Chain of Gold (The Last Hours, #1)

by Cassandra Clare

Many choices were not easy—they were near impossible, and there was no point hating people who were forced to make them.

He had been thinking of Cordelia, not Grace, but he found himself at the wall around Blackthorn Manor nonetheless.

Boy you've got it BAD for Cordelia. I ship it so hard. This House Blackthorn gives me the creeps.

Oddly, his mind turned to Cordelia, to her voice reaching through the fever, through the shadows. He fell to his knees, his hands making no mark in the dirt of the road. He closed his eyes. Let me come back. Let me come back. Do not leave me alone in these shadows.

Cordelia quite literally being the light in the darkness is a recurring theme that will end me.

He looked down at Grace. How had he never noticed before that her eyes were almost the precise color of silver, like the bracelet itself? He wore it through the summer, into the next year and the year after. He had, even now, still not taken it off.

SHE SPELLED YOU BOY

Bright is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. —Robert Louis Stevenson, “Bright Is the Ring of Words”

Cordelia couldn’t be sure; Alastair often seemed as if he knew a great deal more than he was letting on. She thought longingly of the distant past when the two of them had been able to settle their differences by hitting each other over the head with toy teakettles.

Christopher was the first to speak. “I didn’t know that you were in love with someone, James. I’m sorry. I should have been paying attention.” “I didn’t know either,” said Thomas, “and I have been paying attention.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Christopher said. “It is as if one was bitten by a duck and years later one shot a completely different duck and ate it for dinner, and called that revenge.” “Please do not use metaphors, Christopher,” said Matthew. “It gives me the pip.” “This is bad enough without mentioning ducks,” said James. He had never fancied ducks since one had bitten him in Hyde Park as a small child.

“I always end up helping Christopher in the lab.” “It is because you are remarkably good at dodging explosions,” said James, “and also, you can curse in Spanish.” “How does that help?” said Thomas. “It doesn’t,” said James, “but Christopher likes it.

“She had better love him back,” said Matthew. “He deserves it.” “We don’t always love people who deserve it,” said Thomas quietly.

“They need a muse,” said Anna. “Someone to be inspired by. Someone to know their secrets. Would you like to be a muse?” “No,” said Cordelia. “I would like to be a hero.”

“Anna, you won’t believe—” He broke off as he saw Cordelia. “What are you doing here?” Cordelia was not sure such a rude question deserved an answer. “Having tea.”

“No one ever just wants to have tea,” said Anna. “Tea is always an excuse for a clandestine agenda.”

“Anna, Cordelia is a proper young lady,” said Matthew. “She may not wish to risk her reputation by sallying out with Downworlders and reprobates.” “Cordelia wants to be a hero,” said Anna. “One cannot do that by staying at home stitching samplers.”

“Matthew and I occasionally attend an artistic salon in a building owned by the High Warlock of London,” said Anna. “Malcolm Fade.”

THE WORST

“It is time for us to do what we do best.” “Drink?” said Matthew. “Be charming,” said Anna.

This is a BROTP I love.

It’s just those aren’t things that Shadowhunters do. We don’t create like that.” “We can,” Matthew said. “We are simply told we shouldn’t. Do not confuse conditioning with a native inability.”

“Do you create, Matthew?” asked Cordelia, looking at him sharply. “Do you draw, or paint, or pen poetry?” “Lucie writes,” said Matthew, his eyes like dark water. “I thought she wrote for you, sometimes.” “Lucie worries,” said Cordelia. “She doesn’t say so, but I know she worries, that all her writing will come to nothing, because she is a Shadowhunter and that must come first.”

I feel I will be a better Shadowhunter when it is done. Were you not one, after you became parabatai with Uncle Jem?” “A better Shadowhunter and a better man,” said Will. “All the best of me, I learned from Jem and your mother. All I want for you and Cordelia is to have what I had, a friendship that shall shape all your days. And never to be parted.”

Lucie had long ago decided that living in a story would be terribly uncomfortable. Far better to write them, and control the tale so it was never too sad or too scary, only just enough to be intriguing.

“Let me tell you something, Jesse Blackthorn. Your mother may have reason to be resentful of Shadowhunters, but if her ridiculous demons hurt my brother, I will have no pity. I shall beat her to death with her own stupid hat.”

“I simply cannot see why one would wish to picnic in the nude,” Cordelia said. “There would be ants in dreadful places.” Anna laughed. “Cordelia, you are a breath of fresh air,” she said,

Are you interesting, Cordelia Carstairs?” Cordelia hesitated. “If you have to think about it,” said Hypatia, “then you’re not.” “That hardly makes sense,” said Cordelia. “Surely if you do not think, you cannot be interesting.”

“Magnus Bane would help them,” said Hypatia, the stars in her eyes sparkling. “That is why they have come. Magnus has made them believe a warlock will always help them.”

“Our kind and yours are best apart, whatever Bane might say.” “I have not met Bane,” said Hypatia, tapping her golden fingernails together. “Before he last left London he helped the Nephilim, but do they recall his graciousness, or do they only expect help at the first sign of trouble?

“Only Paris is like Paris.

“Doesn’t that just mean ‘the hotel’ in French?” James had said, barely looking up from his book. “That’s because it’s the hotel where anybody who is anybody stays.” “I’m not anybody,” Thomas had protested. “Oscar Wilde stayed there,” said James. “When Matthew says ‘anybody,’ that’s usually who he means.” “Not only Oscar Wilde,” Matthew had said. “But yes, Oscar Wilde. He died there.” “I trust you’ll have a more pleasant time,” said James.

