She waited nine minutes exactly. When they had passed, she whispered to Charles, “If you’ll excuse me a moment—I see the Wentworths have arrived, and I should say hello to Rosamund.”
Charles nodded absently and returned to his conversation with Will Herondale. Not that Grace minded. Better he was distracted, and she had hardly chosen him for his devotion to her.
She slipped away, through the crowd of wedding guests, heading for the stairs that led to the main part of the Institute. It felt good to be away from the clamor. Most of the members of the London Enclave looked at Grace oddly, with the exception of the Lightwoods, and their friendly attentions were even worse than the sidelong glances.
Gideon and Sophie Lightwood offered her a room in their house practically every time they saw her, saying that as their niece and Thomas and Eugenia’s cousin, she was always welcome. Cecily and Gabriel Lightwood had made the same offer, though they weren’t as inclined to repeat it as Gideon and his wife were. Grace, for her part, felt no relationship to any of them at all. She supposed that was Tatiana’s doing. She had characterized her brothers as monsters, though it seemed they were quite ordinary men.
Ordinary as they were, they could never be made to understand that for Grace to take shelter with her uncles would be the worst betrayal of her mother that she could think of. And Grace didn’t believe for a moment that Tatiana would remain in the Adamant Citadel forever, regardless of the Clave. She would find a way out eventually, and there would be hell to pay.
Having reached the next floor, Grace heard footsteps behind her and turned—James, perhaps, catching up to her? But it was Lucie, carrying a bunch of yellow flowers. The Blackthorn locket—Jesse’s locket—glittered at her throat; Lucie always wore it with the inscribed side against her skin, the telltale circlet of thorns safely hidden. But Grace knew the truth.
“Grace?” Lucie said in surprise.
An accidental meeting, but perhaps a convenient one, Grace thought. She always feared sending messages to Lucie, lest they be intercepted. Better to talk in person. “Lucie,” she said. “You said you wanted to consult a warlock about our—project. What about Malcolm Fade?”
The flowers wobbled in Lucie’s hands; she nodded enthusiastically. “Oh, indeed. He’s easy enough to find—he’s always at the Hell Ruelle—and the Enclave trusts him. But do you think that he’d be willing to help us with this… particular matter?”
“Ordinarily, perhaps not,” Grace said. “But I think I know something that could persuade him to aid us.”
“My goodness, what?” Lucie looked intrigued, but before she could insist on more information, a voice down the hall called her name. “You’ll have to tell me later,” she said, and dashed off in the direction of the wedding preparations, her flowers waving like yellow banners.
Excellent, Grace thought. With any luck, she’d kill two birds with one stone on this little excursion. It was odd, this business with Lucie—odd to find herself so deep in a partnership with someone she could not influence or control. But it was for Jesse. She would do anything for him.
It was easy to find the drawing room. It was the room in which, four months ago, Grace had taken her silver bracelet back from James and told him she would not marry him. It had been summer then, and now white gusts ghosted past the windows. Otherwise, not much had changed: here was the same flowered wallpaper, the velveteen settee and wing chairs, the faint scent of ink and writing paper.
It brought back that day to her, too sharply. The stricken look on James’s face. The things he had said to her.
She knew there ought to have been pleasure in causing him pain. There would have been for her mother, but there was none for her. For years she had lived with the knowledge of James’s love like a weight on her shoulders. She thought of it as chains—iron chains that bound him to her. The Herondales are made to love, her mother had said. They give all they have and keep back nothing.
She did not love him. She knew he was beautiful—she had watched him grow into himself, every summer, as if she were watching a painting by Rossetti turn from a sketch into gorgeous, vivid art—but what did it matter? It seemed it had never occurred to her mother—and would not have mattered to her if it had—that just as it was a torment to love, it might be a torment to be loved. To be loved, and to know it was not real.
She had tried to release him from the chains once before, in this very room. She had seen the way he looked at Cordelia, and she had known: the chains would break, and he would hate her as a monster. Better to let him go, while her mother slept. Better to do a deed that could not be undone.