Jesse looked as if he had actually grown taller. Lucie beamed over at him. Ah, James thought. This is not some sort of crush. She is truly in love with Jesse Blackthorn. How did I never guess any of this was happening?
But then, he had kept his own secrets about love, too well. He thought of Matthew, who would be with Cordelia now in Paris. He tried to breathe around the pain of the thought.
“Now,” said Will, and with a decided air, clapped Jesse on the shoulder. “We can stand around blaming Tatiana, and believe me, I do, but it won’t help the present situation. It seems you are our concern, young Jesse. What are we going to do with you?”
Lucie frowned. “Why don’t we just go back to the Clave? And explain what happened? They already know Tatiana was up to dark doings. They wouldn’t blame Jesse for what was done to him.”
Magnus rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “No. Terrible idea. Certainly not.”
Lucie glared at him.
Magnus shrugged. “Lucie, your heart is in the right place.” Lucie stuck out her tongue at him, and he smiled. “But it would be quite dangerous to start involving the Clave on a large scale. There are some who have every reason to believe this story, but just as many, if not more, who would strongly prefer to disbelieve it.”
“Magnus is right,” said Will. “Unfortunately. This is a question of nuance. Jesse was not brought back from the dead; he was never truly dead to begin with. Still, he was possessed by Belial. And during that possession he did—”
The light had gone out of Jesse’s face. “I did terrible things,” he said. “They will say, ‘Well, if he was alive, then he was responsible for the things he did; if he was dead, then this is necromancy.’？” His gaze flicked to Lucie. “I told you I could not return to London,” he said. “Mine is a complicated story, and people do not want to hear complicated stories. They want simple stories, in which people are either good or evil, and no one good ever makes a mistake, and no one evil ever repents.”
“You have nothing to repent,” said James. “If there is anyone who knows what it is like to have Belial whispering in their ear, it is me.”
“Ah, but you have never done his bidding, have you?” said Jesse, with a bitter smile. “I think there is nothing to be done here save for me to go away. A new identity—”
“Jesse, no.” Lucie started toward him, then swayed back. “You deserve to have your life. The one Tatiana tried to steal from you.”
Jesse said nothing. James, reminded of his sister’s admonition to treat him like a person, said, “Jesse. What would you want to do?”
“What do I want?” said Jesse with a sad smile. “I want four impossible things. I want to join the Enclave in London. I want to be a Shadowhunter, as I was born to be. I want to be accepted as a normal, living person. I wish to reunite with my sister, the only real family I’ve ever had. But I don’t see how any of that is possible.”
A silence came over the room as they pondered this; it was interrupted by a sudden loud creak that made them all jump. It was coming from the direction of the entryway, and after a moment Malcolm Fade came into the room, stamping his feet on the stone floor to remove the snow from his boots. He was hatless, white flakes of snow caught in his already white hair. He looked thinner, James thought, than the last time he’d seen him; his look was intense, and peculiarly faraway. It took him a long moment to notice that his sitting room was full of visitors. When he did see them, he froze in place.
“Thought we’d pop by, Malcolm,” said Magnus airily.
Malcolm looked as if he wanted nothing more than to flee through the night, winding up in the morning perhaps in Rio de Janeiro or some other far-flung locale. Instead he sighed and resorted to the last bulwark of an Englishman under stress.
“Tea?” he suggested.
* * *
It was late, and Anna Lightwood was getting tired. Unfortunately, the party in her flat showed no signs of slowing. Nearly all her Shadowhunter friends were out of town for a variety of silly reasons, and she had taken the opportunity to invite over some of those Downworlders she wished to know better. Claude Kellington, the master of music at the Hell Ruelle, had a new composition to debut, and he wished to do so before an intimate audience. Anna’s flat, according to him, was the perfect spot.
Kellington’s new composition involved a lot of singing, never Claude’s strongest talent. Nor had Anna realized that it was a song cycle adapted from an epic poem also of his composition. The performance had now entered its fourth hour, and Anna’s guests, however well disposed toward the artist, had long ago become bored and drunk. Kellington, whose usual audience were the bored and drunk denizens of the Hell Ruelle, hadn’t even noticed; he also, Anna noted, had apparently never heard of the word “intermission.”
Now a vampire and werewolf whose names Anna did not recall were entangled passionately on her sofa, a positive step for Downworlder relations, at least. Someone in the corner by the china cabinet had gotten into the snuff. Even Percy the stuffed snake looked worn-out. Every now and again Anna took a discreet glance at her watch to note the hours ticking by, but she had no idea how to stop Kellington politely. Every time he paused for a moment she stood to interject, but he would only barrel right into the next movement.
Hyacinth, a pale blue faerie in the employ of Hypatia Vex, was here and had been sending suggestive glances in Anna’s direction all evening. She and Anna had a history, and Anna did not like to repeat a reckless debauch from her past; still, Kellington’s performance would have normally driven her into Hyacinth’s arms before the first hour was up. Instead she had been carefully avoiding the faerie girl’s gaze. Looking at Hyacinth only reminded Anna of the last words Ariadne had spoken to her. It is because of me that you have become what you are. Hard and bright as a diamond. Untouchable.
The same words repeated themselves in her mind every time she thought about romance these days. What had once interested her—the purr of petticoats falling to the ground, the whispering fall of loosened hair—no longer did, unless it was Ariadne’s hair. Ariadne’s petticoats.
She would forget, she told herself. She would make herself forget. She had thrown herself into distractions. This performance of Kellington’s, for instance. She had also held a life-drawing class with Percy as the subject, she had attended a number of shockingly dull vampire dances, and she had played cribbage with Hypatia until dawn. She missed Matthew more than she had thought possible. Surely he would have been able to distract her.
She was shaken from her reverie by a sudden knocking at the door. Startled, Anna rose. It was quite late for an unanticipated visitor. Perhaps—hopefully—a neighbor come to complain of the noise?
She threaded her way across the room and threw the door open. On the threshold, shivering with cold, stood Ariadne Bridgestock.
Her eyes were red, her cheeks blotchy. She’d been crying. Anna felt her stomach drop; whatever she might have rehearsed to say the next time she and Ariadne spoke disappeared from her mind instantly. Instead she felt a prickle of fear—what had happened? What was wrong?
“I’m sorry,” Ariadne said. “For bothering you.” Her chin was raised high, her eyes bright with defiance. “I know I shouldn’t have come. But I’ve nowhere else I can go.”