* * *
Understanding that she might never return to Cornwall Gardens, Sona had not been able to decide what to bring and what to leave behind. Cordelia found herself stacking an odd assortment of ornaments and books, clothes and keepsakes, on a dresser in one of the Institute’s spare rooms. When she was done, her mother held out her arms from the bed. “Come here,” she said. “My poor baby girl. Come here.”
Cordelia wept in her mother’s arms, holding on tightly until the waves took her down again.
* * *
As she passed through the drawing room, Cordelia saw Thomas. He was with Eugenia, both of them talking intently, yet he seemed alone. He was the last of the Merry Thieves left in this world, Cordelia realized with a dull horror. The last of four. If they did not get James and Matthew back somehow, he would always be alone.
* * *
Charles led the meeting. His face was calm, but Cordelia could see he felt utterly unprepared for the situation. His hands shook like fluttering paper, and he was drowned out quickly by a chorus of voices from those in the Enclave who were older, and more determined, than he was.
“We are not remaining in London and endangering our families,” roared Martin Wentworth. “We have been given a chance to escape. We should take it.”
* * *
Cordelia was stunned to find herself objecting loudly during the meeting. She heard her own voice as if from a distance, protesting that they should not leave London. They were Shadowhunters. They could not abandon the city to Belial. But it didn’t matter—no matter how vociferously she and her friends protested, the decision was made. Belial could not be trusted, Cordelia argued. And what if James and Matthew escaped, returned to London? How could they be allowed to find it deserted, under demonic control?
“They will not return,” Martin Wentworth said somberly. “What a Prince of Hell takes, he does not give back.”
Cordelia could not breathe. She looked across the room, met Lucie’s eyes. Lucie’s gaze held hers, keeping her above the waves.
* * *
It was past midnight. They were all in the library, lamps lit but turned low. Maps and books were spread out before them. Anna read fiercely, as if she could burn up the pages with her eyes.
* * *
Cordelia lay in the too-big bed again, hating it. Surrounding her were objects that reminded her of James. His clothes, old books, even the carvings he had made in the wood of his nightstand. TMT at the DT, he had scratched into the paint. The Merry Thieves at the Devil Tavern. A reminder? The title of a play, a poem, a thought?
When the door opened, she was too exhausted even to be surprised as Lucie came in, with Jesse beside her. As Jesse watched from the door, Lucie crossed the room and lay down on the bed next to Cordelia.
“I know you miss them as much as I do,” she said.
Cordelia put her head on Lucie’s shoulder. Jesse looked at them both, then quietly slipped from the room, closing the door behind him.
“Do you think we can do it?” Cordelia whispered, into the shadowy dark.
“I have to believe we can,” Lucie said. “I have to.”
* * *
Morning was as dark as night. Sona took Cordelia’s hand. “You are grieving,” she said, “but you are a warrior. You have always been a warrior.” She looked over at Alastair, who stood by the window, gazing out at the blackened sky. “You will help her to do what is necessary.”
“Yes,” Alastair said. “I will.”
27 CLOUDS OF DARKNESS
Horror covers all the sky,
Clouds of darkness blot the moon,
Prepare! for mortal thou must die,
Prepare to yield thy soul up soon.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Ghasta or, the Avenging Demon!!!”
Belial had given them thirty-six hours; that was thirty-four hours ago. And now Cordelia walked through the cold, dark morning, part of a somber procession of Shadowhunters marching toward the gate that would take them away from London, perhaps forever.
Lucie was nearby, with Jesse, and Alastair accompanied Sona, who was resting in a Bath chair pushed by Risa. Cordelia could see others she knew in the crowd: Anna, her back arrow-straight; Ari, carrying Winston in a cage. Eugenia. Grace, alone and silent, limping slightly—she had refused healing runes for her injured feet. Thomas, who had Oscar on a leash. They were all together, yet Cordelia felt as though each of them made this walk alone, isolated from one another by their sorrow and their worry.
As they neared their destination, more Shadowhunters joined the procession. Mostly families, sticking close together. Cordelia felt a dull horror in her stomach. These were the Angel’s chosen warriors, the ones who stood against the dark. She had never imagined that they could be driven from their own city with only the belongings they could carry.
The procession moved in silence, and part of that silence, Cordelia knew, was shame. Once it had been confirmed that Belial was telling the truth—that a wall of magic encircled the borders of the city and could not be crossed, and London was under his complete control—the Enclave had folded like a pack of cards. London was only one city, the older Shadowhunters argued. To stay and fight without the hope of reinforcements, against an enemy whose powers were unknown, was foolish: better to go to Idris, to rally the Clave and try to find a solution.
No solution, Cordelia was sure, began with doing exactly what a Prince of Hell told you to.
Which was what she and her friends had said. Every one of them had protested, and been ignored. They were too young—they had romantic dreams of glory—they did not understand the danger, they were told. Even Charles had spoken up but was outnumbered. Every adult they would have had on their side—the Herondales, the Lightwoods, the Consul—was in Idris now, Cordelia thought bitterly. Belial had planned well.
As though knowing her thoughts, Lucie murmured, “I can’t believe they wouldn’t stay.”
“They wouldn’t even consider it.” Cordelia still felt a bite of anger within her. “But,” she added, “at least we have a plan.”
They were passing St. Clement’s church, then turning en masse down Arundel Street toward the Thames. After only a day and a half, Cordelia was still shocked by London’s transformation. It was morning, and yet the sky was black with roiling clouds, as it always was now. The only real illumination came from the horizon, where （as a few who had ridden to the outskirts of the city had reported） a dull white glow emanated from the wall of demonic wards that encircled the city.
All around them were the city’s mundanes, as always, but they too had been transformed. Mundanes in London always moved urgently when they were out on the street, like they all had important appointments to keep; now there was something eerie and manic about their hurrying. They performed their usual actions without thought, without change. By Temple Station there was a newspaper stand, stacked with papers already beginning to yellow at the edges. The headlines blared the news from two days past. As Cordelia watched, a man in a bowler hat picked one up and held out an empty hand to the vendor, who pretended to count out change. On the other side of the station entrance, a woman stood in front of the darkened, empty windows of a shuttered boutique. As Cordelia passed, she could hear the woman repeating over and over, “Oh my! How delightful! How delightful! Oh, my, my!”