Chain of Gold (The Last Hours, #1)

by Cassandra Clare

“Grace asked me if I would run away with her. Cut my ties with my family, marry her in Scotland, and start over as mundanes.” “But—but your parents, and Lucie—” Cordelia’s thoughts went immediately to her friend. How shattered Lucie would have been to lose her brother like that. As if he had died, but worse almost, because he would have chosen to have left them. “Yes,” said James. “And my parabatai. All my friends.” His tiger eyes glittered in the dark. “I refused. I failed her. I failed to love as I should have. I am not sure caring could be my strength.” “That was not love she asked for,” said Cordelia, suddenly furious. “That is not love. That is a test. And love should not be tested like that.”

James had moved closer to her; she could smell the scent of him, of sandalwood soap and a mixture of leather and ink. She felt the brush of his hand against her cheek, his thumb softly tracing her cheekbone. “Cordelia!” Both James and Cordelia turned, startled: Sona was standing on the threshold of the house, candlelight burning behind her. A silk roosari covered her dark hair and she was beaming. “Cordelia joon, do come inside before you catch cold. And Mr. Herondale, it was kind of you to escort Cordelia home. You are truly a gentleman.” Cordelia looked at her mother in surprise. She hadn’t expected Sona to be in such a good mood. James’s eyebrow flicked upward, black as the wing of a crow, if the wing of the crow had a faintly sardonic air. “It’s a pleasure to escort Daisy anywhere.” “Daisy,” Sona repeated. “Such a charming pet name. Of course, you were children together, and now you are reunited and quite grown-up. It’s all so delightful.” Ah. Cordelia realized what was going on with her mother. James was eligible—very eligible. As the son of the head of the London Institute, he might be expected to wield significant influence in the future, or even to become the head of an Institute himself, a job that paid far more than the salary provided by the Clave to a typical Shadowhunter. Besides, he was charming when he was not wearing the Mask, and that sort of thing had an effect on mothers. At Sona’s urging, she and James climbed the steps to the front door of the house: w...

Sona is just like my mother 🤣

Cordelia settled herself in a blue armchair. Alastair turned a little to look at her; his fingers tapped out a rhythm on the newsprint. “What about Charles?” he said. “I know he has become engaged again,” she said. “To Grace Blackthorn.” Alastair’s restless hands stopped moving. “Yes,” he said. “Pity for your friend James.” So he knows, Cordelia thought. Charles must have told him. “So—are you all right?” she asked. Alastair’s black eyes were fathomless. “What do you mean?” Cordelia couldn’t bear it any longer. “I heard you and Charles talking in the library,” she said. “I heard you say you loved him. I won’t tell anybody else, I promise. You know I always keep my word. It doesn’t make the least bit of difference to me, Alastair.” Alastair was silent. “I wouldn’t have said anything, but—for Charles to become engaged again, after he knew how unhappy you were about Ariadne—Alastair, I don’t want anyone to be cruel to you. I want you to be with someone who will make you happy.” Alastair’s eyes glittered. “He’s not cruel. You don’t know him. He and Grace have an understanding. He explained it to me. Everything Charles does is so he and I can be together.” There was something mechanical about the words, as if they had been rehearsed. “But you don’t wish to be someone’s secret,” said Cordelia. “You said—” “How do you know what I said? How could you possibly have overheard us without going out of your way to do so? You were upstairs, we were downstairs—unless you followed me,” Al...

James went still, his hand motionless on the poker. The sparks flew upward. “I thought I would feel incredible grief,” he said at last. “Instead I am not sure what I feel. Everything is sharper and clearer, colors and textures are different. Perhaps that is grief. Perhaps it is just that I don’t know how such loss should feel.”

