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Lucie Herondale was ten years old when she first met the boy in the forest.
“Your father adores any Carstairs,” said Cordelia. “I’m not sure it’s to my particular credit. He may even like Alastair.”
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.
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.
Frozen in shock, battered and bloody, the group of Shadowhunters who had come to Regent’s Park for an afternoon picnic stared at each other across the bloody grass.
PULVIS ET UMBRA SUMUS. We are dust and shadows.
“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.”
“The only equivalent in real life is memory,” Tessa said, looking up as Will Herondale came into the room, followed by Cousin Jem. “But memories can be bitter as well as sweet.”
The house itself was closed and silent, like a giant bat curled into itself to sleep through the day, until the darkness gave it leave to unfurl its wings again.
“I would tell her she was too young to get married,” James said stiffly. 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.
“You are a ghost, but not like any other ghost. Even my father and brother can’t see you. It’s so odd. Are you buried?” “It’s very forward to ask a gentleman if he’s buried,” said Jesse.
was thinking that you reminded me a bit of Catherine Earnshaw from Wuthering Heights. My mother has a favorite passage about how she was bitten by a bulldog: ‘She did not yell out—no! she would have scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns of a mad cow.’”
“And we all know what Grandfather Benedict was up to in that house. It’s why he turned into a worm.” “Ah,” said Matthew, “fond family memories.”
“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.”
“And what do you believe?” said Lucie. “I believe there are always those who stay vigilant and seek the truth rather than easy answers,”
“You know the stories of my grandfather, I am sure?” Lucie raised an eyebrow. “The one who turned into a great worm because of demon pox, and was slain by my father and uncles?” “I feared your parents would not have considered it the kind of tale suitable for a young lady’s ears,” said Jesse. “I see that was an idle concern.” “They tell it every Christmas,” said Lucie smugly.
“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.”
If you saw humanity as I can see it, Uncle Jem said. There is very little brightness and warmth in the world for me. There are only four flames, in the whole world, that burn fiercely enough for me to feel something like the person I was. Your mother, your father, Lucie, and you. You love, and tremble, and burn. Do not let those who cannot see the truth tell you who you are. You are the flame that cannot be put out. You are the star that cannot be lost. You are who you have always been, and that is enough and more than enough. Anyone who looks at you and sees darkness is blind.
“I am a Herondale. We love but once.” “That is only a story.” “Haven’t you heard?” James said bitterly. “All the stories are true.”
The river rolled on, regardless of the turmoil in the lives of the people who crossed the bridge or boated across the water. They could leave no real mark on the river, as their troubles left no real mark on time.
“I really do like tea!” James shouted from the bottom of the steps. “In fact, I love it! I LOVE TEA!” “Good for you, mate!” yelled the driver of a passing hansom cab.
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.
“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.”
We’re probably going to be in awful trouble.” “Maybe we could leg it,” suggested Matthew. “I am not going anywhere,” said James. “I will remain here and take whatever punishment is given out. The rack, the iron maiden, death by spiders. Anything but getting up.”
They had all reacted characteristically. Tessa had been practical and said that she’d been trying to find out who her father was for years, and at least now they knew. Lucie had looked shaken but said she would turn the story into a novel. Will had been angry at the world, and then gone to see Jem.
He could not make the world fair, any more than she could. It was only in stories that heroes were rewarded; in real life, acts of heroism went unrewarded, or were punished, and the world turned on as it always had.
Love will find you. Love had found her years ago, and now, and every day since she had first seen James in London. You don’t love me, he’d said to her. He had no idea. He never would.
