“I did not know you had the power to possess people, Mama,” said Grace wearily. “Is he helping you?”

“He is,” breathed her mother. “Our patron, who gave you your gift, very kindly helped me into this body, though I doubt it will hold up for long.” She eyed the housemaid’s trembling hands critically. “He could have sent a shape-changing Eidolon demon, of course, or any of his other servants, but he wished me to see to this personally. He does not want his gift squandered. And you would not wish to anger him. Would you?”

His gift. The power that allowed Grace to control the minds of men, to make them do as she wished. Only men, of course—Tatiana would never have thought of women as having power or influence worth bothering to subvert.

“No,” Grace said dully. It was the truth. One did not lightly anger such a powerful demon. “But if you—and your patron—wished to prevent this wedding, you should have acted earlier than this.”

Tatiana sneered. “I trusted you would act on your own. It seems that was foolishness. You have known how to contact me, with the adamas, but you have never bothered. As always you disappoint.”

“I was afraid,” Grace said. “The Bridgestocks—he’s the Inquisitor, Mama.”

“It was your choice to live in that lions’ den. As for the wedding, it hardly matters. Making Herondale betray his vows is a delicious prospect. He will hate himself even the more for what our power has wrought.” Tatiana’s face split into a rictus grin; it was terrifying, wrong, somehow, as if the human face she had borrowed were about to come apart at the seams. “I am your mother,” she said. “There is no one in this world who knows you as I do.” Jesse, Grace thought, but she said nothing. “I saw the look on your face, downstairs. You intended to release him again, didn’t you? You intended to confess?”

“There is no point to all this,” Grace said. “The magic is not strong enough. I cannot bind him forever. He will see through it, you know, through the falsity.”

“Nonsense.” Tatiana made a dismissive gesture, the housemaid’s wrist flopping bonelessly as she moved. “You understand nothing of the greater plan, girl. James Herondale is a piece on a chessboard. Your duty is to keep him in place, not tell him secrets he has no business knowing.”

“But he will not do as I say—”

“He will do what we need him to, if you bend your will to it. It matters only that you do as you are told.” Her shoulders twitched, violently; Grace was reminded of stories she had heard about animals, still alive, writhing inside the bodies of snakes who had swallowed them. “And should you think of disobeying, our patron is prepared to cut you off from any access to Jesse. His body will be taken to where you can never see him again.”

Terror went through Grace like a knife. The demon could not know, could he, what she had been planning, hoping to do to help her brother? “You cannot,” she whispered. “You cannot let him, Mama—I am so close to helping Jesse—you would not separate us—”

Tatiana laughed; just then the door rattled in its frame. The housemaid’s face contorted; she gave a violent shudder and collapsed to the ground. Her broom and dustpan went flying. Grace raced to her side as the door flew open and someone said, “Miss Blackthorn! Miss Blackthorn, what happened?”

It was Christopher Lightwood, of all people. Grace knew him mainly as James’s friend; he seemed the least alarming of the three. “I don’t know,” she said frantically. “She had only just come in when she collapsed in front of me.”

“James sent me to tell you to return to the Long Hall.” Christopher knelt and put two fingers to the maid’s wrist, taking her pulse. A faint line of concern appeared between his brows. He scrambled back to his feet. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Grace could only stare at the limp housemaid—she seemed to be breathing at least, thankfully—and wait. In a moment or so Christopher returned, along with the Herondales’ cook, Bridget, and two footmen.

Bridget, wearing a musty black frock and a hat with an artificial yellow flower tilted sideways on her head, knelt down and turned the maid’s head to examine her. “She’s breathing normally. And her color is good.” She gave Grace a wry look. “Malingering, maybe, to get out of all the work this wedding has brought.”

“I believe her right wrist is broken, probably hurt in her fall,” Christopher said. “I do not think she is pretending.”

“Humph,” said Bridget. “Well, we’ll help Edith—don’t you worry. You two get back to the chapel. The ceremony’s about to start, and the young master will want you there.”

Christopher laid a hand on Grace’s arm and began to steer her from the room. Normally Grace heartily disliked being steered, but Christopher did it in a kindly, not a domineering, sort of way. “Are you all right?” he said as they reached the staircase.

“I was startled,” Grace said, which she supposed was truthful enough.

“Is there a message you wished me to give to James?” Christopher asked. “He said you had wanted to speak with him, but that there was not time.”

Ah, the irony, Grace thought. James, loyal and dutiful James, had decided not to meet her alone in the drawing room anyway. It had all been for nothing.

“I only wanted to wish him a happy day,” she said. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added more quietly, “And to tell him to look after his bride well. Love is a rarity in this world, and true friendship, too. That was all.”

4

A GOOD NAME

May this marriage be a sign of compassion,

a seal of happiness here and hereafter.

May this marriage have a fair face and a good name,

an omen as welcome

as the moon in a clear blue sky.

—Rumi, “This Marriage”

James stood at the altar, looking out over the gathered crowd. He felt a little dizzy to see the pews so completely filled with wedding guests—the Wentworths and Bridgestocks, the Townsends and Baybrooks sat alongside people he barely knew. Then there were his parents in the front pew, their hands tightly clasped. Cordelia’s family—Sona in ivory silk with gold and silver embroidery; Elias looking tired, and years older than James remembered. Alastair, his face haughty and unreadable as ever. James’s aunts and uncles, clustered together. Henry, a broad grin on his face, his Bath chair drawn up beside the pew where Charles sat. Thomas and Anna, smiling encouragingly.

Everywhere were pale flowers from Idris, garlanding the aisles and spilling over the altar, their delicate scent filling the chapel. The room glimmered in the soft golden haze of the candlelight. James had walked the flower-strewn aisle with Matthew’s hand steady on his arm. Matthew had murmured to him—light, funny comments about the guests and a few harsh words for Mrs. Bridgestock’s hat—and James had thought how lucky he was, to have a parabatai who was always there for him. He could never truly fall with Matthew to hold him up.

The chapel doors opened a crack—everyone looked up, but it was not Cordelia; it was Grace, escorted by Christopher. She made her way quickly to Charles’s pew and slid in beside him, while Kit hurried to join Thomas and Anna.