Chain of Gold

* * *

It had been raining in London, but the weather in Idris, even at the edge of sunset, was warm. Lucie had followed Uncle Jem along the path from the spot where they had Portaled in, just outside Alicante. One could not Portal directly into the walled city; it was warded against such things. Lucie didn’t mind. Her destination was not within the city limits.

Jem—she never could think of him as Brother Zachariah, no matter how hard she tried—walked along beside her as they skirted the Imperishable Fields. His hood was down, and the wind ruffled his black hair. Though his face was scarred, she realized for the first time that it was a young face—much more like her mother’s than her father’s. Was it strange for Will, she wondered, to be aging and have Jem remain in appearance still a boy? Or when you loved someone, did you not notice these things, just as her parents saw no difference between themselves?

It is there. Jem gestured toward what looked like a miniature city of white houses. It was the necropolis of Alicante, where families of Idris were buried. Narrow lanes threaded among the mausoleums, paved with crushed white stone. Lucie had always loved the way the tombs looked like small houses, with doors or gates and sloping roofs. Unlike mundanes, Shadowhunters did not tend to decorate their graves with statues of angels. The names of the families who owned the tombs were carved over the doors, or etched on metal plates: BELLEFLEUR, CARTWRIGHT, CROSSKILL, LOVELACE, even BRIDGESTOCK. Death made unlikely neighbors. She found what she was looking for at last, a large tomb under a shaded tree, bearing the name BLACKTHORN.

She stopped and looked. It was a tomb like any other, save for the design of thorns that ran around the plinth. The names of those who had died marched up and down the tomb’s left side like orderly soldiers. It was easy to find the newest. JESSE BLACKTHORN, BORN 1879, DIED 1896.

It had only been 1897 when she had met him in the woods, Lucie realized. He had been a ghost for such a short time. He had seemed so much older than her then; she had never given thought to how frightened he must have been himself.

Everybody thought Jesse had died long ago. Nobody knew what he had sacrificed since.

She touched the locket hanging around her throat and turned to Jem. “Can I have a moment alone here, please?”

Jem glanced down at her, clearly worried. It was hard to read his face, his closed eyes, but he had hesitated when she first asked him to bring her to Idris to pay respects in the graveyard and not to tell her parents. He had only agreed when she’d said that if he didn’t do it, she’d find a warlock who would take her.

He touched her hair lightly. Do not dwell too much on death. Lucie means light. Look to the day, not the night.

“I know, Uncle Jem,” she said. “It will only be a moment.”

He nodded and vanished into the shadows, the way Silent Brothers always did.

Lucie turned back to the tomb. She knew it did not contain any part of Jesse, yet it comforted her to be there all the same. “I have told no one what I saw at Chiswick House, and I never shall,” she said aloud. “I haven’t kept silence to protect Grace, or your mother. Only to protect you. I did not expect you to be such a true friend as you were, Jesse. I did not expect you to give your life for my brother’s. I knew you had been angry at me only moments before, and more than anything I regret not being able to tell you I was sorry. I should not have used my power like that. It is still hard to imagine I have a power, and even now I do not quite understand it.” She touched his name with her fingertips, letters cut evenly into smooth marble. “Without you, I am not sure I will ever understand it.”

“You will.”

She looked up, and there he was. Jesse, leaning against the side of the tomb like a farmer’s boy against a gate. Smiling his odd little smile, straight black hair in his eyes. Lucie dropped the flowers she was holding and reached out, without pausing to think, to grasp his hand.

Her fingers brushed through emptiness. Aside from a path of colder air, there was no solidity to him, as there had been before.

She drew her hand back, pressing it against her chest. “Jesse.”

“I find my strength is fading,” he said. “Perhaps there was more to this last breath business than I thought.”

“I am so sorry,” Lucie whispered. “This is my fault.”

“Lucie, no.” Jesse stepped forward; she felt the cold emanating from his body, and stared up at him. He seemed less human, and ironically more oddly beautiful, than he had before: his skin was smooth as glass, his lashes black and startling. “You let me be something I had never been before, even when I was living. A Shadowhunter. You let me be part of what you did. I never thought I would again be given the chance to make a difference.”

“You made every difference,” Lucie said. “Without your help, we could not have done what we did, even if the others don’t know it. And you saved James’s life. I will always owe you.”

