owners chatting and haggling with customers over chipped china plates and mugs and secondhand clothes. Gentlemen—well, they weren’t gentlemen, most likely, Cordelia thought—tried on overcoats and jackets in the street, their wives fingering the material and exclaiming on the fit. Boswell’s butcher had thrown its doors open and was selling cuts of meat—“Whatever will spoil before tomorrow, darling,” Anna said, noting Cordelia’s curious stare—by gaslight, and there were bakers and grocers doing the same. They passed a tea shop and then the Blue Posts pub, its windows alive with light.

“Here,” said Anna, and the carriage stopped. They scrambled out and found themselves at the corner of Berwick and a small alley called Tyler’s Court, leading away from the main thoroughfare. The air was full of the sound of people laughing and shouting, and the smell of roasting nuts.

After a brief, whispered conference with Matthew, Anna disappeared down the alley, her tall, black-clad form melding almost immediately with the shadows. Cordelia was left alone with Matthew. He had his hat tipped down over one eye and was regarding her thoughtfully.

Cordelia glanced about at the shop signs. She could see the silhouettes of women lounging in doorways. She thought of her mother’s voice saying, A fallen woman, you know. As if the girl in question had merely overbalanced. Cordelia tried to imagine it. Kissing men for money, doing more than just kissing.…

“What are you thinking?” Matthew asked.

Cordelia wrenched her gaze away from a woman with rouged cheeks smiling up at a man in ill-fitting laborer’s clothes. “What’s a lapidary?” she asked, not because she actually wanted to know, but because the sign opposite her said A. JONES, LAPIDARY and Matthew was making her nervous.

“A lapidary phrase is one that is worth carving into stone,” said Matthew, “and preserving forever—a wise saying such as ‘we are dust and shadows,’ or alternately, any words that come out of my mouth.”

Cordelia pointed at the sign. “They sell phrases there?”

“They sell objects with phrases carved into them,” Matthew said. “For instance, if you wished words of love to be etched into your wedding band. Or words of regret and sorrow on your grave. For my own headstone, I was hoping for something a bit grand.”

“You surprise me,” said Cordelia. “I am all astonishment.”

Matthew threw his arms up in the air, his face glowing in the naphtha beacons. “Perhaps a simple ‘O grave, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?’ But does that truly capture the light I brought to the lives of friends and acquaintances, the sorrow they will feel when it is extinguished? Perhaps:

‘Shed not for him the bitter tear

Nor give the heart to vain regret;

’Tis but the casket that lies here,

The gem that filled it sparkles yet.’ ”

Matthew’s voice had risen; applause rose from the crowd outside the Blue Posts when he was finished. He lowered his arms just as Anna emerged from the alley.