Lucie looked stricken; Jesse had the grim expression of someone already resigned.
Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Malcolm,” he said, “I feel you are trying to tell us something.”
“Jesse Blackthorn cannot join the London Enclave,” said Malcolm. “But—because of my history, my research, nobody knows more about the Blackthorn family than I do. If I can find a means by which Jesse can be returned to Shadowhunter society, without suspicion… could we then consider this whole matter put behind us?”
Will looked at Lucie for a long time. Then he said, “All right.” Lucie exhaled, her eyes closing in relief. Will pointed at Malcolm. “You have until tomorrow.”
5 REALMS ABOVE
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge, “Christabel”
James couldn’t sleep. It was the first time he’d had a bedroom to himself in five days; he no longer had to contend with his father’s snoring and Magnus smoking his terrifying pipe, and he was exhausted. But still he lay awake, staring at the cracked plaster ceiling and thinking of Cordelia.
Will had managed to turn the conversation to the question of where the three of them would sleep, in the process—rather deftly, James thought, a reminder of why his father was good at his job—getting Malcolm to think of them less as invaders and more as houseguests.
The little cottage turned out to be much larger on the inside than the outside, and the upstairs corridor was lined with simple, clean rooms on both sides. Magnus magicked their things up from the carriage, and that was that.
Now that James was alone, though, thoughts of Cordelia came crowding back into his mind. He had thought he missed her before, had thought he had been tormented with regret. He realized now that having had his father and Magnus always present, having had a mission on which to focus, had blunted his feelings; he had not even begun to imagine the pain he could feel. He understood now why poets damned their hearts, their capacity for desolation and want. Nothing in the false enchantment of love he had felt for Grace had come near this. His mind had told him that his heart was broken, but he had not felt it, not felt all the jagged pieces of shattered hope, like shards of glass inside his chest.
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.