She felt his longing for her, as if it would crack her own chest open. Jesse, she thought, though she was not really thinking at all—she was reaching for him, as she had always done, reaching out to draw him back to her. Live.

I command you to live.

Wind tore through the Sanctuary, though the doors were closed. Lucie opened her eyes to see the tapers blow out, plunging the room into dimness. In the far, far distance, she seemed to hear a sort of howl, like a tiger whose kill has been torn away from it. The air was full of the scent of singed wicks, of parchment and candle wax….

Under her hand, Jesse’s chest quivered and rose with a breath.

She staggered back. Only then did she realize she was shivering uncontrollably; she felt weak, drained, as if she had lost pints of her own blood. She wrapped her arms around herself as Jesse’s hands moved, fluttered—raised themselves to his face. He tore at the blindfold, gasping, his back arching off the bier.

Lucie wanted to go to him, to help him, but she couldn’t move. She swayed on her feet as Jesse sat up, the Blackthorn sword clattering to the floor. He swung his legs off the bier—he was breathing hard, his eyes darting around the room. She saw him register the extinguished candles, the runes of mourning on the floor, the bier.

And then he saw her.

His lips parted, his eyes widening. “Lucie.”

She sank to her knees. Oh, you’re alive, you’re alive, she wanted to say, but there was not enough strength in her to form the words. The world had begun to blur at the edges. Darkness was creeping in around her. She saw Jesse spring up. He was a blur of white as he came toward her. She heard him call her name, felt his hands on her shoulders.

The world tilted. She realized she was lying on the floor and Jesse was leaning over her. She heard the sound of a door opening in the distance, and now there was someone else there too. Malcolm had come in from outside, bringing the chill of night with him. He wore a white traveling coat and a furious expression. “What have you done?” he demanded, his rage cutting through the hissing in her ears.

She smiled up at both of them. “I did it,” she heard herself whisper. “I brought him back. I commanded him.”

Her eyes drifted shut. Malcolm was still talking, saying that they had to get her out of here now, had to get her to the carriage before anyone discovered what she’d done.

And then there were arms under her, and someone was lifting her off the floor. Carrying her. Jesse, she thought, clinging to consciousness as they crossed the Sanctuary floor. She let her head fall against his chest, a sound in her ear she had never before heard: Jesse’s heartbeat, steady and strong.

I did that, she thought wonderingly. There was a creak of hinges, a blast of cold air. She heard Malcolm say something about getting her into the carriage, but she could no longer hold on. She slipped away into the darkness and silence.

As quietly and hastily as she could, Grace filled her valise, repacking it with the things she’d brought to the Bridgestocks’ when she’d left Chiswick House. Her clothes, she knew, were entirely impractical for a visit to rural Cornwall. Her mother had always insisted she dress in the height of feminine fashion—yards of lace, acres of silk, nothing warm or waterproof. But it would have to do.

Having closed the valise, she hurried to her vanity table. Not hers, she reminded herself. Nothing here was hers; she was only a guest, and not a particularly wanted one. The Bridgestocks would be relieved to be rid of her. Opening a drawer, she dug around inside for the small silk bag full of coins. It was all she had—not much, but enough for a hansom cab to the Institute. Malcolm would be arriving there any moment to meet Lucie. She couldn’t be late. Hurrying back across the room, she picked up her valise, went to the door—

“Grace.”

It was like a kick to the stomach. The valise slipped out of her hand and struck the floor, spilling petticoats, stockings, a lace shawl. Shaking, Grace turned slowly, swallowing hard against her own fear.

“Mama,” she said.

There, her face glowering from the surface of the mirror on the vanity table, was Tatiana. She wore the robes of an Iron Sister, as she had the last time Grace had seen her. Around her forehead was bound an iron circlet, and her long gray-streaked hair hung unkempt over her shoulders. She looked like the oldest of the three Fates, the one who cut the threads of human lives.

“You have been a foolish and disobedient girl, Grace,” Tatiana said, without preamble or greeting. “You have helped others against our family, and you have put me in an awkward position with my patron.”

Grace took a long, slow breath. “You mean Belial.”

Tatiana rocked back. “Oho. The chit has been sneaking about, spying on me. Learning my secrets. Is that how it is?”

“No,” Grace said, “at least—I had not intended to learn anything. I was trying to help Jesse.”

“Trying to bring him back from the dead, you mean,” said Tatiana, “with your silly little spells. Activated moth powder indeed.” She chuckled. “That’s correct, chit—I know it all. How foolish you have been. You couldn’t trust that your mother knew best, could you? It is my alliances, my patron, who will return Jesse to us, not your miserable fumblings.”

“What Belial tells you cannot be trusted,” Grace said breathlessly. “He is a Prince of Hell. A demon.”

Tatiana snorted. “It is not demons who have betrayed me. My patron has kept every promise to me that he ever made. His word is more reliable than yours, as far as I am concerned. If it were not for you, Jesse would not now be in the hands of a Shadowhunter. And not just a Shadowhunter, a Herondale. How could you have done such a thing?”

Grace wanted to scream. She wanted to run out of the room, run to the Institute, to Malcolm and Lucie. But it would do no good. Tatiana would follow. “You have to be careful, Mother,” she said, as steadily as she could. “The Inquisitor is on his way to the Citadel. He is going to question you.”

“Fiddlesticks,” said Tatiana, with a dismissive wave. “Question me about what? I am an innocent old woman.”

“About Jesse,” said Grace. “About his protection spells. About whether you knew that Belial had left a piece of himself inside Jesse, so he could possess him. I know, of course, that you must not have been aware of what your ‘patron’ did. I know you would never have put Jesse in danger.”

Tatiana’s voice sharpened. “It was Jesse’s fault,” she said, startling Grace. “If he hadn’t been so insistent on wanting runes, it would never have happened. How could Belial have guessed? He assumed I would raise my child properly—to despise the Nephilim and everything that is theirs. Though I did not know what would happen, it was my fault and my boy’s fault. That is why I have worked so very hard, Grace. So very hard to bring him back properly. With the right loyalties. The right desires. The right commitments.”

Grace shuddered. “You want Jesse back, but only obedient to you.”

“You can’t understand,” said Tatiana. “You’re only a girl—stupid and foolish. Don’t you see what will happen? The Herondale girl will bring him back, and turn him against us. They’ll teach him to hate us, to hate everything he came from. Don’t you understand? This is what they were always going to do. Take Jesse away from his family. That is why you must go and get him back.”