Chain of Gold (11 page)

Or when the moon was overhead

Came two young lovers lately wed;

“I am half sick of shadows,” said The Lady of Shalott.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “The Lady of Shalott”

The next day proved bright
and beautiful. Regent's Park seemed to shine in the late afternoon sunlight, from the York Gate to the green lawn stretching down to the lake. By the time Cordelia and Alastair arrived, the east bank was already crowded with young Shadowhunters. Colorful woven blankets of bright cerise and sky-blue cotton had been thrown over the grass, and little groups were seated around picnic hampers and crowded down by the lakeside.

Some of the younger set were floating miniature boats on the water, and the white sails of them made the lake look thick with swans. The older girls were in pastel day dresses or skirts with high-necked blouses, the young men in knit sweaters and plus fours. Some were decked out in mundane rowing gear—jackets
and trousers in white linen, though white, for Shadowhunters, was traditionally the color of mourning and usually avoided.

Scandalous!
Cordelia thought with dark amusement as she and Alastair neared the crowd. It was different from the night before: that had been a gathering of the Enclave, Shadowhunters from the oldest to youngest. These were people her age. Not perhaps the ones who could be most helpful to her father—but everyone here had parents, some of whom were quite influential. Many had older brothers or sisters. The ball might not have gone as Cordelia had wished, but today, she was determined to make her mark.

She recognized Rosamund Wentworth and some of the other girls from the party, deep in conversation. The same anxiety began to rise in her that had risen at the ball: How was one supposed to break into social groups? Make them want you as part of them?

She'd spent the morning with Risa and the Lightwoods' cook, helping to prepare the vastest, most spectacular picnic basket she thought anyone had ever seen. Taking the rolled-up blanket from under her arm, she spread it out deliberately close to the lake, just before the spot where the grass turned into sand and gravel.

She would put herself right in the middle of the view, she thought, plonking herself down and gesturing for Alastair to join her. Cordelia watched Alastair as he dropped the heavy picnic basket with a muttered curse, then flopped down beside her.

He wore a striped jacket of gray linen, pale against his brown skin. His dark eyes roamed restlessly over the crowd. “I cannot recall,” he said, “why we agreed to this.”

“We cannot spend our lives hiding in our house, Alastair. We must make friends,” said Cordelia. “Recall that we are meant to be ingratiating ourselves.”

He made a face at her as she began unpacking the picnic hamper, setting out freshly cut flowers, cold chicken, game pies, fruit,
butter in a jam pot, three types of marmalade, white and brown bread, potted crab, and salmon mayonnaise.

Alastair raised his eyebrows.

“People like to eat,” Cordelia said.

Alastair looked as if he was about to argue, then brightened and scrambled to his feet. “I see some of the boys from the Academy,” he said. “Piers and Thoby are down by the water. I'll just go ingratiate myself, shall I?”

“Alastair,” Cordelia protested, but he was already gone, leaving her alone on the thick plaid picnic blanket. She put her chin in the air, setting out the rest of the food—strawberries, cream, lemon tartlets, and stone ginger beer. She wished Lucie were here, but since she hadn't arrived yet, Cordelia would have to stick it out on her own.

You are a Shadowhunter,
she reminded herself. One of a long line of Persian Shadowhunters. The Jahanshah family had fought demons for longer than people like Rosamund Wentworth could imagine. Sona claimed they had the blood of the famous hero Rostam in them. Cordelia could manage a picnic.

“Cordelia Carstairs?” Cordelia glanced up to see Anna standing above her, elegant as ever in a pale linen shirt and buff trousers. “May I join you?”

“Of course!” Delighted, Cordelia made space. She knew Anna was a topic of legend and admiration: she did as she liked, dressed as she liked, and lived where she liked. Her clothes were as spectacular as the stories about her. If Anna chose to sit with her, Cordelia could not be seen as dull.

Anna sank gracefully to her knees, reaching into the basket to retrieve a bottle of ginger beer. “I suppose,” she said, “we have not been officially introduced. But after the drama of last evening, I feel as if I know you.”

“After hearing about you from Lucie for so many years, I feel as if I know
you
.”

