Chain of Gold (46 page)

She started when Sona came into the dining room. Her mother eyed Cordelia consideringly before saying, “Is that one of the dresses James sent you?”

Cordelia nodded. She was wearing a deep rose day dress that had been part of the package from Anna.

For a moment, Sona looked wistful. “It is a lovely color,” she said. “The dresses are indeed very beautiful and probably much better suited to you than the dresses I have given you.”

“No!” Cordelia rose to her feet, stricken.
“Kha¯k bar saram!”
It was a phrase that literally meant “I should die”—the most extreme form of apology. “I'm an awful daughter. I know you did the best you could.”

I know you did,
Mâmân
. I know you were only trying to protect me.

Sona looked astonished. “By the Angel. They are only dresses, Layla.” She smiled. “Perhaps you could make it up to me by helping about the house? As a good daughter should?”

Tricked as usual,
Cordelia thought, but she was more than a little glad to have the distraction. More unpacking had been done, and there were decisions to be made as to where certain bits of Isfahan pottery might be set, or where their Tabriz rugs could be placed to best advantage. As Cordelia watched her mother bustle about, clearly in her element, she felt the words roll to the tip of her tongue:
Did you know when you married him,
Mâmân
? Did you find out one day, or was it a slow realization, a terrible dawning of knowledge? All those times you said he should go to the Basilias, did you think they could cure his drunkenness? Did you weep that he refused to go? Do you still love him?

Sona stepped back to admire a small collection of framed miniatures by the stairs. “That looks nice there, doesn't it? Or do you think it was better in the other room?”

“Definitely better there,” Cordelia said, having no idea what other room her mother meant.

Sona turned, a hand braced against the small of her back. “Have you been paying atten—” she began, and winced suddenly. She leaned back against the wall as Cordelia hurried over to her, worried.

“Are you feeling well? You look tired.”

Sona sighed. “I am perfectly all right, Cordelia.” She straightened up, her hands hovering as if she couldn't quite decide what she wanted to do with them. It was a gesture she made only when very nervous. “But—I am expecting a baby.”

“What?”

Sona smiled a shaky smile. “You will have a little brother or sister, Layla. In only a few more months.”

Cordelia wanted to throw her arms around her mother but was suddenly terrified. Her mother was forty-two, late for a woman to carry a child. For the first time in her life, her formidable mother looked fragile to her. “How long have you known?”

“Three months,” Sona said. “Alastair knows as well. So does your father.”

Cordelia swallowed. “But you didn't tell me.”

“Layla
joon
.” Her mother came closer to her. “I didn't want to worry you more than you were already worried about our family. I know you have been trying—” She broke off, stroking a stray lock of hair back from her daughter's face. “You know you do not have to marry, if you do not want to,” she said, almost in a whisper. “We will get by, darling. We always do.”

Cordelia placed a kiss in the palm of her mother's thin hand, marked with many ancient scars from the time long ago when she had fought demons.
“Cheshmet roshan, mâdar joon,”
she whispered.

Her mother's eyes sparkled with tears. “Thank you, darling.”

A heavy knock came at the front door. Cordelia exchanged a surprised look with her mother before heading to the entryway. Risa had answered the door, and on the front step stood the
grubby newsboy Matthew had given her satchel to outside Gast's flat. One of the Irregulars, she recalled, the Downworlder boys who worked out of the Devil Tavern and ran errands for James and the others.

“Got a message here for Miss Cordelia Carstairs,” he said, clinging to a folded piece of paper.

“That's me,” Cordelia said. “Do you, er, require payment?”

“Nope,” said the boy, grinning cheerfully. “Been paid already by Mr. Matthew Fairchild. 'Ere you go!”

He handed over the message and scrambled down the steps, whistling. Risa shut the door, sharing a puzzled look with Cordelia. Why would Matthew send her a note like this? Cordelia wondered, unfolding the paper. What could be so urgent?

The note fell open. There were only a few words on the page, but they stood out in shocking black ink.

