“With all due respect,” said Bridgestock, “most warlocks’ demon parent is an anonymous, minor demon, not one of the Nine Princes. Most Shadowhunters have never faced a Prince of Hell. But I have,” he thundered, which made Cordelia feel cross. He hadn’t so much faced Belial, had he, as passed out in his presence. “I cannot tell you of the depth of his vile evil. To think he is the parent of Tessa Herondale makes me shudder.”
“I remember these discussions,” said Charlotte. “Twenty-five years ago. I was there. So were you, Maurice. The ravings of Tatiana Blackthorn, who is by her own admission an ally of Belial, should not disinter this debate from its long-ago burial.”
After a moment of silence, Eunice Pounceby piped up, the flowers on her hat trembling with her agitation. “Perhaps they shouldn’t, Charlotte. But… they do.”
“What are you saying, Eunice?” Tessa asked. Though Cordelia knew her real age, Tessa still looked only about twenty. She was dressed plainly, her hands folded in front of her. Cordelia felt the sort of desperate pity for her she would have felt for a girl her own age, staring down the barrel of the Enclave’s anger.
“What Eunice is saying,” said Martin Wentworth, “is that while it may be true that we have all known Mrs. Herondale to be a warlock, for many years now, the fact that her demon parent is a Prince of Hell, and that you have all known and concealed it—well, it might be within the letter of the Law, but it does not inspire trust.”
A murmur went through the crowd. Bridgestock said, “It seems the London Enclave has lost faith in the Herondales to run our Institute. Indeed, had they but spoken earlier, I might not bear now the terrible branded sigil upon my arm.” He scowled.
“You do not speak for the Enclave,” said Esme Hardcastle unexpectedly. “Perhaps Tessa did know that her father was Belial. Why would she tell anyone, when the result would be this—this tribunal?”
To Cordelia’s surprise, Charles rose to his feet. “This is not a tribunal,” he said. His face looked strained, as if some unseen force were pulling his skin too tight. “This is a meeting we are holding to decide what our next steps will be.”
“We?” said Will. He was looking at Charles with a sort of hurt bewilderment—was Charles trying to be helpful? Cordelia wondered herself.… But the look on Charles’s face was so awful.
And he had not stopped speaking. He turned to look around the room, his mouth a hard line. “I’m the only one of my family who will have the courage to say it,” he said. “But the Inquisitor is right.”
Cordelia’s gaze shot to Matthew. His eyes were squeezed tight, as though he were trying to shut out everything around him. Henry, beside him, looked as if he were going to be sick. Charlotte stood motionless, but the effort it took her was clear.
“I have known the Herondales all my life,” Charles said. “But the revelation of this terrible secret has shaken us all. I wish to assure you all, I was not made aware of it, even if my mother knew. I believe the Herondales had a duty to share it, and that my mother had the same duty. My loyalty to family cannot account for this unconscionable omission.”
There was a terrible silence. Cordelia stared at Charles. What was he doing? Was he truly so loathsome that he would betray his own family? She glanced over at Alastair, who she expected to be glowing with rage, but he wasn’t even looking at Charles. He was looking across the room at Thomas, who sat with his fists clenched at his sides, as if he were barely holding himself back from lunging at Charles.
“Charles,” Gideon said wearily. “You speak to protect your own ambition, though the Angel knows what has so corrupted your heart. There is no evidence whatsoever to indicate any alliance between the Herondales and Belial, though you are trying to imply otherwise—”
“I am not saying that,” Charles snapped.
“But you are implying it,” Gideon said. “It is a cynical ploy. At a time when the Enclave must come together, to defeat the threat Belial still poses, you are trying to divide us.”
“He speaks for those who did not know until yesterday,” Bridgestock cried, “that the Institute was inhabited by the offspring of a Prince of Hell! Has he truly never made an overture, never reached out to his blood—”
James shot to his feet. He looked as he did when he held his pistol in his hand, an avenging angel, with eyes like chips of gold. “If he were to reach out,” he snarled, “we would refuse him.”
Cordelia began to rise to her feet as well. She would defend them, she thought. She would swear up and down that no one had more cause to hate Belial than the Herondales did—she would speak out for James and Lucie—
A hand touched her arm. For a moment, she thought it was Alastair, urging her to sit back down. But to her surprise, it was Christopher. Christopher, who she had assumed was in the infirmary. He was looking at her with an uncharacteristic seriousness, his eyes dark purple behind his owlish glasses.
“Come with me,” he said quietly. “Quickly. No one will notice in all this fuss.”
Alastair, looking over at the both of them, shrugged as if to say he had no more idea than she did what Christopher wanted. “Christopher,” Cordelia whispered. “I must speak for them—”
“If you truly wish to help James,” Christopher said, and there was an intensity in his voice that Cordelia had rarely heard, “come with me. There is something you must know.”
* * *
Ari sat through the meeting in a state of numb shock. She already knew her father did not like the Herondales; his strange note-keeping had made that clear. Yes, they had saved London, and perhaps the whole Shadow World, but to Maurice Bridgestock this only made them celebrities who had been rewarded with a cushy position. Not, like him, dedicated public servants devoted to the needs of the Clave.
It seemed to her that Will and Tessa had had twenty years of showing themselves to be fine stewards of the London Institute, and her father’s resentment struck her as petty and small, unworthy of him. But it turned out it hadn’t been small at all: it had instead loomed so large that when he espied weakness in their position, he moved against them.
She had been sitting with the Lightwoods, of course, tucked in among them, with Gabriel on her left and Anna on her right. When her father thrust his finger at those he was accusing, he was pointing at Ari. （Her mother, interestingly, was not there; Ari wondered at her absence.）
She would have taken Anna’s hand, but Anna sat tensed, her arms folded tightly against her chest. As always, in the face of a threat, she turned to stone.
Eventually, as the shouting reached a fever pitch, a recess was called for everyone to calm down. As people began to cluster into small groups—the Herondales and Lightwoods together, Matthew moving to join his parents—she saw Alastair （though where was Cordelia?） cross the room to Charles, who was standing obstinately alone, and fall into conversation with him. Well, it wasn’t quite a conversation—whatever Alastair was saying, it was low and furious, accompanied by urgent gestures. Charles stood looking off into the air, as if Alastair was not there. By the Angel, Ari thought. How could I even have pretended to be engaged to that man?