Chain of Iron

James was genuinely touched by the outpouring of sentiment, but it only made him feel even more uneasy about the nature of his marriage. It will all be over in a year, he thought. If you knew that, you would not be celebrating.

Matthew had disappeared up the stairs soon after his speech and left the rest of them to be surrounded by the rowdy revelers getting drunker and drunker in James’s honor, until, of course, the inevitable moment when Sid threw a punch at Sid and a roar of equal parts approval and mockery rose from the crowd.

Thomas, a scowl on his face, used his broad frame and considerable muscles to maneuver the three of them into a less crowded corner of the room.

“Cheers, Thomas,” Christopher said. His brown hair was ruffled, his spectacles pushed halfway up his head. “Matthew’s special entertainment should be starting …” He looked hopefully toward the stairs. “Any minute now.”

“When Matthew plans a special something, it’s usually either terribly delightful or delightfully terrible,” said James. “Do any of us want to take bets on which this will be?”

Christopher smiled a bit. “A thing of surpassing beauty, according to Matthew.”

“That could be anything,” said James, watching Polly the barmaid march into the middle of the fray to pull the Sids apart as Pickles the kelpie took bets on who would be the winner.

Thomas uncrossed his arms and said, “It’s a mermaid.”

“It’s a what?” said James.

“A mermaid,” Thomas repeated. “Enacting some kind of … sultry mermaid performance.”

“Some friend of his from the demimonde, you know,” put in Christopher, who seemed pleased to know the word “demimonde.” Admittedly, Matthew’s frequent assignations with poets and courtesans were a far cry from Christopher’s tinctures and test tubes, or Thomas’s extensive library and intensive training regimen. Nevertheless, they both seemed relieved to have spilled the secret.

“What’s she going to do?” said James. “And … where is she going to do it?”

“In a large tank of water, one hopes,” said Christopher.

“As for what she will do,” said Thomas, “something bohemian with bells and castanets and veils. I imagine.”

Christopher seemed concerned. “Won’t the veils get wet?”

“It will be an experience never to be forgotten,” Thomas went on. “So says Matthew. Surpassing beauty, and so on.”

Without thinking, James found himself reaching for the silver bracelet on his wrist, running his fingers absentmindedly across its surface. He barely noticed its presence after all this time—Grace Blackthorn had entrusted him with it when he was only fourteen. But James had been trying hard not to think of Grace as his wedding approached.

One year, James thought. He must put Grace out of his mind, for one more year. That was the promise they had made to each other. And he had promised Cordelia, as well, that he would not see Grace alone or behind her back: if anyone found out, she would be humiliated. The world must think their marriage was a marriage in truth.

The thought of going through with his wedding to Cordelia while still wearing the bracelet made him ill at ease. He reminded himself to take it off, when he was back at home. Removing it might be a slight to Grace, but leaving it on felt like a slight to Cordelia. He had decided when it had all happened that he would not betray his wedding vows by word or deed. He might not be able to control his heart or his thoughts, but he could remove the bracelet. That much lay within his power.

At the other side of the room, Polly was ordering around a small team of brownies. They had set up a stage at the far end of the room, on which sat, indeed, a large glass tank of water. A pair of brownies moved candelabras around to provide theatrical lighting, and others scampered about, clearing the floor to make way for an audience.

The stairs rattled; Matthew was hurrying down, his bright hair the color of candlelight in the haze of the bar. He had taken off his jacket and was in shirtsleeves and a green-and-blue-striped waistcoat. He flipped himself over the staircase banister and landed on the stage. Standing behind the tank, he held up his hands for quiet.

The din continued unabated, however, until the first Sid brought his massive fists together above his head and shouted, “Oi! Quiet or I’ll crush your mangy skulls!”

“That’s right!” agreed the other Sid; apparently they had put their differences behind them.

There was a fair bit of grumbling, and a nearby werewolf muttered, “Mangy! Well!” But eventually, the crowd quieted down.

“Steady on,” James whispered. “How is a mermaid going to get down the stairs?”

There was a pause, and Christopher, who had taken off his spectacles to clean them, said, “How did the mermaid get up the stairs?”

Thomas shrugged.

“Good evening, my friends!” Matthew called, to a smattering of polite applause. “Tonight we have something truly exceptional to present to you in honor of an old friend of the Devil. You have been kind enough to tolerate the presence of us Merry Thieves for several years now—”

“We just thought you Shadowhunters were raiding the place,” Polly spoke up with a smirk, “and taking your time about it.”

“Tomorrow, one of us—the first of us—marches to his doom and joins the ranks of you poor married sods,” Matthew continued. “But tonight, we send him off in style!”

Hoots and cheers accompanied shouted jests and pounding on tables. A satyr and a squat horned creature near the front stood up and pantomimed a lewd embrace, until someone threw a sausage at them. At the piano, one of the hobgoblins struck up a light comic tune. Music filled the room, and Matthew held up his witchlight. Glimmering, it illuminated a figure descending the stairs.

James wondered for a moment whether this was the first time someone had used a witchlight rune-stone as stage lighting before he realized what he was looking at and his mind went blank. Christopher made a small noise in the back of his throat, and Thomas stared wide-eyed.

The mermaid had human legs. They were long and really quite shapely, James had to admit, loosely draped in diaphanous skirts made of woven exotic seaweeds.

Unfortunately, from the waist up she was the front half of a gaping, staring fish. Her scales were shiny metallic silver and reflected the light in a way that almost, but not quite, distracted from her dinner-plate-size, unblinking yellow eyes.

The audience went mad, cheering and hooting twice as loudly as before. One of the werewolves howled, “CLARIBELLA!” in a mournful, yearning voice.

“May I present,” Matthew cried with a grin, “Claribella the Mermaid!”

The crowd whistled and banged their approval. James, Christopher, and Thomas struggled to find words.

“The mermaid’s backward,” said James, having regained some of his vocabulary—though perhaps not all of it.

“Matthew hired a reverse mermaid,” Thomas agreed. “But why?”

“I wonder what kind of fish she is,” said Christopher. “Are mermaids a specific kind of fish? Sharks, or herring, or such?”

“I had kippers for breakfast this morning,” Thomas said sadly.

The backward mermaid began to swing her hips side to side, with the ease of a practiced cabaret dancer. Her mouth bobbed open and closed in rhythm with the music. Her small fins, on either side of her body, flapped.