Come at once to the Devil Tavern. There was an attack. Christopher is badly wounded.

—James

“Cordelia?” Sona had come into the entryway. “What's going on?”

Her hands shaking, Cordelia handed the note to her mother. Sona read it quickly before pressing the note back into Cordelia's hand. “You must go and be with your friends.”

Relief washed over Cordelia. She started to dash upstairs for her things but paused. “I should wear my gear,” she said. “But it's still damp from the river.”

Sona smiled at her—a weary, worried smile, the smile of so many Shadowhunter parents down through the ages who had watched their children march into the night, carrying blades blessed by angels, knowing they might never return. “Layla, my daughter. You can wear mine.”

Cordelia raced up the steps inside the Devil Tavern and burst into the Merry Thieves' clubrooms. It was quite late in the afternoon now, and sunlight filtered through the east window, laying gold bars of light across the shabby little space and its occupants. Matthew was sprawled on the sofa, Lucie in a ragged armchair. Lucie looked up and smiled when Cordelia came in, but her eyes were red. James alone was standing: he leaned against the wall by the window, the shadows deep under his eyes. All three Shadowhunters were in gear.

“What happened?” Cordelia said, a little breathless. “I—what can I do?”

Matthew looked up at her. His voice was hoarse. “We were at my house, using my father's laboratory,” he said. “They—the Khora demons—were waiting for us when we left.”

“We ought to have been prepared,” said James. He was opening and closing his right hand, as if he wished to crush something in his palm. “We should have remembered. We were hurrying for the carriage—they attacked us in front of the house. One of them tore a gash across Christopher's chest.”

Christopher.
Cordelia could see his bright smile, his dented spectacles; she could hear his eager and excited voice in her ears, explaining some new aspect of science or Shadowhunting. “I am so—I am so sorry,” she whispered. “Is he ill? What can we do?”

“He was already feverish when they took him to the Silent City,” said Matthew grimly. “We summoned you and Lucie as soon as we could, and—”

There were footsteps on the stairs. The door flew open, and Thomas burst in. He wore a long Inverness coat, though Cordelia could see that he was in gear beneath.

“Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “I was patrolling with Anna—
didn't get your message until we returned to Uncle Gabriel's house. They all wanted to go to the Silent City, of course, but Brother Enoch came by—said it was impossible—” Thomas sank down into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “Everyone's frantic. Anna went to ask Magnus for help in putting up extra wards around the house. Aunt Cecily nearly lost her mind at the thought of letting her go, but she went. Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa came, of course, but I couldn't bear to be there too, bothering them all, intruding on them in their fear—”

“You're not an
intrusion
, Thomas,” said Matthew. “You're family. There and here.”

The door creaked open and Polly came in, carrying a bottle and a few glasses with chipped rims. She set them down on the table, cast Thomas a worried glance, and disappeared.

Matthew rose and took the bottle, pouring out the glasses with the grace of long habit. For the first time in Cordelia's memory, Thomas picked one up and downed the contents.

James spun one of the chairs around and sat down, arms crossed across the chair back, his long legs hooked around the front. “Tom,” he said, his eyes flaring intently. “We need to make the antidote to the Mandikhor poison. I think you can do it.”

Thomas choked, coughed, and began spluttering as Matthew took the glass from him and set it back down on the table. “I can't,” he said, when he caught his breath. “Not without Christopher.”

“Yes, you can,” said James. “You've done everything with him. You've been in the laboratory with him nearly every moment since Barbara died. You
know
how to do this.”

Thomas was silent for a long moment. James didn't move. His gaze was fixed on his friend. It was a look Cordelia couldn't describe—a quiet intensity mixed with immovable conviction. This was James at his best, she thought. His faith in his friends was unwavering: it was strength, and they shared that strength between them.

“Perhaps,” Thomas said at last, slowly. “But we're still missing an ingredient. Without it, the antidote won't work, and Kit said it was impossible to find—”

“Malos root,” said Matthew. “We know where it is, and where to get it. All we need to do is go to Chiswick House. To the greenhouse.”

