Chain of Gold

Knowledge is proud that he has learn’d so much;

Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

Books are not seldom talismans and spells.

—William Cowper, “The Task, Book VI: Winter Walk at Noon”

“The tahdig is cold.” Sona towered in the doorway of the town house, her arms crossed as she glared at her two children. “Risa set supper out more than two hours ago. Where have you been?”

“We went to the infirmary at the Institute,” lied Alastair, his eyes wide and innocent. He truly was the son of a Persian mother with a temper, Cordelia thought with some amusement. She had patted down her hair and skirts in the carriage as much as she was able, but she was well aware she looked a fright. “We thought we would bring flowers, to show our concern as part of the London community.”

Some of the anger went out of Sona’s face. “Those poor children in the sickroom,” she said. She stood back and ushered them inside. “Come in, then. And take your shoes off before you get mud on the rugs!”

Supper was a swift affair of cold tahdig and khoresh bademjan. By the end of it, Sona had been convinced that the idea of helping out at the infirmary had been hers. “You are a good boy, Alastair joon,” she said, kissing him on top of his head as she rose from the table. “And you, too, Cordelia. Though you should not have picked the flowers yourself. Your dress is ruined. So much mud!” She shook her head.

“Good,” said Cordelia. “It’s a horrid dress.”

Sona looked hurt. “When I was your age—” she began. This, Cordelia knew, presaged a story about how when Sona had been a girl, she had been perfectly obedient to her parents, a dutiful Shadowhunter, and had always kept her clothes in pristine condition.

Alastair tossed his napkin onto the table. “Our Layla looks exhausted,” he said. “Helping the ill is very tiring. I’ll see her upstairs.”

There were three floors to the town house, the upper floor given over to Alastair’s and Cordelia’s bedrooms and a small study. Diamond-paned windows looked over the dark sky above Kensington. Alastair paused at the top of the stairs and leaned against the damask wallpaper. “Let’s never talk to those terrible people ever again,” he said.

He was twirling one of his Chinese spears between his fingers, its leaf-shaped blade catching the light that seeped up from downstairs. Alastair had a collection of spears, some of which folded up and could be kept in his pockets, several of which were secured in his coat lining.

“I like them,” Cordelia said crossly. “All of them.”

She could hear her mother singing to herself in her bedroom; a long time ago, Alastair himself had often sung and played the piano. Once they had been a musical family. Once things had been very different. Tonight had reminded Cordelia of when she and her brother were children, and co-conspirators as isolated siblings often were. Of the time before Alastair went to school, and came back so very hard to reach.

“Really?” Alastair inquired. “Which one do you find so agreeable? If it’s Herondale, he will never like you better than Miss Blackthorn, and if it’s Fairchild, he will never like you better than the bottle.”

Cordelia’s lips tightened. “Whether you like them or not, they are influential people, and I’d prefer to think you’re keeping our father’s well-being foremost in your mind.”

Alastair snorted. “Your plan is to save Father by making people like you?”

“Clearly you have never thought making people like you was important, Alastair, but I am not like that.”

Alastair looked startled, but recovered quickly. “You should think less about making people like you, and more about making them owe you.”

“Alastair—”

But someone was rapping on the door downstairs. The sound rang in the silence. Whoever was outside knocked three times in quick succession, then stopped.

Alastair’s expression changed. “We’ve spoken of this enough. Good night, Cordelia.”

Not Layla anymore. Cordelia. His expression was stern as he turned to hasten downstairs.

Cordelia reached out and grasped his coat. “Who could be visiting so late? Do you think it is bad news?”

Alastair started, seeming astonished that Cordelia was still present, and his coat slipped through her fingers.

“I know who it is. I will manage the situation. Go to bed at once, Cordelia,” Alastair ordered, not meeting her eyes. “If Mother catches you out of bed, there will be the devil to pay and no pitch hot.”

He dashed down the steps.

Cordelia leaned over the banister. Two floors down, she could see the encaustic tiles of their hall, the newly painted surfaces portraying yellow starbursts shining through a maze of swords. She saw her brother open the door, and saw the shadow cast on the swords and stars as their visitor walked in. The man removed his hat. With some surprise, Cordelia recognized Charles Fairchild.

Alastair glanced around worriedly, but it seemed clear that both their mother and Risa had gone to sleep. He took Charles’s hat and coat, and they headed together toward the drawing room.