“I see you have ranged your food about you like a fortress,” Anna said. “Very wise. I think of each social occasion as a battle to be entered, myself. And I always wear my armor.” She crossed her legs at the ankle, showing her knee-high boots to advantage.

“And I always bring my sword.” Cordelia tapped the hilt of Cortana, currently half-concealed beneath a fold of blanket.

“Ah, the famous Cortana.” Anna's eyes sparkled. “A sword that bears no runes, yet can kill demons, they say. Is that true?”

Cordelia nodded proudly. “My father slew the great demon Yanluo with it. They say the blade of Cortana can cut through anything.”

“That sounds very useful.” Anna touched the hilt lightly and withdrew her hand. “How are you finding London?”

“Honestly? It is overwhelming. I have spent most of my life traveling, and in London I only know James and Lucie.”

Anna smiled like a sphinx. “But you brought enough food to provision an army.” She cocked her head to the side. “I'd like to invite you to tea at my flat, Cordelia Carstairs. There are some matters we should discuss.”

Cordelia was stunned. What could glamorous Anna Lightwood possibly have to discuss with her? The thought crossed her mind that perhaps it had to do with her father, but before she could ask, Anna's face lit up and she began waving at two approaching figures.

Cordelia turned to see Anna's brother Christopher and Thomas Lightwood picking their way along the edge of the lake. Thomas towered over Christopher, who appeared to be chatting to him amiably, the sun glinting off his spectacles.

Anna's smile took on a curl at the edges. “Christopher! Thomas! Over here!”

Cordelia plastered on a bright smile as they came closer. “Do come say hello,” she said. “I've lemon tartlets, and ginger beer, if you like.”

The boys glanced at each other. A moment later they were set
tling onto the blanket, Christopher nearly upsetting the picnic basket. Thomas was more careful with his long arms and legs, as if nervous he might knock something over. He wasn't beautiful like James, but he would certainly suit a lot of girls. As for Christopher, his fine-boned resemblance to Anna was even clearer up close.

“I see why you called for our help,” Thomas said, his hazel eyes sparkling as he took in the picnic spread. “It would be staggeringly difficult for you to consume all this by yourselves. Best to call in the reserves.”

Christopher snagged a lemon tart. “Thomas used to be able to clear out our larder in an hour—and the eating contests he had with Lucie, I shudder to report them.”

“I may have heard a bit about that,” said Cordelia.
Thomas adores ginger beer,
Lucie had told her once,
and Christopher is obsessed with lemon tarts.
She hid a smile. “I know we've met before on occasion, but now that I'm officially in London, I hope that we'll become friends.”

“Absolutely certainly,” said Christopher, “especially if there will be more lemon tarts in the offing.”

“I doubt she carries them everywhere with her, Kit,” said Thomas, “stuffed into her hats and whatnot.”

“I keep them in my weapons belt instead of seraph blades,” said Cordelia, and both boys laughed.

“How is Barbara, Thomas?” asked Anna, as she picked up an apple. “Is she well after last night?”

“She seems quite recovered,” Thomas said, gesturing to where Barbara was walking down by the lake with Oliver. She was twirling a bright blue parasol and chatting animatedly. Thomas bit into a meat pie.

“If you were a truly dedicated brother, you would be at her side,” Anna said. “I would hope that if I collapsed, Christopher would weep inconsolably and be incapable of consuming meat pies.”

“Barbara doesn't want me near her,” Thomas said, unperturbed. “She's hoping Oliver will propose.”

“Is she?” said Anna, her dark eyebrows winging upward in amusement.

“Alastair!” Cordelia called. “Do come eat! The food is vanishing!”

But her brother—who was not, Cordelia noticed, chatting with boys from the Academy, but was standing alone by the lakeside—only cast her a glance that indicated that she was tiresome.

“Ah,” said Thomas, in a slightly too casual voice. “Alastair is here.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He's the man of our house at the moment, since my father is in Idris.”

