Chain of Iron (The Last Hours, #2)

by Cassandra Clare

Alastair’s gaze flicked to Matthew. “Why,” he said, “are you not even wearing a hat?” “And cover up this hair?” Matthew indicated his golden locks with a flourish. “Would you blot out the sun?”

Cordelia sighed and started down the walk with Matthew. South Kensington was a fairy tale of white houses frosted in shimmering ice, the glow of the streetlamps shrouded in halos of snow-softened mist. “I feel I am ever apologizing for Alastair. Last week he made the milkman cry.”

She couldn’t bear it if anyone knew how desperately she loved James and wished the marriage were a real one.

“Claude, I am crucial to your entertainments,” Matthew said. “I am that irreplaceable thing, the eager audience.”

“A lady who can choose a hat that truly suits her is very likely to have paid attention to every layer of her ensemble.”

“Matthew has a habit of getting his heart broken. He seems to prefer a hopeless love.”

At last Matthew said, “You are right, of course; it is only perhaps that we worry that you are too honest—too good, and goodness can be a blade sharp enough to cut, you know, just as much as evil intent.”

“The only gift worthy of my daughter,” Elias said, “is the gift worthy of the sword that has chosen her.”

“That depends,” said Will. “Do you currently have access to any wild horses?” James had to smile. “Not at the moment.” “Then no,” said Will. “So here it is: always tell Cordelia what you feel.” He looked James in the eye. “You may fear what will happen if you speak your heart. You may wish to hide things because you fear hurting others. But secrets have a way of eating at relationships, Jamie. At love, at friendship—they undermine and destroy them until in the end you find you are bitterly alone with the secrets you kept.”

Love is a rarity in this world, and true friendship, too.

“It’s my understanding,” Cordelia said, “that the question is never whether you know Magnus Bane. The question is always whether Magnus Bane knows you.”

She felt tired. So extraordinarily tired. All day, she had played a part. All she wanted was to be at home, whatever that meant now. And if home meant James, well then, she could no longer pretend to herself that it was something she did not want. “Let’s go home, James,” she said. “Take me home.”

Cordelia leaned close to examine the beautiful nasta‘ lı¯q calligraphy above the images of prophets and acolytes and musicians, birds and horses and rivers. “This is by Rumi,” she whispered, recognizing a verse: The wound is the place where the Light enters you. It had always been one of her favorites.

She did, revealing, nestled on a bed of more dark velvet, a glimmering gold pendant on a chain. She drew it out of the box, exclaiming as she realized what it was—a small, round globe, the faint outline of seas and continents etched onto its surface. “We have talked so much of travel,” James said. “I wanted to give you the world.” “It’s perfect.”

“James,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “I find I have rather a desire to play chess.” That brought a smile from him, though only a slight one. “Of course,” he said. “We shall depart at once.” “To play chess?” Alastair muttered. “Married life sounds thrilling.”

“Delightful!” said Matthew. “We’ll take the train. I love the train. The little tickets are so amusing.”

Cordelia, you are a great heroine. Even in the realm of the dead they speak of you. You are the bearer of the blade Cortana, which can slay anything. You have spilled the blood of a Prince of Hell. You could have saved me.

“I’m not leaving.” Anna looked at her with real curiosity. “Why not?” “Because,” Ariadne said, “when you want something very much, you are willing to accept the shadow of that thing. Even if it is just a shadow.”

In the carriage, he had murmured words of condolence in Persian: Ghame akharetoon basheh. May this be your last sorrow.

Let conversation stop. Let laughter cease. Here is the place where the dead delight to teach the living.

Sometimes, she thought, she wished she could pray, as other Nephilim did, to Raziel, but she had never learned quite how. Her parents had not been observant of the religion that bound all Shadowhunters together: the worship of the angel who had made them who they were, who had committed them to a destiny as harsh as beauty, as unforgiving as goodness itself. To remember that you worshipped Raziel was to remember that you were separate, for good or ill, from those you were sworn to protect. That even in a crowd, you might be alone. “Daisy?”

