He thought of Dante: There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy. He had never realized before how true that was. Cordelia laughing, dancing with him, her intent gaze as she held an ivory chess piece in her hand, the way she had looked on their wedding day, all in gold—all these memories tormented him. He feared he would hurt her if he begged her to understand what had truly happened, that he had never loved Grace. He feared even more not trying, condemning himself to a life utterly without her.
Breathe measured breaths, he told himself. He was grateful for all the training Jem had given him through the years: practice in controlling himself, controlling his emotions and fears. It seemed to be all that was keeping him from flying apart into pieces.
How had he not known? Matthew’s letter to him—much folded, much read, tucked in the pocket of James’s coat—had struck him like a bolt of lightning. He’d had no idea of Matthew’s feelings, and still did not know Cordelia’s. How had he been so oblivious? He knew some of it had been the spell of the bracelet—but in the parlor, he’d seen the way Lucie looked at Jesse, and known that she had been in love with him for a long time. Yet he’d had no inkling of anything going on with his sister—nor, it turned out, his parabatai or his wife. How were the people he loved the most in the world the ones he seemed to know the least?
Having thrashed the covers into an untenable knot, James flung the wool blanket off and got up. There was bright moonlight coming in the window, and in its pale glow he made his way across the room to where his jacket hung on a peg. In its pocket, still, were Cordelia’s gloves. He drew one of them out, running his fingers over the soft gray kidskin with its tracery of leaves. He could see her resting her chin on her gloved hand—he could see her face before him, her eyes shining, dark and fathomless. He could see her turning that gaze up to Matthew, cheeks flushed, lips parted. He knew he was torturing himself, as if he’d been running the fine, sharp edge of a dagger across his skin, and yet he could not stop.
A sudden flicker of motion distracted him. Something interrupting the moonlight, a break in the silvery illumination. He replaced the glove in his coat pocket and went over to the window. He had a view of the jagged rocks of Chapel Cliff from here, of wind-sculpted boulders tumbling down to a silver-black sea.
A figure stood at the edge of the cliffs, where the stone was rimed with ice. The figure was tall, slender; he wore a white cloak—no, not white. The color of bone or parchment, with runes inked at the hem and sleeves.
Jem.
He knew it was his uncle. It could be no one else. But what was he doing here? James had not summoned him, and if Jem had wished them all to know that he was present, surely he would have knocked and roused the house? Moving silently, James took his coat off the peg, put on his shoes, and slipped downstairs.
The cold hit him the moment he went out the door. There was no snow falling, but the air was full of stinging particles of frost. James was half-blinded by the time he circled the house and reached the cliffside where Jem stood. He wore only his thin robes, and his hands were bare, but cold and heat did not touch Silent Brothers. He glanced over as James appeared but said nothing, apparently content for the two of them to stand and look out across the water.
“Did you come searching for us?” James asked. “I thought Mother would have told you where we’d gone.”
She did not need to. Your father sent a letter, the night you departed London, Jem said silently. But I couldn’t wait for your return to speak with you. He sounded serious, and though Silent Brothers always sounded serious, there was something in Jem’s manner that made James’s stomach lurch.
“Belial?” James whispered.
To his surprise, Jem shook his head. Grace.
Oh.
As you know, Jem went on, she has been in the Silent City since shortly after you departed.
“She is safer there,” James said. And then, with a rancor he hadn’t planned, he added, “And the world is safer with her there. Under careful observation.”
Both those things are true, said Jem. After a brief silence, he said, Is there a reason you haven’t told your parents what Grace did to you?
“How do you know I haven’t?” James said. Jem regarded him silently. “Never mind,” James said. “Silent Brother powers, I gather.”
And a general knowledge of human behavior, said Jem. If Will had known what Grace did to you before he left London, his letter would have sounded quite different. And I rather suspect you have not told him since.
“Why do you suspect that?”
I know you well, James, said his uncle. I know you do not like to be pitied. And you imagine that is what would happen if you spoke the truth about what Grace—and her mother—did to you.
“Because it’s true,” James said. “It’s exactly what would happen.” He stared out at the ocean; in the far distance, sparks against the darkness, were the lights of distant boats. He could not imagine how lonely it must be, out there in the darkness and cold, alone on the waves in a tiny craft. “But I suppose I’m not to have much choice. Especially if Grace is to stand trial.”
Actually, said Jem, the Silent Brothers have decided that Grace’s power should remain a secret, for now. We do not yet wish Tatiana Blackthorn to know that her daughter is no longer allied with her, nor do we wish her to be aware of what we know. Not until she can be questioned with the Mortal Sword.
“How convenient for Grace,” James said, and was surprised at the bitterness in his own voice.
James, Jem said. Have I asked you to conceal the truth of what Grace and Tatiana did to you? The Silent Brothers want the truth withheld from the Clave, but I understand that you may need to tell your family, to ease your mind and theirs. But I trust that if you do, you will emphasize that it should not become widely known as yet. He hesitated. It was my impression that perhaps you did not want anyone to know. That you would be relieved that it remained a secret.
James held his tongue. Because he was relieved. He could imagine the pity that would fall upon him, the desire to understand, the need to discuss it, when the truth came out. He needed time before then—time to become accustomed to the truth—before everyone knew. He needed time to accept that he’d lived a lie for years, to no purpose.
“It is strange to me,” he said, “that you are speaking with Grace. That you may be the only person in the world to really have an honest conversation with her about what—what she did.” He bit at his bottom lip; he still had trouble calling it “the enchantment,” or “the love spell”; it was more bearable to say “what she did,” or even “what she did to me,” knowing Jem would understand. “I do not think she even told her brother. He seems to know nothing of it.”
The sharp wind lifted James’s hair, flung it into his eyes. He was so cold he could feel the shivery brush of his own eyelashes against his skin, damp as they were with sea spray. “He has certainly never mentioned anything about Grace’s power to Lucie—of that I am absolutely sure.” Lucie would not have been able to help herself; she would have flung herself at James the first moment she saw him, railing against Grace, furious on his behalf.