“Cor,” she said, relaxing as she recognized him. “I wasn’t expecting you back.”
“Well, I’m not back for long,” said James, putting the dagger away. “As it happens, I’m going to be staying at the Institute for at least a few days. Shadowhunter business.”
“And Mrs. Herondale?” said Effie, looking curious. She was still holding the spoon.
“She’s gone to her mother’s. Until the baby is born.”
“Well, nobody told me,” Effie said crossly. “Nobody tells me anything.”
James had begun to develop a headache. “I’m sure she’d appreciate it if you’d pack some of her things in a trunk for her. Someone will be along to fetch it tomorrow.”
Effie hustled out of the kitchen; James thought she seemed relieved to have a specific task to accomplish, or perhaps she was just happy to get away from her knife-wielding employer. He was really winning over the populace today.
James continued through the house, lighting lamps as he went. It had grown dark outside, and the light glowed against the windowpanes. He knew he ought to pack his own trunk, though he had clothes and weapons at the Institute, things he had left there in his old bedroom. He couldn’t decide if he should bring a few items with sentimental value; he both didn’t want to be without them, and didn’t want to contemplate the idea that he would not be returning soon to Curzon Street, to live here with Cordelia.
Everything here reminded him of her. He had known it before, in the back of his mind, but now it was obvious that every decision he’d made in the decorating of the house had been made in the hope of pleasing Cordelia, imagining what would bring her delight. The chessboard in the study, the Persian miniatures, the carved panel over the fireplace that incorporated the Carstairs crest. How could he not have known this at the time? From the beginning they had only agreed to be married a year; he had believed himself in love with Grace, but in the design of the house he’d supposedly hoped they would share someday, he had given Grace no thought at all.
The bracelet’s work had been subtle. It was likely that he had wondered at the time why Grace was not more at the forefront of his mind. But the bracelet would have made sure such thoughts flickered briefly and were quickly extinguished. He could not now re-create the way he had thought of things then. It was strange, not to have been aware of his own feelings, and so infuriating, to be aware of them now, when it was too late.
He found himself standing at the fireplace in the drawing room. Atop the mantel were the broken pieces of the silver bracelet. Effie must have picked them up from the floor where James had left them.
He could not bring himself to touch them. They lay where they were, dull gray in the candlelight. The inscription written on the inside—LOYAULT? ME LIE—had been cut in half along with the band. The two matched crescents seemed only a broken trinket, not capable of destroying anyone’s life.
And yet it had destroyed his. When he thought of what he’d felt for Grace—and there had been feelings, physical and unnatural, and even worse, what he’d believed he felt—it made him nauseated, deep down, in a way that was both violent and violating. His feelings, twisted; his love, directed wrongly; his innocence, turned to a weapon against him.
He thought of Grace, in the Silent City. In the dark, alone. Good. I hope she rots there, he thought, with a bitterness that was utterly unlike him. A bitterness that would, under other circumstances, have made him ashamed.
An orange glow like a candlelight suddenly appeared and drifted in through the open window. It was a sheet of paper, folded like a letter, but on fire and rapidly being consumed. It landed gently atop the piano, where the lace doily under it immediately caught fire as well.
Christopher, James thought immediately.
He put the fire out and brushed the ashes from the edges of the paper. When he turned it over, only two words were still readable. James was fairly sure they said front door.
Curious, he went to the front door and opened it. There he indeed found Christopher, lurking on the steps and looking sheepish.
“Is this yours?” James asked, holding up the burnt scrap. “And what’ve you got against doorbells?”
“What I do,” Christopher said, “I do in the name of the advancement of science. How did it work, by the way?”
“Well, most of the message is burnt away, and you owe me one lace doily,” James said.
Christopher nodded solemnly and withdrew a small notebook and a pencil from his jacket. He began to make a note. “It will be added to the list of friends’ possessions that I must replace, due to the exigencies of—”
“Science. I know,” James said. “Well, come in then.” He couldn’t help smiling as Christopher came in and hung up his coat—a little ragged around the cuffs where it had been burned and stained with various acidic compounds. His light brown hair stuck up around his head like duckling fluff. He seemed absolutely familiar and unchanged in a way that felt like a bit of light in a dark world.
“Is Cordelia here?” Christopher asked as James led him into the drawing room. They both sprawled into armchairs, Christopher tucking his little notebook back into his jacket.
“No,” James said. “She has decided to remain at her mother’s house for the time being. Until the baby is born, at least.”
He wondered how many times he was going to have to say those same sentences. They were already beginning to drive him mad.
“Of course,” Christopher said firmly. “That makes complete sense. It would be strange, in fact, if she was not staying with her mother, so close to the birth of her new sibling. It is my understanding that when a baby is to be born, as many people as possible must gather around to, ah, well. You know.”
James raised an eyebrow.
“Anyway,” Christopher went on before James could reply, “I was speaking with Thomas and we were wondering… I mean to say he thought, and I agreed, that… well, Matthew had sent a note saying he was in Paris and having a fine time with Cordelia and he’d explain when he returned. And now you and Matthew and Cordelia are all back from Paris, but Cordelia isn’t here and…”
“Christopher,” said James calmly. “Where is Thomas?”
Christopher’s ears turned pink. “He went to talk to Matthew.”
“I see,” James said. “You got me, and Thomas got Math. The better for wheedling information out of at least one of us.”
“It’s not like that,” Christopher said, looking miserable, and James felt like a cad. “We’re the Merry Thieves—one for all, and all for one—”
“I think that’s the Three Musketeers,” said James.
“There were four Musketeers, if you count D’Artagnan.”
“Christopher…”
“We’ve never had a fight,” Christopher said. “I mean, none of us with each other, at least nothing serious. If you’ve had a falling-out with Math… we want to help repair it.”
Despite himself, James was touched. As close as he and Christopher had been for years, he’d understood that Christopher would rarely, if ever, be willing to discuss something as irrational as feelings.