Her mother and father came in, both bright-eyed from the brisk wind outside. Tessa stopped to set her gloves on a small Moroccan table by the door, while Will swept over to kiss Lucie and ruffle James’s hair. “Gracious,” said James, his tone light. “What is the meaning of all this unbridled affection?” “We were with your aunt Cecily and uncle Gabriel,” said Tessa, and Lucie realized her mother’s eyes were a bit too bright. Tessa took a seat on the sofa. “My poor loves. All our hearts are shattered for Sophie and Gideon.” Will sighed. “I remember when Gideon and Gabriel could barely stand each other. Now Gabriel is there each day for his brother. I am glad you and James have each other, Luce.” “I suppose the good news is that there have been no new attacks today,” said Tessa. “We must hold to that. This dreadfulness could end at any time.” Will sat down beside his wife and pulled her into his lap. “I am going to kiss your mother now,” he announced. “Flee if you will, children. If not, we could play Ludo when the romance is over.” “The romance is never over,” said James glumly. Tessa laughed and put up her face to be kissed. James looked exasperated,

Tessa and Will are just awesome and adorable parents

In the morning, a grand package festooned with ribbons arrived at 102 Cornwall Gardens. It was addressed to Cordelia, and Sona followed Risa as the maid carried it up to Cordelia’s room. “A gift!” Sona said, as Risa deposited the box on Cordelia’s bed. Sona was entirely breathless. Cordelia looked at her with concern—her mother was usually quite energetic, so a few flights of stairs should not have winded her. “Perhaps it is from a gentleman?” Cordelia, who had been seated at the vanity table brushing out her hair, sighed. She had cried half the night, horribly aware that she had embarrassed her brother. She certainly didn’t feel she deserved a gift, or an excursion to the Hell Ruelle in the evening, for that matter. “It’s probably from Lucie—” Her mother already had the wrappings off and the box open. Risa had stepped back, plainly finding Sona’s excitement alarming. As Sona tore through a delicate layer of paper, she gasped aloud. “Oh, Layla!” Curiosity getting the better of her, Cordelia came to join her mother at the side of the bed. She gaped. Out of the box had tumbled a dozen dresses: day dresses and tea gowns alongside gorgeous evening wear, all in rich colors: kingfisher-blue lace, cotton in cinnamon and wine, silks in Prussian green, claret, and burgundy, shimmering gold and dark rose. Sona held up a silk dress the color of bronze, with a soft chiffon edging at the bodice and the hem. “It’s so lovely,” she said, almost reluctantly. “They’re from James, aren’t the...

Why is this my Mamá and I? 🤣

Anna threw open the door of the carriage and hopped out, leaving the door open behind her. Cordelia tried to follow, only to find that it was less than easy to move in her new dress. She inched across the bench seat, squeaking slightly, and half tumbled out the carriage door. Arms braced her before she hit the pavement. James had caught her by the waist. Her hair brushed his cheek and she inhaled his cologne: cedarwood, like the forests in Lebanon. He set her on her heels, his hands still on her hips. She could feel the imprint of the Herondale ring he wore against her side. He was staring, and Cordelia realized with a jolt that she had left her coat in the carriage. She was standing in front of Matthew and James in her new dress, with nothing else to cover her. She could not help but be conscious of how closely the dress clung to her body. The fabric over her hips was so tight that she hadn’t been able to wear a petticoat beneath it, only her combination and a light corset. Anyone could see the shape of her waist, the swell of her bosom, and even the silk draped across the curve of her stomach. The narrow sleeves slipped down her shoulders, uncovering the tops of her breasts; the weight and softness of the material was like a caress. She felt elegant in a way she never had before, and a little wild. “Cordelia,” said Matthew. He looked slightly stunned, as if he’d walked into a wall. “You look different.” “Different?” Anna scoffed. “She looks stunning.” James hadn’t moved....

Anna was like, “my dear beloved cousin James, I shall hook you up with Cordelia”

You have been in every line I have ever read, since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since—on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made, are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hours of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil. —Charles Dickens, Great Expectations

Pip, you deserve someone better than and other than Estella. I’ve been standing strong on this conviction since I was 14.

Where beauty has no ebb, decay no flood, But joy is wisdom, Time an endless song. I kiss you and the world begins to fade. —William Butler Yeats, Land of Heart’s Desire

“We are Shadowhunters,” he said. “We do not wait to be saved by others. We save ourselves. We here in London are as equipped as any member of the Clave to solve this problem, and it will be solved.” Lucie felt a spark of warmth in her chest. Her father was a good leader. It was one of the things she loved about him. He knew when people needed to be calmed and encouraged.

