And then she saw her father. As he stepped down from the altar and ducked through a side door, she rose to her feet. With a light touch to Anna’s shoulder, she darted into the aisle between the pews and hurried out of the room, taking the same side door.
Beyond it was a stone-bound corridor, in which her father was pacing. He looked smaller than he had up on the altar, the focus of all eyes. He muttered as he paced, though she could catch only a few of the words—“Belial” and “have to see the truth” and, one of his favorite words, “unfair.”
“Father,” she said. “What have you done?”
He looked up. “This isn’t any of your concern, Ariadne.”
“You must know that none of what you have said is true.”
“I know no such thing,” he snapped.
“If there is a lack of faith in the Herondales, it is only because you have created it.”
He shook his head. “I would have thought you would give me more credit than that,” he said. “I am not the villain in a play where the Herondales are the heroes. Tessa Herondale is the child of a Greater Demon. And they lied about it.”
“In the face of blind prejudice, one curls in on oneself,” Ari said quietly. “It is not something you would understand. Will acted to protect his wife, James and Lucie to protect their mother. Against the hatred you are whipping up right now. A hatred born out of fear, out of the blind belief that the blood in Tessa’s veins, in her children’s veins, matters more than every act of heroism or kindness she has ever performed.”
His face crumpled into a look that mixed fury with a terrible sort of pity. “They have drawn you in,” he rasped. “The Herondales, who came from nowhere to rule over us, magic users all. And the Lightwoods, the children of Benedict, who famously consorted with demons, so much so that eventually it killed him. Whatever was twisted up in his heart is there, you know, in the blood of his children and his grandchildren. Including that half-woman who has taken you under her wing—”
“Don’t speak about Anna in that way,” Ari said in a clear and calm voice. “She has shown me more kindness of late than any of my own family.”
“You left,” he said. “You took your things, the things we have given you over the years, and you went to live with that Lightwood creature. You could still come home, you know.” His voice had taken on a wheedling quality. “If you swear you will never see any of these people again. The Herondales, the Lightwoods—they are a sinking ship. It would be wise for you to disembark while you still can.”
Ari shook her head. “Never.”
“It’s a dangerous path you’re on,” her father said. “One that ends in ruin. It is out of kindness that I wish to save you—”
“Kindness?” Ari said. “Not love? The love you owe a daughter?”
“A daughter is not defiant. A daughter is obedient. A daughter cares for her parents, protects them—”
“As James and Lucie are protecting Tessa?” Ari shook her head. “You cannot see it, Father. You are too blinded by your hatred. The Herondales are not criminals. They are not, for instance, blackmailers.”
It was an arrow shot blindly, but Ari saw it hit its mark. Her father flinched and stared at her in horror.
“The letter,” he whispered. “The fireplace—”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ari said blandly. “I only know this. The further you push this, Father, the more you, too, will come under scrutiny. Only be sure you can bear such scrutiny of your every action. Most men could not.”
* * *
Grace sat shivering against the wall of her cell. She had wrapped the blanket from her bed around her, but it had not stopped the shaking.
The tremors had begun that morning, when Brother Zachariah had come to her cell, after her breakfast of porridge and toast. She had sensed the concern in him, a pity that had terrified her. In her experience, pity meant scorn, and scorn meant that the other person had realized how horrible you were.
“The baby,” she whispered. “Christopher’s brother. Is he—”
He is alive and healing. Your mother has been found. She is in custody now. I would have told you last night, but I feared to wake you.
As if she had slept, Grace thought. She was glad Alexander had been found but doubted it would make a difference to Christopher. She had still lost him, forever. “She did not—damage him?”
The rune she put upon him burned him badly. Luckily, it was incomplete, and we were able to get to him in time. He will have a scar.
“It’s because that’s how Jesse died,” Grace said numbly. “Having runes put on. It’s her idea of poetic justice.”
Zachariah said nothing, and Grace realized with a jolt that there was more he had come to tell her. And then, with a sense of sick horror, what that more must be.
“You said my mother was in custody,” she said. “Do you mean—she is here? In the Silent City?”
He inclined his head. Given her history, it seemed crucial to keep her where all the exits are known, and guarded, and where no Portals can be opened.
Grace felt as if she were going to be sick. “No,” she gasped. “No. I don’t want her near me. I’ll go somewhere else. You can lock me in somewhere else. I’ll be good. I won’t try to get out. I swear it.”
Grace. She will only be here one night. After that she will be moved to the prisons of the Gard, in Idris.
“Does—does she know I’m here?”
She does not seem to. She has not spoken at all, said Zachariah. And her mind is closed to us. Belial’s doing, I would guess.
“She will find a way to get to me,” Grace said dully. “She always does.” She raised her head. “You have to kill her,” she said. “And burn the body. Or she will never be stopped.”
We cannot execute her. We must know what she knows.
Grace closed her eyes.
Grace, we will protect you. I will protect you. You are safest here, warded by our protections, closed behind these doors. Nor can your mother escape her cell. Not even a Prince of Hell could break out of that cage.
Grace had turned her face to the wall. He would not understand. He could not understand. She still possessed her power; therefore she was still of value to her mother. Somehow her mother would get her back. The Adamant Citadel had not held her. She was a great dark blight across Grace’s life, and she could no more be separated from Grace than venom from a body it had poisoned.
After some time, Brother Zachariah had gone away, and Grace had retched dryly into her empty bowl from breakfast. Then she had closed her eyes, but that only brought visions of her mother, of the forest in Brocelind, a dark voice in her ears. Little one. I’ve come to give you a great gift. The gift your mother asked for you. Power over the minds of men.
“Grace?” The hesitant voice was as familiar as it was impossible. Grace, hunched in her corner, looked up—and to her disbelief, saw Christopher standing at the barred door of her cell. “Uncle Jem said I could come and see you. He said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Christopher,” she breathed.
He looked at her, worry plain on his face. “Are you all right?”