If the Silent Brothers intended to take her power—and they were welcome to it—they had shown no signs of it yet. She sensed they were studying her, studying her ability, in ways she herself did not understand.
All she had to comfort herself was the thought of Jesse. Jesse, who Lucie must surely have raised, with Malcolm’s help. They would all be in Cornwall by now. Would Jesse be all right? Would returning from the shadowy lands he had inhabited so long be a terrible shock for him? She wished she were there, to hold his hand through it, as he had helped her through so many terrible things.
She knew, of course, that it was entirely possible that they had failed to raise Jesse. Necromancy was near impossible. But his death had been so unfair, a terrible crime based on a poisonous lie. Surely if anyone deserved a second chance, Jesse did.
And he loved Grace as his sister, loved and cared for her in a way that nobody else did, and perhaps, she thought, nobody else ever would. Maybe the Nephilim would put her to death because of her power. Maybe she would rot in the Silent City forever. But if not, a living Jesse was the only way she could imagine any kind of future life for herself at all.
There was Christopher Lightwood, of course. Not that he loved her; he barely knew her. But he had seemed legitimately interested in her, in her thoughts, her opinions, her feelings. If things had been different, he could have been her friend. She had never had a friend. Only James, who surely hated her now that he knew what she had done to him, and Lucie, who would soon hate her as well, for the same reason. And really, she was just fooling herself if she thought Christopher would feel any differently. He was James’s friend, and loved him. He would be loyal, and despise her… she could not blame him.…
There was a sound, the telltale scrape of the room’s barred door opening. She sat up hastily on her narrow mattress, smoothing down her hair. Not that the Silent Brothers cared how she looked, but it was force of habit.
A shadowy figure regarded her from the doorway. Grace, Zachariah said. I fear the last round of questioning was too much.
It had been bad; Grace had nearly fainted when describing the night her mother had taken her to the dark forest, the sound of Belial’s voice in the shadows. But Grace did not like the idea of anyone being able to sense what she felt. She said, “Will it be much longer? Before my sentence is pronounced?”
You wish for punishment that badly?
“No,” Grace said. “I only wish the questioning to stop. But I am ready to accept my punishment. I deserve it.”
Yes, you have done wrong. But how old were you when your mother brought you to Brocelind Forest to receive your power? Eleven? Twelve?
“It doesn’t matter.”
It does, said Zachariah. I believe that the Clave failed you. You are a Shadowhunter, Grace, born to a Shadowhunter family, and abandoned to terrible circumstances. It is unfair to you that the Clave left you there for so long, without intervention or even investigation.
Grace could not bear his pity; it felt like tiny needle marks against her skin. “You should not be kind to me, or try to understand,” she snapped. “I used demonic power to enchant James and make him believe he was in love with me. I caused him terrible pain.”
Zachariah regarded her without speaking, his face eerily still.
Grace wanted to hit him. “Don’t you think I deserve punishment? Mustn’t there be a reckoning? A balancing of things? An eye for an eye?”
That is your mother’s thinking about the world. Not mine.
“But the other Silent Brothers. The Enclave. Everyone in London—they will want to see me punished.”
They do not know, said Brother Zachariah. For the first time, Grace saw a sort of hesitation in him. What you have done at your mother’s behest remains known only to us, and to James.
“But—why?” It made no sense; surely James would tell his friends, and soon enough everyone would know. “Why would you protect me?”
We seek to question your mother; the job of that will be easier if she believes you are still on her side, your powers still unknown to us.
Grace sat back on the bed. “You want answers from my mother because you believe I am the puppet, and she the puppet master, the puller of strings. But the true puppet master is Belial. She is obedient to him. When she acts, it is at his behest. He is the one to fear.”
There was a long silence. Then, a gentle voice inside her head. Are you afraid, Grace?
“Not for myself,” she said. “I have already lost everything I had to lose. But for others, yes. I am very afraid indeed.”
* * *
Lucie followed Malcolm into the house and waited while the warlock divested himself of his traveling coat and walking stick in the entryway. He led her into the parlor she’d passed through earlier, with its high ceiling, and with a snap of his fingers set a roaring fire in the grate. It occurred to Lucie that not only could Malcolm acquire firewood without Jesse needing to chop it for him, he could probably keep fires going with no wood whatsoever.
Not that she minded watching Jesse chop wood. And he seemed to be enjoying it, so it was beneficial for the both of them.
Malcolm gestured her toward an overstuffed settee into which Lucie thought she might sink so far she would be unable to get up again. She perched on its arm. The room was quite cozy, actually: not at all what she would have associated with Malcolm Fade. Satinwood furniture, worn to a soft patina, upholstered with tapestry and velvet fabric—no effort had been made to match the pieces, though they all looked comfortable. A rug embroidered with pineapples covered the floor, and various portraits of people Lucie did not recognize hung upon the walls.
Malcolm remained standing, and Lucie assumed he would now lecture her about Jesse, or interrogate her regarding what she had done to him. Instead he said, “You might have noticed that although I have not been unconscious for several days after an act of unpracticed sorcery, I am looking somewhat the worse for wear.”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Lucie said, though she had. “You look, er, quite polished and put-together.”
Malcolm waved this off. “I am not fishing for compliments. I mean to explain that these last days, while you have been sleeping off the effects of the magic you performed, I have been taking the opportunity of being back in Cornwall to continue my investigations into Annabel Blackthorn.”
Lucie felt a nervous fizzle in her stomach. Annabel Blackthorn. The woman Malcolm had loved, a hundred years ago, and who Malcolm had long believed had left him to join the Iron Sisters. In truth, her family had murdered her rather than allow her to marry a warlock. Lucie flinched, remembering the look on Malcolm’s face when Grace had told him the truth of Annabel’s fate.
Warlocks did not age, yet Malcolm seemed somehow older than he had a short time ago. The lines of strain about his mouth and eyes were pronounced. “I know that we agreed you would call up her spirit,” he said. “That you would allow me to speak to her again.”
It seemed odd to Lucie that warlocks could not, themselves, call up those dead who no longer haunted the world, but had passed into a place of peace. That the terrible power in her blood allowed her to do something even Magnus Bane, or Malcolm Fade, could not. But there it was—she had given Malcolm her word, though the hungry look in his eyes made her shiver a little.