Cordelia, looking far calmer than James suspected she was, reached up and unpinned her hair. James caught his breath as it fell down around her shoulders, spilled down her back, the deep red of rose petals. It stroked her bare brown skin like silk. Her glowing bronze dress clung to her as she reached back and unsheathed Cortana, drawing it forward. Every glittering light in the Hell Ruelle caught fire along the blade.

“I have always loved stories,” she said, and her clear voice carried through the room. “One of my favorite tales is that of the servant girl Tawaddud. After the death of a rich merchant, his son wasted all the inheritance he got until he had nothing left but one servant, a girl known through all the caliphate for her brilliance and her beauty. Her name was Tawaddud. She begged the son to take her to the court of the caliph Harun al-Rashid, and there to sell her for a vast sum of money. The son insisted he could not get such a princely sum for the sale of one servant. Tawaddud insisted she would convince the caliph that there was no wiser or more eloquent or learned woman in all the land but she. Eventually the son was worn down. He brought her to the court, and she came before the caliph, and she told him this.” Cordelia nodded at Kellington, who had come to stand beside the stage. He began to play a haunting tune on the violin, and Cordelia began to move. It was a dance, but not a dance. She moved fluidly with Cortana. It was gold and she followed that gold in fire. She spoke, and her low, husky voice matched the dance and the music of the violin. “Oh my Lord, I am versed in syntax and poetry and jurisprudence and exegesis and philosophy. I am skilled in music and in the knowledge of the divine ordinances, and in arithmetic and geodesy and geometry and the fables of the ancients.”

Cortana wove with her words, underlining each one with steel. She turned as her sword turned, and her body curved and moved like water or fire, like a river under an infinity of stars. It was beautiful—she was beautiful, but it was not a distant beauty. It was a beauty that lived and breathed ...

Cordelia sank to her knees. Her sword whipped around her, a narrow circlet of fire. The violin sang, and her body sang, and James could see the court of the caliph, and the brave girl kneeling before Harun al-Rashid and telling him of her worth.

Matthew looked as he did sometimes when he thought no one was watching him. There was a haunted loneliness in that look, a desire almost beyond comprehension for something even Matthew himself did not understand.

“If I sing and dance, I seduce.” Cordelia straightened with a snap. Her eyes met the gaze of her audience, direct and challenging. “And if I dress and scent myself, I slay.”

She drew back. “Surely it does not harm you if you do not eat it.” “Oh, it does not. But I have met those who have tasted it. They say the more you have of it, the more you want, and the more you ache when you can have no more. And yet… I have always thought—is not knowing what it tastes like just another form of torture? The torture of wondering?” His words were light, but there was an oddness to the way he was looking at her, Cordelia thought—a sort of depth to his gaze that seemed unfamiliar. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes a deeper gold than usual.

Beauty could tear at your heart like teeth, she thought, but she did not love James because he was beautiful: he was beautiful to her because she loved him. The thought brought hot blood to her cheeks; she glanced away, just as the door rattled in its frame.

Someone was trying to get in. James whirled, his eyes wild. Cordelia’s hand flew to the hilt of Cortana. “We’re not meant to be in here—” she began. She got no further. A moment later James had pulled her toward him. His arms went round her, lifting her up and against him. His mouth was gentle, even as he crushed her against him; she realized what he was doing a beat later as the door opened, and she heard voices on the threshold. She gave a little gasp, and felt James’s pulse jump; his right hand slid into her hair, his rune-scarred palm against her cheek as he kissed her. James was kissing her. She knew it wasn’t real. She knew he was making it look as if they were Downworlders having an assignation in the Whispering Room—but it didn’t matter, nothing mattered except the way he was kissing her, gloriously kissing her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her body up against his. She felt his breath hiss out against her mouth; he was kissing her carefully, even as the movements of his hands and body mimicked passion. But she didn’t want careful. She wanted it shattering and tremendous, wanted the passion to be real, the kissing to be the desperate everything she had al...

