Chain of Iron

James started across the room toward his friends, only to be descended upon by a whirl of aunts and uncles—Aunt Cecily and her husband, Gabriel Lightwood; Gabriel’s brother Gideon and his wife, Sophie, and with them, a woman he didn’t know.

Gideon clapped James on the shoulder. “James! You’re looking splendid.”

“What an excellent coat,” Gabriel said. “Did my daughter help you find that?”

“Alas, this isn’t Anna’s work,” said James, straightening his cuffs. “My father took me to his ancient tailor—who absolutely couldn’t understand why I wanted a coat in gold and not a more gentlemanly color, like black or gray.”

“Shadowhunters do not get married in gray,” said Cecily, her eyes sparkling. “And Will has been using that tailor for so long I have begun to wonder if perhaps he lost a bet to him at cards. Have you met Filomena yet?”

James glanced over at the woman standing beside his uncles. She was probably about Anna’s age, with smooth dark hair caught up at the nape of her neck. Her lips were very red, her eyes dark and heavy-lidded. She glanced at him and smiled.

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” James said.

“By the Angel, where are our manners?” Gabriel said, shaking his head. “James, may I present Filomena di Angelo? She has just arrived from Rome, on her travel year.”

“Are you the groom?” said Filomena, in heavily accented English. “What a waste. You are very handsome.”

“Well, you know what they say,” said James. “All the best men are either married or Silent Brothers.”

Cecily burst into giggles. James was spared from further discourse by the sudden appearance of Charles Fairchild, who cut into the conversation with a loud “Congratulations!” He slapped James enthusiastically on the back. “Have you seen either of your parents lately?”

Luckily, Will appeared, having apparently seen Charles’s bright red hair across the room. “Charles,” he said. “You were looking for us?”

“I wanted to confer with you about Paris,” Charles began, and pulled Will aside to speak in hushed but intense tones. The Lightwoods had fallen into a discussion with Filomena about the long absence of demons from London, and the Clave’s annoyance that their numbers were climbing back up again now, necessitating nightly patrols. Feeling there was little he could add to the conversation, James turned, intending to search for Matthew.

Standing in front of him, as if she had emerged, ghostlike, from a nearby wall, was Grace.

 

A flash of Tennyson went through James’s mind. My heart would hear her and beat, were it earth in an earthy bed.

He couldn’t remember what happened in the poem after that, just the poet dreaming of the girl he loved walking over his grave.

Other than at Enclave parties, when he had spotted her from afar and not approached, it had been months since James had seen Grace. It had certainly been that long since he had spoken to her. He had kept to his vow. No communication with Grace. No contact.

If he had hoped it would change the way he felt, he knew in this moment it hadn’t. Her dress was cloudy gray, the color of her eyes: there was a little color in spots on her cheeks, like drops of blood tinting pale wine. She was as beautiful as a dawn that came without color, a sweep of gray sea unmarred by whitecaps or waves. She filled up his vision like a lamp blotting out the stars.

Somehow he had caught her wrist; he had drawn her behind a pillar, out of sight of the rest of the guests. “Grace,” he said. “I didn’t know if you would come.”

“I could have no reasonable excuse to stay away.” Everything about her—the way she looked, the clear sound of her voice, her small wrist under his grasp—went through him like a knife. “Charles expected me to accompany him.”

He released her wrist, glancing around hastily. The only person nearby was a freckle-faced housemaid, who edged away awkwardly. James didn’t recognize her, but then, he didn’t know most of the servants in the Institute today; they’d been brought in by Bridget to help with the wedding. “I would rather you hadn’t.”

“I know.” She bit her lip. “But I must speak with you alone before the ceremony. I must. It is important.”

James knew he should refuse. “The drawing room,” he said quickly, before his own better sense could kick in. “In ten minutes.”

“Oh, no you don’t.” It was Matthew: James looked up in surprise. How his suggenes had found them, he had no idea, but found them he had. He was glowering at the both of them like an owl who had been mortally offended by another owl. “Grace Blackthorn, it is James’s wedding day. Leave him alone.”

Grace did not look in the least intimidated. “I shall quit James’s company if he asks me to do it, not if you ask me to do it,” she said. “I owe you nothing.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Matthew said. “If nothing else, you owe me for the pain you have put my parabatai through.”

“Ah, yes,” said Grace, a light, mocking tone to her voice, “you feel his pain, don’t you? If his heart shatters, does yours shatter? Does he feel what you feel? Because I can see how that might be awkward.”

“Grace,” James said. “Enough.”

She looked startled; he supposed it was rare enough that he’d spoken to her harshly. “I have never meant to hurt you, James.”

“I know,” James said quietly, and saw Matthew shake his head, his cheeks flushed with anger.

“Ten minutes,” Grace murmured, slipping away; she crossed the room, returning to Charles.

Matthew was still glowering. He was splendidly dressed in a morning coat over a stunning brocade waistcoat of Magnus Bane levels of magnificence, embroidered with a spectacular battle scene. He had a gleaming silk ascot at his throat that looked to be woven of pure gold. But the effect was somewhat spoiled by his tousled hair and look of fury. “What did she want with you?”

“Congratulations on your wedding day to you, too,” James said. He sighed. “Sorry. I know why you’re concerned. She said she needed to speak with me before the ceremony, that’s all.”

“Don’t,” said Matthew. “Whatever she has to say will only hurt you. It’s all she ever does.”

“Math,” said James gently, “she is hurting too. This is not her fault. It is my fault, if it’s anyone’s.”

“To feel hurt, she’d have to have feelings,” Matthew began; seeing James’s expression, he visibly bit down on the words.

“Perhaps if you got to know her better—” James started.

Matthew looked fleetingly, genuinely puzzled. “I do not believe I have spoken to her alone,” he admitted. “Or if I have, I do not recall it.” He sighed. “Very well. As your suggenes, it is my job to help you. I will withhold my judgment. Whatever you may need, I can see it is not that.”

“Thank you.” James laid his palm against Matthew’s chest and found it surprisingly hard and metallic. He tapped Matthew’s lapel with his fingers; with a sideways smile, Matthew reached into his jacket and James glimpsed his silver flask.

“Dutch courage,” Matthew said.