“My grandfather's house?” Thomas said incredulously. He ran his fingers distractedly through his light brown hair.

“Finally Benedict Lightwood will be responsible for something useful,” Matthew said. “If we leave now, we can be there in half an hour—”

“Wait,” said Thomas, rising to his feet. “James, I'd nearly forgotten. Neddy gave me this.”

He handed over a folded piece of thin vellum paper, with James's name scrawled across the front in a careful hand. James unfolded the note and stood up with a violent swiftness, nearly knocking the chair over.

“What is it?” said Cordelia. “James?”

As he handed her the note, Cordelia saw Matthew's thoughtful gaze flick between the two of them. She glanced down.

Come to the Silent City. I shall meet you in the infirmary. Do not reveal yourself to the other Brothers. I will explain when you arrive.

Please hurry.

—Jem

She handed it wordlessly to Lucie. James was pacing the floor, hands in his pockets.

“If Jem says I must go, then I must,” he said, as Matthew and Thomas both glanced at the note's contents. “The rest of you go to Chiswick—”

“No,” Matthew said. He had reached for the flask in his pocket—
a gesture of long-practiced habit—but quickly dropped his hand. His fingers were shaking slightly, but his voice was light. “Whither thou goest, I will go, James. Even unto the tedious suburb of Highgate.”

Jem,
Cordelia thought. She had to talk to him about her father. There was no one else she could speak to about what Alastair had told her. There was no one else she could tell that she had changed her mind.

Cousin Jem, I have something to tell you about my father. I think he needs to be in the Basilias. I think he should not come back from Idris after all. I think I need your help.

She took a deep breath. “I will also go. I must see Jem. Unless—” She turned to Lucie. “If you'd rather I go with you to Chiswick—”

“Nonsense,” Lucie said, sympathy in her eyes. “All we're doing is fetching a plant, and I'm familiar with the house and the grounds—not,” she added hastily as James looked dark, “because I've lurked about or spied on that property at all, because of course I haven't.”

“You and Thomas can take my carriage,” said Matthew. “It is downstairs.”

“And the rest of us can take a hansom cab,” said Cordelia. “Where is the nearest entrance to the Silent City?”

“In Highgate Cemetery,” said James, reaching for his weapons belt as the others caught up gear jackets, belts, and blades. “It's a good distance. We'll have to hurry—there's no time to waste.”

There was little to slow Cordelia and the others down until they reached Highgate, where the narrow streets were snarled up with evening traffic. The driver of the hansom cab, refusing to brave the bottleneck, deposited them in front of a pub on Salisbury Road.

James asked Cordelia and Matthew to wait while he went to search for the entrance to the Silent City. It often moved about
within the cemetery, he had told Cordelia in the carriage, and could be found in various locations depending on the day.

Matthew gave the pub a longing look, but was soon distracted by a large stone tablet at the junction of Highgate Hill and Salisbury Road. It was caged by iron rails and carved with the words
THRICE LORD MAYOR OF LONDON
.

“ ‘Turn again, Whittington, thrice Lord Mayor of London Town,'  ” said Matthew, with a dramatic gesture. “This is where it's meant to have happened—him hearing the Bow Bells, I mean.”

Cordelia nodded; she had been told the story often enough when she was a child. Richard Whittington had been a mundane boy who set out from London with his cat, determined to make his fortune elsewhere, only to hear the bells of St. Mary-le-Bow calling him back to a promised glory if he returned. And so he had, and become mayor of London, three times.

Cordelia wasn't sure what had happened to the cat. All the stories might be true, she thought, but it would be awfully nice if such obvious signals were on offer for her own destiny.

Matthew slipped his silver flask from his waistcoat and began to unscrew it. Though he was in gear, he had not sacrificed his blue spats to duty. Cordelia only looked at him as he tipped back his head and swallowed, then screwed the cap back on. “Dutch courage,” he said.

“Are the Dutch particularly brave, or just particularly drunk?” she asked, her voice sharper than she'd intended.