Chain of Gold (The Last Hours, #1)

by Cassandra Clare

Pause you who read this, and think for a moment of the long chain of iron or gold, of thorns or flowers, that would never have bound you, but for the formation of the first link on one memorable day. —Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Roll credits.

Lucie Herondale was ten years old when she first met the boy in the forest.

This is a killer opener Cassie.

Older than her brother, James—maybe even sixteen years old. He had a lovely melancholy face and straight black hair without a hint of curl. The ends of his hair almost touched the collar of his shirt.

Do you like stories?” “I love stories,” said Lucie. “When I grow up, I am going to be a famous writer.” “That sounds wonderful,” said the boy. There was something wistful about his tone.

A sound James knew well: Matthew Fairchild’s voice. He launched himself off the roof without a moment’s hesitation. Matthew Fairchild was his parabatai—his blood brother and warrior partner. James was sworn to protect him, not that it mattered: he would have given his life for Matthew’s, vows or not.

Having only known Matthew Fairchild for the space of a short story, I can absolutely confirm that this is the only appropriate response.

“This is an outrage,” Matthew said, tossing the extinguished blade aside. “Do you know how much I spent on this waistcoat?” “No one told you to go out patrolling for demons dressed like an extra from The Importance of Being Earnest,” said James, tossing him a clean handkerchief.

Your honor, I love them.

She was the one who’d first taken to calling them the Merry Thieves, after Robin Hood and his men. James suspected he was Robin of Locksley and Matthew was Will Scarlett. Thomas was definitely Little John.

This is so Marauders/TTPD coded.

Two flights of creaking steps led to a wooden door on which a line had been carved years ago: It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. S.J.

The walls were lined with occult books written by mundane magicians: the library at the Institute didn’t allow such things, but James collected them. He was fascinated by the idea of those who had not been born to the world of magic and shadows and yet yearned for them so strongly that they had learned how to pry open the gates.

“Many things that are ‘very quick’ are also very bad,” said Matthew, setting the point of his stele to James’s skin. “Guillotines come down very quickly, for instance. When Christopher’s experiments explode, they often explode very quickly.” “Clearly, I have neither exploded nor been guillotined,” said James. “I—went into the shadow realm.”

She supposed it was not the most romantic thing in the world to say that every time she saw James Herondale she felt as if she’d been attacked by a waterfowl, but it was true.

For Lucie, everything was always very, very, very something, be it beautiful or exciting or horrid.

Father adores Daisy, and he does make the rules.…” “Your father adores any Carstairs,” said Cordelia. “I’m not sure it’s to my particular credit. He may even like Alastair.” “I think he has convinced himself Alastair has hidden depths,” said James. “So does quicksand,” said Cordelia.

She glanced back at him; he had already taken out a book and was reading it while walking and whistling under his breath.

Much like Daisy, I too am in love with James Herondale.

Privately Cordelia thought her mother was wrong—wasn’t that what power was, the ability to risk angering people? What was the point of being a female Consul if you still had to fret about keeping people happy?

She would solve this with cleverness and bravery—not with the sale of herself as a bride.

Every month, faithfully, for four years, Lucie had mailed Cordelia a new chapter and Cordelia had curled up with her fictional counterpart’s romantic adventures and lost herself in fantasy for a while.

Lucie Herondale writing fan fiction about her best friend is the type of pure wholesome friendship I needed.

“Well, as it turns out, the Bandit King isn’t entirely wicked. You see, he’s the youngest son of a duke who’s always been—sorry,” Lucie ended meekly at Cordelia’s glare. “I forgot how you hate to be told the story before you read it.”

But Father’s diagnosed him and he says it’s definitely love.” “You make it sound like consumption.” Cordelia’s head was whirling with dismay. James in love? With who? “Well, it is a bit, isn’t it? He gets all pale and moody and stares off out of windows like Keats.”

Matthew was all gold hair and smiles, but she suspected there might be a lion under the kitty cat if hurting James was involved. But she would never hurt James. She loved him. She had loved him all her life.

Oh my sweet sweet summer child. This is all about to go terribly for you.

“People become locked in bitterness sometimes,” Tessa said, “and they wish to find someone, anyone, to blame for their grief. It is a shame, for Will and your uncles would have helped her if they could.”

They had all heard the front doors open; Will had looked up when Jem came in, and Jem, in his Silent Brother robes, went over to Will and sat down beside him. He drew Will’s head against his shoulder, and Will held the front of Jem’s robes in his fists and he cried. Tessa bowed her head over both of them, and the three were united in adult grief, a sphere James could not yet touch. It was the first time it had ever occurred to James that his father might cry about anything.

Why Cassie? WHY WOULD YOU WRITE THIS?

They were black and twisted iron, with an arch at the top that spelled out words in Latin: LEX MALLA, LEX NULLA. A bad law is no law.

“Drink, and you will sleep; sleep, and you will not sin; do not sin, and you will be saved; therefore, drink and be saved.” “Matthew, you could sin in your sleep,” said a languorous voice.

The girl moved forward gracefully to greet Tessa and Will, and as she did so, James dropped Cordelia’s hands.

"And I dropped your hand while dancing..."

One should not leave a lady on the dance floor unless something is actually on fire.

He had been glad to see her there among the usual group of girls, knowing he could ask her to dance and she would make no wrong assumptions about his intentions: they were family friends.

It is too early for a knife to the heart like this.

“Cordelia has a tendency to throw herself into every situation headlong,” she said to Tessa and Will. “I’m sure you understand.” “Oh, we do,” said Will. “We’re always speaking very sternly to our children about that very thing. ‘If you don’t throw yourself into situations headlong, James and Lucie, you can expect bread and water for supper again.’ ”

Will Herondale, I have missed you fiercely.