It was crowded, and Alastair was grumpy about it, but he didn’t take it out on Thomas. He didn’t belittle the art. He didn’t speak in rapturous tones, either; to Thomas’s surprise, Alastair seemed content to place himself before a work of art and simply behold it for a long moment, letting it wash over his senses. His face was serious, his brow wrinkled, but Thomas was sure that it was the most content he had ever seen Alastair.

He waited for Alastair to scoff, but Alastair just acknowledged Thomas’s comments with a nod. Thomas had no reason to like Alastair, had in fact every reason to dislike Alastair, but in these small moments standing next to one another in the presence of a beautiful object, he was glad Alastair was there, and Alastair’s acknowledgment of him, however small, made him feel better than he had since he’d arrived in Paris.

Maybe he had changed, Thomas thought. Maybe everyone grew up sooner or later. Maybe he had not even been that bad in the first place. He thought back to his time at the Academy and decided that, no, Alastair had definitely been terrible in the first place. But he seemed calmer now, more thoughtful.

Sometimes you have to stand back and let people do what they are good at, even if it seems like madness at the time.”

“It’s odd that you came here from Madrid. Like taking a vacation from a vacation.” “I suppose,” said Thomas. Then he frowned. “No, it isn’t odd. A travel year isn’t a vacation. It’s an assignment to a post. Do you have to snipe at everything?” Alastair looked startled. “I’m sorry,” he said after a long moment. “I don’t mean anything by it.”

For these days it had been as though nobody else existed in the entire world. “Well,” Thomas said. “Goodbye, Carstairs.” “Goodbye, Lightwood. Try not to get any taller. You’re starting to be off-putting in the other direction.” Thomas watched Alastair walk away and waited for him to turn around one last time, but Alastair never looked back as he turned the corner and disappeared.

“How much is love meant to hurt?” he had asked his father once. “Oh, terribly,” his father had said with a smile. “But we suffer for love because love is worth it.”

“A seraph blade! I have tried to enhance it with electricity!” “Does that work?” “Not at all,” confessed Christopher, just as a demon flew shrieking at his face.

“You’re carrying spears?” James demanded. “I never leave the house without my spears!” cried Alastair, causing them all to stare, even Grace.

Alistair Carstairs is a bully. But he has spears and has erase led his way in to my heart.

“The leader seemed to feel it was an old friend of James’s grandfather.” “Oh, the demony grandfather?” said Christopher. “Yes, obviously the demony one, Christopher,” said James. “The other one’s Welsh,” said Thomas, as if this explained things. He directed this statement in Alastair and Cordelia’s direction.

“Oh, bloody hell, I’ll do it,” said Alastair, and stomped heavily over to Thomas’s side. Thomas watched in what seemed to be shock as Alastair produced a stele and began to draw on the bare skin of his arm where his shirt had been torn.

Oh, the ship sails itself.

Beside Cordelia, Lucie produced her stele with a flourish. “Our first healing rune!” she announced, putting the tip of the stele to Cordelia’s wrist. “A historic moment for a pair of soon-to-be-famous parabatai.”

BESTIES 4 LIFE

“If it actually cared that James was related to an ‘important’ demon, it should have said something to me, too,” said Lucie. “I am his sister. I do not appreciate being overlooked.”

Lucie Herondale knows her value and loves her brother and I love that for her.

“Ah, Magnus Bane,” said Matthew. “My personal hero.” “Indeed, you once described him as ‘Oscar Wilde if he had magic powers,’ ” said James.

“I’d like to see it,” said Alastair, in a surprisingly quiet voice. Thomas hesitated, then unbuttoned the shirtsleeve of his unwounded arm, and rolled it up to his elbow.

THE SHIP SAILS ITSELF

Cordelia had thought a tattoo would be rather more like their Marks, but it reminded her of something else instead. It was ink, the way books and poems were made of ink, telling a permanent story.

Alastair made an odd sort of noise. He was looking away, as if the sight of Thomas bothered him.

IT SAILS ITSELF

“If you do not promise,” Cordelia added, “I will not go home with you. I will stay out all night and be utterly ruined. I will have to marry Thomas or Christopher.” “What ho,” said Christopher, looking surprised. Thomas smiled.

“By the name of Lilith,” he drawled. “Hide the breakables. Hide the whole house. Christopher Lightwood is here.” “Christopher is often here,” said James. “The house remains mostly intact.”

I would not make any false promises. You know how it must be. We are both men of the world.” “I know,” said Alastair, opening his eyes. He turned to look at Charles. “It is only that—I love you.” Cordelia inhaled sharply. Oh, Alastair.

Oh. Damn.

“And I have loved you since Paris. I thought you loved me.”

"Like we were in Paris. Like we were somewhere else." BUT WHAT THOMAS IN PARIS?!? YOU WENT TO THE LOUVRE TOGETHER.

“I must go,” Charles said. “But do not forget, Alastair, that whatever I do, it is with the thought of you ever in my mind.”

And yet, I don't believe you.

Lucie had seen her uncle Gideon and aunt Sophie only briefly when they had arrived to view Barbara’s body and collect Thomas. Both had seemed hollowed out, like puppets in the shapes of her uncle and aunt, going through the motions of what was necessary.

Sophie and Gideon Lightwood do not deserve this.