“Oh,” she whispered softly against him, and heard the door close. Whoever it was had gone. She kept her arms around James’s neck. If he wanted this over, he would have to end it. He broke off the kiss but didn’t let her go. He was still holding her against him, his body a hard cradle for hers. She stroked the side of his neck with her fingers; there was a faint white scar just above his collar, in the shape of a star.… His breathing went ragged. “Daisy… my Daisy…” “I think more people are coming,” she whispered. It wasn’t true, and they both knew it. It didn’t matter. He pulled her against him with such force she nearly tripped, her heel catching on the rug. Her shoe came off, and she kicked away the second one, going up on tiptoe to reach James’s mouth—his lips were firm and sweet, teasing now as he ran them over the seam of her lips, over her cheekbone, down to her jaw. She was swimming in dizziness as she felt him undo the strap of Cortana with one hand, his other hand tracing the bodice of her dress. She had never known her body could feel like this, tense and taut with desire while at the same time she seemed to float. He kissed her throat as her head fell back. She felt hi...

Even in her dance, even in the training room, she had never felt her body so absolutely right as she did now. He lifted her onto the walnut desk, so she sat on a wooden perch above him. She wrapped her legs around his waist. He cradled her face between his hands. Her hair was a curtain of flames streaming about both of them as they kissed and kissed. At last she drew him up. Her back met the wood of the desk as he leaned over her, one hand braced above her head. The feel of his body all along hers scorched her blood. She understood now why poets said love was like burning. The heat of it was all through her and in her, and all she wanted was more—more kisses, more touches, to be devoured by this like a forest by wildfire. And his face—she had never seen him like this, eyes burning and lost to desire, his pupils wide and black. He groaned as she touche...

Sleep eluded Cordelia that night. Long after the boys had dropped her at the house in Kensington, long after she had wearily climbed the steps to her bedroom, long after her new dress had been discarded in a pile of bronze silk on the floor, she lay awake, staring up at the white plaster ceiling of her room. She could still feel James’s lips on hers, the touch of his hands and fingers on her body. He had kissed her with violent desperation, as if he were dying for her. He had said her name: Daisy, my Daisy. Hadn’t he? Yet when they had reached Kensington, he had helped her down from the carriage and bid her good night casually, as if they were simply the friends they had always been. She tried to hold the memory of what it felt like to kiss him in her mind, but it slipped away and vanished with only the memory of sweetness, like the smoke in the Whispering Room.

He glanced from James to Lucie. “In days past, when I knew your parents well, they probably would have been spearheading this plan.” He stood up. “But now they are no longer children. They are parents, and thus devoted to something they love more than their own lives. So indeed, perhaps they should not be told.”

James caught himself stealing glances at Cordelia when he was sure he wouldn’t be observed; she was deep in conversation with Lucie, their heads bent together as they walked. Cordelia’s flame-dark hair had been pulled back into a smooth chignon, leaving the light brown nape of her neck exposed. James tried not to think about the fact that he knew what it was like to curl his fingers around the back of that neck while he kissed her mouth. He was sure that if he did think about it, it would drive him mad and he would be no further use to anyone. Those moments in the Whispering Room with Cordelia had been like nothing else in his life.

You are who you are, made by the sum of your choices and actions.

“Cortana has one sharp edge and one dull one,” she said. “Because of that, it has often been called a sword of mercy. I want to be a merciful hero.”

Alastair opened his mouth to deliver a retort—but only gasped as the sword wrenched itself out of his grasp and flew across the room toward his sister. Cordelia held out a hand as if to ward it off, startled, and the hilt smacked into her palm. She closed her hand around it reflexively and felt a jolt go up her arm. Cortana. Alastair looked as if he wanted to sputter, but didn’t. He was too clever and too self-conscious to be a sputterer. “Father,” he said instead. “Is this some sort of trick?” Elias only smiled as if he’d known what was going to happen. “Sometimes the sword chooses the bearer,” he said. “Cortana will be Cordelia’s. Now, Alastair—” But Alastair had stalked from the room. Elias turned to his daughter. “Cordelia,” he said. “A blade of Wayland the Smith is a great gift, but it is also a great responsibility. One that may one day cause you sorrow.” Cordelia nodded. She was sure her father was right, in some distant way that adults were sometimes. Still, gazing down at Cortana’s golden blade, she couldn’t imagine ever being anything but happy with it in her hand.

