Chain of Iron

James decided not to comment on the impropriety of a parlormaid appearing before the master of the house in her night attire. He didn’t care. “Have you seen Cordelia? Mrs. Herondale?”

“Oh, yes,” Effie said. “She was coming down the steps, like, and she saw you all cuddled up with that blond popsy. She tore out the back door like a scalded cat.”

“What?” James seized the newel post to steady himself. “Didn’t you think of going after her?”

“Not a bit,” said Effie. “I don’t get paid enough to run about the snow in me nightie.” She sniffed. “And you should know that decent men don’t embrace women other than their wives in their vestibules. They rent a nice house in St. John’s Wood and do it there.”

James felt dizzy. He had been angry when he’d opened the door to see Grace, angry that she’d thrown her arms around his neck, but he’d let her hold on to him, wanting to keep her in the house. It had never occurred to him that Cordelia might have seen him embrace Grace, heard what she’d said. I had to tell you, darling, I am going to end it with Charles. There never was anyone for me but you.

And what had he said back? Thank God.

Three steps took him to the entryway. A pair of Cordelia’s gloves was on the side table; he stuffed them into his pocket, not wanting her to be cold—the night was freezing—he would give her his coat when he found her, he thought. “Effie,” he said. “I want you to summon the Consul. Immediately. There’s a treacherous criminal in the drawing room.”

“Cor.” Effie looked intrigued. “The popsy? What’d she do, then? Nicked something?” Her eyes widened. “Is she dangerous?”

“Not to you. But get the Consul. Ask her to bring Brother Zachariah.” James yanked on his coat. “Grace will tell them what they need to know.”

“The criminal will tell them everything about the crimes she committed?” said Effie, looking baffled, but James didn’t answer. He had already bolted out the door into the night.

 

After what had seemed an interminably long day, Will was glad to retire to his bedroom, kick off his shoes, and watch his wife do what she did best: read. Tessa was curled up in a window seat, her hair hanging thick and lustrous around her shoulders, her nose buried in a copy of a book called The Jewel of Seven Stars. It always amused him that even though her life was filled with demons and vampires, warlocks and faeries, his wife made a beeline for fantastical fiction every time they entered Foyles bookshop.

As if she could hear his thoughts, she glanced over and quirked her mouth up at him. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” he said. “Did you know, you grow more beautiful every day?”

“Well, that’s odd,” said Tessa, resting her chin thoughtfully on the spine of her book, “because as a warlock I do not age, and so I should look the same day to day, neither improving nor worsening.”

“And yet,” said Will, “you continue to accrue radiance.”

She smiled at him. He could tell she was as relieved as he to be home, despite the extended and alarming events of the day. Their trip to Paris had been more harrowing than either of them had let on—it had taken all their joint diplomacy to smooth over the bitter anger of the French Downworlders. There were moments when, alone with Tessa, Will had worried aloud about the possibility of war. He had worried, too, about Charles: the boy had been too angry and defensive at first to realize the scale of his mistake, and then had sunk into a bitter gloom. He had not wanted to come back to London, either, and had agreed to it only when Will had pointed out that he was no longer welcome in Paris.

“You’re fretting,” Tessa said, reading his eyes. When she tilted her head up and brushed his lips with hers, he cupped her face in his hands. So many years, he thought, and each kiss was new as the break of day.

Tessa let her book fall to the floor, her hands rising to grip the front of Will’s shirt. He was just thinking that his night was markedly improving when their reverie was broken by a sudden shriek of horror.

Will spun around, surprising Tessa greatly, then frowned. “Jessamine,” he said sternly. “Don’t carry on. We’re married. And don’t be rude, show yourself to Tessa.”

Jessamine did whatever she did that allowed her to be visible to non-Herondales. It firmed her up around the edges, making her appear more solid and less translucent. “Of course I’d find you two kissing,” she snapped. “There’s no time for such nonsense. I need to tell you about Lucie.”

“What about Lucie?” Will inquired, perturbed by the interruption. He did not think that kissing was nonsense and had been eager to continue with it, especially after such a stressful day.

“Your daughter has got herself mixed up in bad business. I don’t like to tell tales, but it is a dreadful situation involving necromancy.”

“Necromancy?” Tessa exclaimed in disbelief. “If you’re talking about Lucie being friendly with Jesse Blackthorn’s ghost, we already know about it. It’s hardly that surprising; she’s been friends with you all her life.”

“And I must point out that you love to tell tales, Jessamine,” Will added.

“It would be all well and good if Lucie just wanted to be friends with ghosts, but that’s not the end of it.” Jessamine drifted over to Tessa’s dresser. “She can command them. I’ve seen her do it. They do whatever she tells them to.”

“She what?” Will said. “Lucie never—”

Jessamine shook her head, impatient. “Your lovely child summoned up the ghost of Emmanuel Gast, that disgraced warlock. She compelled him to answer her questions, and then at the end she—” Jessamine broke off, dramatically.

“At the end she what?” Tessa said, exasperated. “Really, Jessamine, if you truly have something important to tell us, we could do without the theatrical pauses.”

“At the end she destroyed him,” Jessamine said, and a shudder ran through her silvery form.

Tessa stared at Jessamine as though she wasn’t sure how to respond.

“That doesn’t sound like Lucie,” Will said, but a terrible prickly feeling was coming over him. He wanted to believe Jessamine was mistaken, or even lying, but what reason would she have? He’d never known her to be the kind of ghost that played pranks or made mischief. Of course, she was no help around the place either, but that didn’t mean she’d tell falsehoods about Lucie.

“On the other hand,” said Tessa, “she certainly concealed the fact of her friendship with Jesse’s ghost all this time. She’s entering a rather secretive age, I think.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Will said, then turned to Jessamine. “Where is she now?”

“Holed up in the Sanctuary,” Jessamine said. “I couldn’t follow her. I daresay it’s an oversight that no one has removed ghosts from the list of supernatural creatures forbidden to enter.”

“We can discuss that later,” Will said. If Jessamine truly was concerned for Lucie, that concern didn’t seem to stop her from registering her usual complaints.

Jessamine vanished with an outraged sniff.

“It’s so hard to take her seriously sometimes,” Tessa said, frowning. “Do you think there’s any truth to what she’s saying?”