Christopher had produced a small black notebook and was scribbling in it. Anna was gazing down at the lake, where several of the young ladies—Rosamund, Ariadne, and Catherine among them—had decided to take a turn. “He has my sympathy,” said Thomas, with an easy smile. “My father is often in Idris as well, with the Consul—”

I know,
Cordelia thought, but before she could ask him anything, she heard Lucie calling her name. She looked up to see her future
parabatai
heading toward them, holding a straw hat in place with one hand and a basket in the other. Behind her was James, his hands in the pockets of his pin-striped trousers. He wore no hat, and the wind tugged at his already tousled black hair.

“Oh, lovely!” Lucie said, upon seeing Cordelia's mountain of food. “We can combine our winnings. Let's see what you have.”

Anna and Christopher made space as Lucie dropped to her knees and began unpacking yet more food—cheese and jam tarts, sandwiches and lemonade. James sat down by Christopher, glancing idly at his notebook. He said something in a low voice, and Thomas and Christopher laughed.

Cordelia felt her breath catch in her throat. She hadn't really
spoken to James since they'd danced the night before. Unless one counted him asking her to remove his stele from his jacket. She remembered the way his hands had been fisted at his sides. He seemed a different person now.

“What did it turn out to be, last night?” she said to Lucie. “The demon business in Seven Dials.”

James glanced over at her. His smile was easy—too easy, Cordelia thought. As if he were an actor on a stage, told to look as if he were enjoying himself. “Shax demons all up and down Monmouth Street. They had to call on Ragnor Fell to help glamour the place so the mundanes wouldn't notice what was going on.”

Thomas frowned. “It's odd,” he said, “after so long, we encountered that demon the other night, and now yesterday—”

“You encountered a demon?” Lucie demanded. “When was that?”

“Er,” said Thomas, his hazel eyes darting around. “I may have been wrong. It may not have been a demon. It may have been a textbook about demons.”

“Thomas,” said Lucie. “You are the most dreadful liar. I want to know what happened.”

“You can always get the truth out of Matthew,” said James. “You can wheedle anything out of him, you know that, Luce.” He glanced around the lake. “Where is Matthew? Isn't he meant to be coming?”

He looked over at Cordelia, and she felt a sudden rush of anger. She'd been quiet—now that she'd managed to lure all these people to her Picnic Blanket of Machinations, how was she meant to bring up her father? But James's words brought back the night before in a sharp flash of memory. He was asking her if she knew where Matthew was because she'd danced with Matthew, and she'd danced with Matthew because James had abandoned her and Matthew had stepped in.

Cordelia rose to her feet, nearly knocking over a bottle of ginger
beer. She took a deep breath, brushed off her blue serge skirt, and said, “James, I'd like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you don't mind.”

Everyone looked astonished, even Lucie; James only nodded.

“Lead the way,” he said.

There was a small Italian folly near the lake, complete with white pillars. Cordelia led James away from the crowd of picnickers in silence, passing a few groups of strolling mundanes; now she climbed the few steps of the folly to its central pavilion, turned, and faced him.

“Last night,” she said, “you were most appallingly rude to me, and I would like an apology.”

He looked up at her. So this was what it would be like to be taller than James, she thought. She didn't mind it. His expression was calm, unreadable even. It wasn't an unfriendly look, but it was entirely closed off, letting no one in. It was an expression she had seen on James's face before: she had always thought of it privately as the Mask.

She raised an eyebrow. “You're not going to apologize?”

Maybe it wasn't better to be taller than him, she thought. When he looked up at her, he had to do it through his eyelashes, which were thick and black as the silk fringes on a scarf. “I am trying to think of the best way to do it. What I did—leaving you on the dance floor—was unforgivable. I am trying to think of a reason you ought to forgive me anyway, because if you did not, it would break my heart.”

She cleared her throat. “That is a decent start.”

His smile was faint, but real, breaking through the Mask. “You've always had a charitable nature, Daisy.”

She pointed her finger at him. “Don't you Daisy me,” she said. “Have you taken the time to understand what it is to be a girl in
such a situation? A girl cannot ask a gentleman to dance; she is at the mercy of the choice of the opposite sex. She cannot even refuse a dance if it is asked of her. To have a boy walk away from her on the dance floor is humiliating. To have it happen when one is wearing a truly frightful gown, even more so. They will all be discussing what is wrong with me.”