They found the Institute in a state of chaos. The Lightwoods—Gabriel, Cecily, Alexander, Sophie, and Gideon—had already departed for Idris. Thomas, Christopher, Ari, and Anna were milling about, choosing which bedrooms they wanted; as far as Cordelia could tell, all the bedrooms were the same, but people seemed to have preferences anyway. Bridget and the other servants were busy stocking the larder with extra food and rushing about making up the new bedrooms. Bridget was singing a song called, ominously, “The Unquiet Grave,” which Cordelia took to mean she was in a good mood.
They found Will and Tessa in the drawing room with Jesse and Lucie, who were helping them sort and pack years’ worth of Will’s meticulous notes on the Institute’s stewardship. Cordelia felt a deep sadness that Will and Tessa would have to present proof of the years of good they’d done, the Shadowhunters and Downworlders they’d helped, as if the truth of experience didn’t matter. Only accusations, fear, and lies.
“It’s not just the Mortal Sword,” Jesse was saying earnestly, as Will flipped through a leather-bound book of minutes from various meetings. “If you need to tell the truth about me, or my relation to my mother—anything about who I really am—I just want you to know that it’s all right. Do what you must do.”
“Although,” Lucie put in, “it would be better if you didn’t.”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Will said gently. “What matters to me is that you all stay safe in the Institute while we’re gone—”
“Well, we’d be a lot safer if he wasn’t in charge,” Lucie grumbled; she looked up when James and Cordelia came in, glanced from one of them to the other, and raised her eyebrows. “James. Help me make them see sense.”
“Sense about what?” said James.
Tessa sighed. “About who will look after the Institute while we’re gone.”
It was James’s turn to raise his eyebrows. “Who?”
“You have to promise,” said Will, “not to shout when I tell you.”
“Ah,” said James, “rather what you said to me when it turned out the puppy you bought me when I was nine was in fact a werewolf, and had to be returned, with apologies, to his family.”
“A mistake anyone could make,” said Jesse.
“Thank you, Jesse,” said Will. “The fact is—it’s going to be Charles. Stay strong, James.”
“But he’s on Bridgestock’s side,” protested Cordelia. “He said horrible things at the meeting.”
“This cannot have been Charlotte’s idea,” said James.
“No. We needed to put someone in charge who the Inquisitor would agree to,” said Will, a rare tinge of bitterness in his voice. “Someone he would trust not to destroy all the evidence of the many times we’ve had Belial over for tea and croquet.”
“I don’t like the idea of Charles having access to everything here,” said James. “All our records—we can’t think of him as an ally—”
“We can’t think of him as an enemy, either,” said Tessa. “Only as misguided and foolish.”
Will said, “As for records, all the most important ones are coming with us to Idris.”
“I still don’t like it,” said James.
“You are under no obligation to like it,” said Will. “Only to bear it. If all goes well, we should only be gone for a day or two. Speaking of which, Cordelia, if you’ll need to be traveling between Cornwall Gardens and the Institute, we could offer you the use of our carriage—”
“I won’t,” said Cordelia. “I will remain here with James.”
Lucie’s eyes widened. She was clearly trying to hold back a look of delight, and doing a poor job of it. “Really?”
“You are all my family too,” said Cordelia, and smiled at Lucie; she hoped Lucie could read in her smile the thousand things she wanted to say. “I will not leave you at a time like this. Alastair is with my mother, and if I’m required at Cornwall Gardens, I’m sure I’ll hear from him right away.”
Cordelia was sure she’d be hearing from Alastair, quite shortly; after all, she had not come home the night before. She’d sent a message this morning saying all was well, but still. She’d been gone all night without a word. She suspected Alastair would have something to say about that, and that it would not be a brief something.
Tessa smiled demurely. Will seemed not to have noticed anything unusual. “It’ll all turn out all right,” he said, in his usual cheerful way. “You’ll see.”
James nodded, but when he looked back at Cordelia, she could see the concern in his face, and she knew it mirrored her own.
* * *
Brother Zachariah had not come to see Grace all day, and she had wondered why until Brother Enoch had stopped by her cell with her porridge. Brother Zachariah was in Idris, he had informed her, and it was not known when he would return.
Grace found to her surprise that she felt a small pang upon hearing that. Brother Zachariah was by far the kindest of the Brothers, and the only one who ever attempted to converse with her.
Still, it was far from the most surprising feeling she had had today. She was sitting on the edge of her iron bed, new notes from Christopher in her hand, waiting to be read. But she had not been able to concentrate on them. She kept seeing Cordelia, the look on Cordelia’s face as Grace had explained everything. She had not known what Cordelia’s reaction would be to the truth. Rage, like James? Cold despair, like Jesse? Perhaps Cordelia would fly at her and hit her. Grace was prepared to accept it if she did.
She knew Cordelia had been incredulous, and horrified. That her eyes had filled with tears when Grace spoke of certain things. James never loved me. My mother used him. He never knew.
And yet, at the end of it all, as Cordelia sprang to her feet and rushed to the door of the cell—desperate to get to James, Grace knew—she had made the effort to stop, to pause for a moment. To look at Grace. “I cannot condone what you did,” she said. “But it cannot have been easy, telling me all that. I am glad you did.”
She had hurt James with the truth, Grace thought, and hurt Jesse perhaps more. But Cordelia—she clung to the thought that in telling Cordelia the truth, she had helped her. That perhaps, after this, Cordelia would be happier.
James loves you, she had told Cordelia. He loves you with a force that cannot be turned aside, or broken, or made small or insignificant. For these past years Belial struggled against that force, and in the end he lost. And Belial is a power that can move the stars.
There was something very pleasant about giving people good news, Grace thought. She would very much like to have that feeling again. Specifically, she would like to give Christopher good news about his message experiments. She could imagine his face lighting up, his eyes sparkling behind his spectacles—
“Gracie.” A giggle. One so familiar that it sent an arrow of terror through Grace. Her hands released their grip on Christopher’s papers; they fluttered to the floor. “Oh, my dear Grace.”
Grace turned, slowly. All the blood in her body seemed to have turned solid in her veins; she could barely breathe. There, at the barred door of her cell, stood her mother.