“I wish to check on Cordelia and make sure she is recovering from the river.” Tessa still looked worried. “Take the carriage, James, please,” she said. “It will be safer.” Nephilim carriages were reinforced with demon-repelling electrum and runes cleverly woven throughout the wood. James sighed and nodded. “And take Bridget and her massive spear,” said Will, doing a poor job at hiding a smile. “And perhaps change out of your gear first? It never hurts to look your best for a social call.”

“Will your mother be angry?” Matthew said. “Have you heard of the death of a thousand cuts?” Cordelia replied. “I always preferred the death of a thousand cats, in which one is buried under kittens,” said Matthew. Cordelia laughed.

There was a silk flower, dyed green and secured in the buttonhole of his shirt. She touched the petal lightly with a fingertip. “What does this mean?” “The green carnation symbolizes a love of art and artifice, since a green carnation has to be created rather than appearing in nature.” Matthew hesitated. “It also celebrates loving anyone you choose, whether that is a man or a woman.”

She thought of the secrets people kept and the way they were like scars or wounds beneath the skin. You could not always see them, but if you touched on them in the wrong way, you could cause great pain.

“You have been quite a surprise since you came into our lives,” he said, and she knew by “our” he meant the five of them, the Merry Thieves and Lucie. “I did not feel that our little group was missing anything before you arrived, but now that you are here, I cannot imagine it without you.”

Cordelia had often dreamed of teaching James Persian herself. English endearments were so limited and bland in comparison, she had always thought: Persians thought nothing of telling someone they loved fadat besham, I would die for you, or calling that person noore cheshmam, the light of my eyes, or adelbaram, the thief of my heart. She thought suddenly of the sparking fire in the Whispering Room and the smell of roses. She bit her lower lip.

Yes! I feel the same way with Spanish—there are many! Corazón = Heart/Sweetheart Mi amor = My love Amorcito/ta = Little love Cariño = Darling, dear, honey Tesoro = Treasure Eres mi tesoro = You are my treasure Te quiero = I want you/I need you Te amo = I love you Mi reina/rey = My queen/king Mi muñeco/muñeca = My doll Mi bombón/bomboncito= My sweetheart / little sweetheart Lindura = Cutie Vida mía / Mi vida = My life Dulzura mía = My sweetness Mi luz = My light Mi media naranja = My other half (“My other half of an orange”) Mi alma = My soul Mi sol = My sun Mi cielo = My sky/My heaven(s) Corazón de melón = Melon heart Mi princesa/príncipe = My princess/prince Spanish poetry about love HITS DIFFERENT! “Te amo sin saber cómo ni cuándo ni de dónde Te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo: Así te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera Sino así de este modo en qué no soy ni eres Tan cerca tu mano sobre mi pecho es mía Tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.” - Pablo Neruda

Despite the heat, Cordelia shivered as James rose to his feet. The firelight flickered through his hair, edging the black locks with scarlet, as if he wore a crown of flames. “I kissed you because I wanted to,” he said. “Because I’d never wanted anything so much.” Cordelia felt herself go scarlet.

“I wonder sometimes now if it was a dream,” James said. “I idealized her, I suppose, as children do. Perhaps it was a child’s dream of what love should and must be. I believed love was pain, and when I bled, I bled for her.” “It need not be pain,” Cordelia whispered.

Sona turned, a hand braced against the small of her back. “Have you been paying atten—” she began, and winced suddenly. She leaned back against the wall as Cordelia hurried over to her, worried. “Are you feeling well? You look tired.” Sona sighed. “I am perfectly all right, Cordelia.” She straightened up, her hands hovering as if she couldn’t quite decide what she wanted to do with them. It was a gesture she made only when very nervous. “But—I am expecting a baby.” “What?” Sona smiled a shaky smile. “You will have a little brother or sister, Layla. In only a few more months.” Cordelia wanted to throw her arms around her mother but was suddenly terrified. Her mother was forty-two, late for a woman to carry a child. For the first time in her life, her formidable mother looked fragile to her. “How long have you known?” “Three months,” Sona said. “Alastair knows as well. So does your father.” Cordelia swallowed. “But you didn’t tell me.” “Layla joon.” Her mother came closer to her. “I didn’t want to worry you more than you were already worried about our family. I know you have been trying—” She broke off, stroking a stray lock of hair back from her daughter’s face. “You know you do not have to marry, if you do not want to,” she said, almost in a whisper. “We will get by, darling. We always do.” Cordelia placed a kiss in the palm of her mother’s thin hand, marked with many ancient scars from the time long ago when she had fought demons. “Cheshmet roshan, mâdar joon,” she whispe...