“My father,” James said, and hesitated. “My father used to tell me that sometimes you cannot reconcile with someone else. Sometimes you have to find that reconciliation on your own. Someone who broke your heart is often not the person who can mend it.” Someone who broke your heart. Cordelia thought of her father. They would never have a good moment between them again. If only she had let him walk her down the aisle. Lucie would have understood. If only she had given him a chance.

Alastair turned his face into her palm, gripping her wrist with one hand. “I can’t mourn,” he said in a choked voice. “I cannot mourn my own father. What does that say about me?” “That love is complicated,” said Cordelia. “That it lies beside anger and hatred, because only those we truly love can truly disappoint us.”

“I’m afraid I wasn’t as understanding,” Cordelia admitted. “I snapped at him about sending Father out in the snow, though I knew it wasn’t at all his fault. What does that say about me?” “That grief makes us mad,” said Alastair quietly.

“I know what it’s like to hide what you feel,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be in pain and not be able to explain why. I know why you’re not with James tonight. Because when we are in pain, we are flayed open, and when we are flayed open, we cannot hide our true selves. And you cannot bear for him to know that you love him.”

Wayland released the sword. “Now rise,” he said, and Cordelia stood for the first time. She had not realized until this moment how very big the great smith was: he towered over her, his massive bulk a dark shadow against the stormy sky. “Go forth,” he said. “And be a warrior. I will find you again.”

Anna so rarely expressed self-doubt that the others, including Cordelia, stared in amazement for a moment. It was Matthew who broke the silence. “We all warned him, Anna, but Thomas is a bloody-minded stubborn bastard. Though quite tiny when he was young, and really,” he added, “rather adorable, like a guinea pig or a mouse.” James thwacked Matthew gently on the back of the head. “I believe what he means to say is that it cannot be the responsibility of one’s friends to prevent one from doing something one believes is right,” he said. “It is, however, the job of one’s friends to rescue one from the consequences of one’s actions when it all goes skew-whiff.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” James said, swooping in and taking the bottles from her hands. “Daisy, Lucie, do not eat or drink anything that is being sold here. At best, you might get a mild stomachache. At worst, you will wake up as a pair of otters.” “Otters are lovely,” said Cordelia, her eyes dancing.

“You have always believed love came at a cost,” said Matthew. “That it was torment and torture and pain. But there should be some joy. There is joy in being with someone you love, even knowing you can never have them, even knowing they will never love you back.” He sucked in a ragged breath of cold air. “But even the moments you are with Grace, you don’t look happy. You don’t seem happy when you talk about her. Love should bring you happiness, at least in the imagining of what your lives will eventually be like when you are together. What will your future with her be like? Tell me how you think of it.”

“Don’t go,” she whispered. “Hold on, for me. We are so close.” He touched her cheek. “Only promise me one thing,” he said. “If I do go, give us a happy ending, will you? In your book?” “I don’t believe in endings,” she said, but he only smiled at her, and faded slowly from view.

Cordelia hesitated. “Sometimes,” she said, “it is not enough for others to love you. I do not think Matthew loves himself very well.”

Alastair was shaking his head. “You must stop this,” he said. “You will make yourself unworthy by considering yourself unworthy. We become what we are afraid we will be, Layla.”

“Mâmân…” Sona’s eyes gleamed, too bright. “Do not worry yourself over it. Only listen to me. When I was a girl, I had so many dreams. Dreams of heroism, of glamour, of travel. Layla—what I want for you above all things is that you follow the truth of your dreams. No scorn, no shame, no part of society’s opinion matters more than that.”

“I know, myself,” James said, “what it is like to live with a darkness inside you. One that you fear.” Matthew drew his hand back, knotting his scarf around his neck. His cheeks were already pink with cold. “I have never seen darkness in you.”

Magnus shrugged. “Rights,” he said. “We all have the right to feel pain, James, and unhappiness. I would venture to guess that Cordelia and Matthew are fleeing from their own. It is natural to believe that you can outrun your miseries. There have been times I have fled mine halfway across the world. But the truth is that sorrow is fleet and loyal. It will always follow you.”

“You cannot save people who do not want to be saved,” said Magnus. “You can only stand by their side and hope that when they wake and realize they need saving, you will be there to help them.” He paused. “It’s something to keep in mind as we go to help your sister.”