Chain of Iron

To Matthew’s credit, the rest of the Devil Tavern crowd seemed to be unironic admirers of Claribella and her performance. When her dance was finished she retreated behind her tank, at least in part to protect herself from her most ardent devotees.

“She does have a certain way about her,” Christopher said. He looked over at James hopefully. “Eh?”

“We should have gone to the Pouncebys’ sledding party,” said James.

“Perhaps a quiet evening upstairs?” said Thomas sympathetically. “I’ll cut a path through the crowd.”

As they followed Thomas through the surge of Downworlders, Matthew, who had been selling tickets for private sessions with Claribella, saw them and leaped down from the stage.

“Seeking the beautiful solace of solitude?” Matthew asked, taking James’s arm. He smelled like Matthew always did—cologne and brandy, singed with a bit of smoke and sawdust.

“I’m going upstairs with the three of you,” said James. “I wouldn’t call that ‘solitude.’”

“Quiet, then,” said Matthew. “‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time—’”

As they reached the steps, Ernie the tavern owner jumped up on the stage and attempted to dance with Claribella—but with only a pair of stubby fins, she easily eluded him and leaped headfirst into the tub of gin inhabited by Pickles the kelpie. She emerged a second later, blowing a spout of gin as Pickles neighed in delight.

They made it to their private rooms upstairs, Thomas bolting the doors firmly behind them. It was cold, and a steady leak was dripping water from the ceiling onto the worn carpets, but James found it a welcoming sight anyway. This was the headquarters of the Merry Thieves, their bolt-hole, their place away from the world, and the only place James wanted to be right now. The snow had picked up and was coming down in whirling white gusts against the leaded glass windows.

As Thomas carried over an empty pot to catch the leak, Christopher knelt in front of the fireplace and examined the logs laid within it, damp with melted snow. He took an object from his pocket, a metal tube attached to a small glass flask—a delivery method for a chemical fire starter of his own invention that he had been working on in recent weeks. He threw a switch, and the flask filled up with a pinkish gas. There was a small pop and a brief flash of a flame shooting out the end of the tube, but it quickly extinguished itself and thick black smoke poured into the room.

“I didn’t expect that,” Christopher said, trying to stopper the tube with the end of his handkerchief. James exchanged an exasperated look with Matthew, and they ran to open the windows, coughing and gasping. Thomas grabbed a tattered book from the shelves and tried to fan the smoke toward the window. They opened the rest of the windows and doors and grabbed whatever was at hand to wave the acrid smoke around the room until it finally dissipated, leaving a bitter stench and a scattering of black soot on every surface.

They slammed the windows closed. Thomas went into the adjoining room and returned with dry wood: this time, when Christopher tried to light the fire—with ordinary vesta matches—it caught. The four of them crowded around the circular table in the middle of the room, all shivering; Matthew caught James’s hands and chafed them between his own.

“Well, this is a fine way to spend the eve of your wedding,” he said apologetically.

“Nowhere I’d rather be,” James said, his teeth chattering. “You’re the only ones who know the truth about this wedding, for one thing.”

“Thus freeing us from the usual expectation that this penultimate evening must be enjoyable,” Matthew said. He let go of James’s hands and set out four cups. Picking up the brandy bottle, he poured a measure into each.

His tone was light, but there was an edge to his voice, and James wondered how much Matthew had had to drink before he’d even arrived at the tavern tonight.

“The regulars seemed to enjoy Claribella’s performance,” Thomas said.

“Did you know she was a reverse mermaid?” Christopher asked, his lilac eyes wide with innocent curiosity.

“Er,” said Matthew, refilling his mug, “not as such, no. I mean, the booker said she was backward, but I just thought he meant she was poorly educated, and I didn’t wish to be a snob.”

Thomas snorted.

“You might have asked to see her before booking her,” James said. He took a sip from his mug; the brandy began warming up his insides as the fire, now crackling, had started to warm his outside.

He’d meant it as a joke, but Matthew looked wounded. “I made an effort,” he protested. To Thomas and Christopher he said, “I didn’t hear any magnificent ideas from the rest of you for tonight.”

“Only because you said you had it handled,” Thomas said.

“The important thing,” Christopher said, looking alarmed at the potential for conflict, “is that we’re all together. And that we get James to the ceremony on time, of course.”

“Of course, because the groom is champing at the bit to be married,” Matthew drawled, and they all looked at each other, as alarmed as Christopher. The four of them argued or fought very rarely, and James and Matthew almost never.

Even Matthew seemed to realize his comment had cut too close, the skeleton of the truth gleaming like white bone through dirt. He pulled his flask from his coat and turned it upside down, but it was empty. He tossed it onto the nearby sofa and looked at James, his eyes bright.

“Jamie,” he said. “My heart. My parabatai. You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to go through with it. You know that, don’t you?”

Both Christopher and Thomas sat motionless.

“Cordelia—” James began.

“Cordelia might not want this either,” said Matthew. “A sham marriage—not what a young girl dreams of, surely—”

James stood up from the table. His heart beat a strange tattoo inside his chest. “In order to save me from being imprisoned by the Clave for arson, destruction of property, and the Angel knows what else, Cordelia lied for me. She said we spent the night together.” His tone was harsh, each word clear and precise. “You know what that means for a woman. She destroyed her own reputation for me.”

“But it isn’t destroyed,” said Christopher. “You—”

“Offered to marry her,” said James. “No, scratch that, I told her we were getting married. Because Cordelia would indeed be the first to turn away from such a union. She would never want me to do something I felt compelled to do, never want me to make myself unhappy for her sake.”

“Are you?” Thomas’s eyes were clear and steady. “Making yourself unhappy for her?”

“I would be more unhappy if she was ruined,” said James, “and I had the blame for it. A year of marriage to Daisy is a small price to pay to save us both.” He exhaled. “Remember? We all said it would be good fun? A lark?”

“I suppose the closer it gets to the day, the more serious it seems,” said Christopher.

“It is not a light business,” said Thomas. “The runes of marriage, the vows—”

“I know,” said James, turning away toward the windows. Snow seemed to have swallowed all of London. They sat captured in a pinpoint of light and warmth, in the center of a world of ice.