Jesse’s eyes were nearly black. “You need not owe the dead, Lucie.”

“I do,” she whispered. “Is your body still at Chiswick House? Is Grace watching over you?”

“Yes. She will come whenever she can, on the pretense of looking after the house, now that we cannot trust—” He broke off. “You have taught me to see things very differently, Lucie,” he said after a moment. “I had thought my mother’s madness harmless. I did not realize she had dealings with demons until I saw that creature attack Grace.”

“I am sorry,” Lucie whispered. “For all of it.”

His voice gentled. “It was never your fault. My mother needs help. Grace plans to make sure she gets it. Do not be sorry, Lucie. You brought light into my lightless world, and for that I am grateful.”

“I am the one who is grateful,” she said. “And I will find a way to help you, Jesse. I swear to bring you back if I can, or lay you to rest if I cannot.”

He shook his head. “You cannot promise something so grave.”

“I can promise it. I do promise it. I am a Herondale, and we keep our promises.”

“Lucie—” Jesse began. His brow furrowed. “I hear something. Who is with you?”

“Je—Brother Zachariah,” Lucie said. She supposed she should not be surprised ghosts could hear the Silent Brothers.

Late afternoon was sliding into dusk. The demon towers sparkled with sunset, turning the colors of a tree in autumn: red and gold, copper and flame.

“I must go,” Jesse said. “James Carstairs is a Silent Brother. He might be able to see me. I would not want to bring you trouble.” He gave her a long, last look. “Promise you will not try to help me.”

“Jesse,” Lucie whispered, and reached out her hand; she felt the slightest pressure on her fingers, and it was gone. Jesse had faded into nothingness, like mist dissolving in rain.

* * *

Grace was standing by the window. The sun had set, but the glow of streetlamps was visible through the glass. It outlined Grace’s hair, the curve of her cheekbones, the hollows at her temples. Had she always been standing there? She must have been—of course she had been. James’s arm was braced against the back of the armchair. He felt dizzy. Maybe he was not as recovered as he had thought.

“James?” Grace came closer to him, the rustle of her green dress loud in the quiet room. “Will you help me? Will you destroy the automaton?”

James looked at her in astonishment. She was Grace—his Grace, who he loved and always had loved. “Loyalty binds me, Grace,” he said in a low voice. “And even if it did not, I am yours and you are mine. I would do anything for you.”

Something like pain flashed in her eyes; she glanced away. “You know I must still marry Charles.”

James’s mouth felt dry. He had forgotten. Grace marrying Charles. Had she mentioned that when she’d come into the room? He no longer recalled.

“If I were to marry you—” She shook her head. “My mother would find ways to torment you and your family forever. She would never stop. I could not bring that down upon you.”

“You don’t love Charles.”

She looked up at him. “Oh, James,” she said. “No. No, I don’t.”

His father had always told him there was no higher emotion than love: that it trumped all doubt and all distrust.

He loved Grace.

He knew he did.

Grace slipped her hand into his. “We have no more time,” she murmured. “Kiss me, James. Just once before you go.”

She was so much smaller than he that he had to lift her into his arms to kiss her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and for a flash as his lips touched hers he remembered soft lips that had fastened hungrily on his, a body arced against him, soft curves and tumbling hair. The maddening, shattering desire that had blinded him to everything but how Cordelia felt in his arms, to the sweet, soft heat of her.

Grace drew back. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. She was not in the least mussed as he set her down; Cordelia had been barefoot, her bodice tugged sideways, her hair come completely out of its pins. But that had all been pretense, he understood now. He and Cordelia had been performing for the sake of strangers who had come into the room. And if he had wanted Cordelia in that moment, then that was natural: physical desire was not love, and he was sure she had felt nothing for him. Cordelia was his friend; she had even asked him to help her find a husband.

“We will have to tell the Clave,” he said. “Your mother cannot be left to practice black magic in freedom. Even if this automaton is destroyed, she will still have plotted to kill Shadowhunters. She might do so again.”

Grace’s smile faded. “But, James—” She searched his face for a moment, then nodded her head. “Wait until my engagement to Charles is formally announced. As soon as I am truly and safely away from my mother, the Clave can be told.”

He felt a dull relief. He was about to kiss her again when there was a knock on the door. Grace withdrew her hand from James’s, as he said, “Just a moment.”