“You can’t paint a line, Tess,” he said, and came over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. Now that he was close up, she could see the silver in his dark hair. “Much less capture my glorious handsomeness, which, I hardly need to point out, has only grown with age.” She didn’t disagree—he was as handsome as ever, his eyes still the same startling blue—but there was no need to encourage Will. Instead she reached up and tugged on one of the more silvered locks of his hair.

“Tess, Tess. Do you think when you stopped growing older, you stopped aging in your heart? You never became cynical and fearful? Is it old age catching up with me, that I am so fretful and disquieted over nothing?” She seized him by the chin, turning his face to hers. “You are not old,” she said fiercely. “Even when you are eighty, you will be my beautiful Will.”

“My Tess,” he said. “My lovely wife.” “There is nothing to be afraid of,” she said, drawing her lips across his cheek. His hands tightened in her hair. “We have been through so much. We deserve this happiness.” “There are others who deserve happiness who have not gotten it.” “I know.” A sob caught in her throat; they were both talking about the same person, and she did not know if the tears she held back were for him or for Will and herself. “I know.”

He was glad Cordelia was in London, he realized. Not just for Lucie, but for himself. It was odd, he thought—almost as if he had forgotten what a steady light her presence could be when the world went dark.

“Well… it’s only… do you want Cordelia and me there?” “Yes,” he said. “You should come. That would be… that would be good.” She smiled, and he smiled back, and he felt like maybe everything would someday, not today, but someday, be all right.

“Cordelia,” she said with what James hoped was mock surprise. “Really? Alone in a boy’s bedroom?” “Mâmân, he can barely sit up, and I am a trained warrior who wields a mythical sword.”

Her cheeks grew unexpectedly red at the more romantic parts: the poor boy falling in love with the beautiful Layla on first sight, wandering mad in the desert when they were separated. “ ‘ That heart’s delight, one single glance his nerves to frenzy wrought, one single glance bewildered every thought. He gazed upon her, and as he gazed, love conquered both. They never dreamed to part.’ ”

Some were decked out in mundane rowing gear—jackets and trousers in white linen, though white, for Shadowhunters, was traditionally the color of mourning and usually avoided. Scandalous! Cordelia thought with dark amusement as she and Alastair neared the crowd.

Do Shadowhunter children wear white as a way to be cool and edgy?

“I see you have ranged your food about you like a fortress,” Anna said. “Very wise. I think of each social occasion as a battle to be entered, myself. And I always wear my armor.”

“If you were a truly dedicated brother, you would be at her side,” Anna said. “I would hope that if I collapsed, Christopher would weep inconsolably and be incapable of consuming meat pies.”

“Last night,” she said, “you were most appallingly rude to me, and I would like an apology.”

ROUND OF APPLAUSE FOR CORDELIA CARSTAIRS

“Don’t you Daisy me,” she said. “Have you taken the time to understand what it is to be a girl in such a situation? A girl cannot ask a gentleman to dance; she is at the mercy of the choice of the opposite sex. She cannot even refuse a dance if it is asked of her. To have a boy walk away from her on the dance floor is humiliating. To have it happen when one is wearing a truly frightful gown, even more so. They will all be discussing what is wrong with me.”

Jem’s violin had pride of place—a Stradivarius carved of mellow wood, it rested in an open case atop a high table. James had seen his father come into this room just to touch the violin sometimes, a faraway look in his eyes. He wondered if he would do the same with Matthew’s belongings if one day, he lost his parabatai. He pushed the thought away. Matthew was like food, sleep, breathing; doing without him would not be possible.

“We all have been, for a time,” said Tessa. “The natural state of Shadowhunters is battle. When it is always ongoing, there is no time to stop and think that it is not an ideal condition for happiness. Shadowhunters are not suited to a halcyon state, yet we have had that time for the past decade or so. Perhaps we had begun to think ourselves invincible.”

“People are only invincible in books,” said Cordelia. “I think you will find most of the time, not even then,” said Tessa. “But at least we can always pick up a book and read it anew. Stories offer a thousand fresh starts.”

“Not every bit of a good story is true,” said Lucie. Her cheeks were bright pink. The air had become chill; Cordelia pulled her cloak around her. “It’s the story that’s important.”

Cordelia caught at Lucie’s hand with her own bandaged one. “Tell me who said that to you. I will kill them.”

Carstairs women have always been ride or die for their besties.

“I’ve seen you use your stele to part your hair,” said James dryly, as he began to examine the window locks. “The Angel gave me this hair,” replied Matthew. “It’s one of the Shadowhunters’ gifts. Like the Mortal Sword.”

“I have a dark charm,” said Christopher sadly. “Please recall that I am the pale neurasthenic one and you are the stern heroic one,” Matthew said to James. “It is very tedious when you mix up our roles. We will have to think of something quite impressive to startle you.” “So what is my role?” said Christopher. “Mad inventor, of course,” said Matthew promptly. “And Thomas is the one with a good heart.” “Lord, I sound dull,” said Thomas.

I LOVE THEM AND THESE PRECIOUS BABIES DESERVE EVERY HAPPINESS

“Answer me, James!” Will shouted. “Why have you blocked this door? I demand to know what’s going on!” “James isn’t here!” Matthew called, moving closer to him. “Go away!”

“Math—help me.” It was an old nickname for Matthew, given to him by Will, after the Welsh king Math ap Mathonwy—the keeper of all wisdom and knower of all things. Will always said Matthew had been born knowing too much. There was a dark awareness in his gaze now as he leaned in toward James’s ear.

The truth was that when he thought of Cordelia marrying someone else, it felt like being kicked in the heart. With a start, he realized that in his vague imaginings of the future Cordelia had always been there, a steady, welcome presence, a warm light in the dark of the unknown.