Cordelia’s heart was pounding. Charles Fairchild. Charles, who had told James not to venture near Grace. Charles, who Matthew clearly did not trust—but who Alastair clearly did.

Alastair had promised her he would not tell James’s secrets. He had promised.

But he had not wanted to make the promise. Cordelia bit her lip, swore under her breath, and started down the steps. The stairs in their new home were oak, painted gray with a yellow runner up the center and a wrought-iron railing painted gray as well. Cordelia wrestled with her conscience as she ran down them lightly, her stockinged feet making no sound.

There was a back entrance to the drawing room. Cordelia slipped through the dining room, where the plates were still on the table, and down a servants’ corridor. At the end of the hall was the door to the drawing room, already slightly ajar. She pressed herself up against it, peering through the crack—she could just see Charles, warming his hands at the fire crackling in the white plaster grate.

His red hair looked dark in the low light, and very orderly. As Cordelia watched, Alastair stepped closer to Charles: now she could see her brother fully. He was running his fingers through his tangled hair in a hopeless attempt to make it lie flat.

“Alastair.” Charles turned so his back was to the fire. “Why are you looking a state? What happened?”

“I went to find you earlier today,” Alastair said. There was a sulky note in his voice that surprised Cordelia. “My sister was with Anna—I went to your house, and even to your club. Where were you?”

“I was at the Institute, of course. My fiancée remains ill, unless you’ve forgotten.”

“I would be very unlikely,” said Alastair coldly, “to forget your fiancée.”

In the shadows, Cordelia blinked in confusion. Did Alastair not like Ariadne? She did not recall him mentioning her before.

“Alastair,” said Charles, in a warning tone. “We’ve discussed this.”

“You said it would be temporary. A temporary political engagement. But I have spoken with Ariadne, Charles. She very much believes this marriage will happen.”

Alastair had been standing close to Charles, so close their shadows touched. Now he turned his back on Charles and walked over to the bookcases. Cordelia tried to move back and nearly stepped on her dress. Fortunately, Alastair stopped before he could have seen her and stared at the books blankly. Cordelia had rarely seen such misery on his face.

“This is not fair to her, Charles,” said Alastair. “Or to me.”

“Ariadne does not care what I do. Her interests lie elsewhere.” Charles paused for the briefest of moments. “She will gratify her parents with a good match, and I will find it useful to be connected to the Inquisitor. If I become Consul, I could do so much good for the Clave, as well as for you. My mother is too sentimental, but I can make our people strong again. It is what I have wanted all my life. You understand. I told you all my hopes in Paris.”

Alastair closed his eyes, as if the word “Paris” pained him. “Yes,” he said. “But you said—I thought—”

“What did I say? I would not make any false promises. You know how it must be. We are both men of the world.”

“I know,” said Alastair, opening his eyes. He turned to look at Charles. “It is only that—I love you.”

Cordelia inhaled sharply. Oh, Alastair.

Alastair’s voice cracked as he spoke. Charles’s voice cracked too, but his was not the sound of something breaking. It was the sound of a whip.

“You absolutely cannot say that,” Charles said. “Not where someone might hear you. You know it, Alastair.”

“No one can hear us,” said Alastair. “And I have loved you since Paris. I thought you loved me.”

Charles said nothing. And for a moment, all Cordelia could think was that she hated Charles Fairchild for hurting her brother. Then she saw the infinitesimal tremble of Charles’s hand as he put it in his pocket, and she realized that Charles might be scared too.

Charles took a deep breath and crossed the carpeted floor to Alastair’s side. Cordelia could see them both very clearly. Too clearly, perhaps, she thought, as Charles took his hands from his pockets and put them on her brother’s shoulders. Alastair’s lips parted slightly.

“I do,” Charles said. “You know I do.”

His hands slid up into Alastair’s hair. He was still wearing gloves, his fingers dark against Alastair’s pale hair; he drew Alastair in toward him, and their lips met. Alastair made a soft sound, like surrender. He slid an arm around Charles’s neck and pulled him down onto the sofa.

They stretched out together, Charles atop Alastair. It was Alastair’s turn to bury his hands in Charles’s hair, to press against Charles’s body and fumble with his waistcoat. Charles’s hands were flat against Alastair’s chest, and he was kissing Alastair hungrily, over and over—