What. The. F*ck. Not this plot point. I love you Mâmân Sona, but ma’am, you and Elias Carstairs were busy 🫢😩

Sona smiled at her—a weary, worried smile, the smile of so many Shadowhunter parents down through the ages who had watched their children march into the night, carrying blades blessed by angels, knowing they might never return. “Layla, my daughter. You can wear mine.”

Awe

His gaze was fixed on his friend. It was a look Cordelia couldn’t describe—a quiet intensity mixed with immovable conviction. This was James at his best, she thought. His faith in his friends was unwavering: it was strength, and they shared that strength between them.

“The truth always matters,” Matthew said. “Not when it comes to stories,” Cordelia said. “The point of stories is not that they are objectively true, but that the soul of the story is truer than reality. Those who mock fiction do so because they fear the truth.”

In the center of the clearing was a statue of an angel, but this was no cherub. It was the marble figure of a beautiful man of great height. Scaled armor had been carved on his body. He held a sword in one outstretched hand, etched with the words QUIS UT DEUS, and his head was thrown back as if he were crying out to heaven. James stepped forward, raising one hand—the one that bore the Herondale ring with its pattern of birds. “Quis ut Deus?” he said. “ ‘Who is like God?’ the Angel asks. The answer is ‘No one. No one is like God.’ ” The stone angel’s eyes opened, absolutely black, apertures into a great and silent dark. Then, with a grinding of stone, the angel slid aside, revealing a great empty pit in the earth and stairs leading downward.

She hadn’t given up, despite the blood, despite the pain. She was Cordelia; she would never give up.

“You saved my life,” he said. “Just as you saved my sister’s all those years ago. We should have given you a more warrior-like nickname. Not Daisy, but Artemis, or Boadicea.” She laughed softly. “I like Daisy.” “So do I,” he said, and reached up to lightly brush back a strand of her hair. She felt her heart nearly stop. In a low voice, he said, “ ‘And when her cheek the moon revealed, a thousand hearts were won: no pride, no shield, could check her power. Layla, she was called.’ ” “Layla and Majnun,” she whispered. “You—remember?” “You read to me,” he said. “Perhaps, now all this is over, we could read it again, together?” Reading together. Never had Cordelia heard of anything so romantic.

She heard Lucie give a short cry. “Papa!” Will broke into a run. He caught hold of his daughter and swept her into his arms. Tessa ran to James, dropping down to kneel beside him and fuss over his bruises and cuts. Gabriel and Cecily followed, and soon Lucie and James were surrounded, being embraced and scolded in equal measure.

Aw, Lucie’s such a Daddy’s girl 🥹 Will is such a great dad

“Because he had such faith in Christopher, he had faith in himself. I never quite thought of friendship like that—as something that makes you more than you are.”

“We’re all of us alone,” he said. “In the end.”

My heart is bound by beauty’s spell. My love is indestructible. Although I like a candle burn, And almost to a shadow turn, I envy not the heart that’s free: Love’s soul-encircling chains for me. —Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun

“I can promise it. I do promise it. I am a Herondale, and we keep our promises.”

His father had always told him there was no higher emotion than love: that it trumped all doubt and all distrust.

Cordelia had not seen Grace together with James since the fight at Battersea Bridge. She had not thought it would hurt like this. She had prepared carefully for this long-awaited visit. She had picked out one of her favorite new dresses in bright blue; she had worn her nicest gold earbobs, and she had brought with her a translated copy of Layla and Majnun. It was not as beautiful in English as it was in the original Persian, but it would be perfect for reading with James. Now, as she stared at James and Grace, she was glad the book was hidden inside her jacket.

AAAAAGGGGGHHHHHHH

You decide the truth about yourself. No one else. And the choice about what kind of person you will be is yours alone.”