“No,” her mother said. She sounded remote, distant; Ariadne knew she was struggling not to show her fear. “I assumed that if he was in touch with anybody, he would be in touch with the office of the Consul.”
There was an awkward silence. Ariadne, feeling dizzy, suspected Gideon and Charlotte were wishing they’d never come.
“You’ve heard nothing from the Citadel?” her mother said at last. “From the Iron Sisters?”
“No,” admitted the Consul. “But they are a reticent bunch even under the best of circumstances. Tatiana is likely a difficult subject to question; it’s possible they simply feel that there is no news yet.”
“But you’ve sent them messages,” said Flora. “And they haven’t responded. Perhaps—the Reykjavík Institute?” Ariadne thought she heard a note of her mother’s fear slip past the battlements of her politeness. “I know we cannot Track him, as it would be over water, but they could. I could give you something of his to send them. A handkerchief, or—”
“Flora.” The Consul spoke in her kindest voice; Ariadne guessed she was, by now, gently holding her mother’s hand. “This is a mission of the utmost secrecy; Maurice would be the first to demand we not alarm the Clave at large. We will send another message to the Citadel, and if we hear nothing back, we will launch an investigation of our own. I promise you.”
Ariadne’s mother murmured assent, but Ariadne was troubled. The Consul and her closest advisor didn’t visit in person because they were merely eager for news. Something had them worried; something they had not mentioned to Flora.
Charlotte and Gideon took their leave among further reassurances. When Ariadne heard the door latch shut, she came down the stairs. Her mother, who had been standing motionless in the entryway, started when she saw her. Ariadne did her best to give the impression that she had only just arrived.
“I heard voices,” she said. “Was that the Consul who just left?”
Her mother nodded vaguely, lost in thought. “And Gideon Lightwood. They wanted to know if we’d had a message from your father. And here I hoped they had come to say they’d heard from him.”
“It’s all right, Mama.” Ariadne took her mother’s hands in her own. “You know how Father is. He’s going to be careful and take his time, and learn all he can.”
“Oh, I know. But—it was his idea to send Tatiana to the Adamant Citadel in the first place. If something’s gone wrong—”
“It was an act of mercy,” Ariadne said firmly. “Not locking her up in the Silent City, where she would no doubt have gone madder than she already was.”
“But we did not know then what we know now,” her mother said. “If Tatiana Blackthorn had something to do with Leviathan attacking the Institute… that is not the act of a madwoman deserving pity. It is war on the Nephilim. It is the act of a dangerous adversary, in league with the greatest of evils.”
“She was in the Adamant Citadel when Leviathan attacked,” Ariadne pointed out. “How could she be responsible without the Iron Sisters knowing? Don’t fret, Mama,” she added. “It will all be well.”
Her mother sighed. “Ari,” she said, “you’ve grown up to be such a lovely girl. I will miss you so, when some fine man chooses you, and you go off to be married.”
Ariadne made a noncommittal noise.
“Oh, I know, it was a terrible experience with that Charles,” her mother said. “You’ll find a better man in time.”
She took a breath and set her shoulders, and not for the first time, Ariadne was reminded that her mother was a Shadowhunter like any other, and confronting hardships was part of her job. “By the Angel,” she said, in a new, brisk tone, “life goes on, and we cannot stand in the foyer and fret all day. I have much to attend to… the Inquisitor’s wife must hold down the household while the master is away, and all that.…”
Ariadne murmured her assent and kissed her mother on the cheek before going back up the stairs. Halfway down the corridor, she passed the door to her father’s study, which stood ajar. She pushed the door open slightly and peered inside.
The study had been left in an alarming shambles. If Ariadne had hoped that looking inside Maurice Bridgestock’s study would make her feel closer to her father, she was disappointed—it made her feel more worried instead. Her father was fastidious and organized, and proud of it. He did not tolerate mess. She knew he had left in haste, but the state of the room brought home how panicked he must have been.
Almost without thinking, she found herself straightening up: pushing the chair back under the desk, freeing the curtains where they’d become folded over a lampshade, taking the teacups out into the hallway where the housekeeper would find them. Ashes lay cold in front of the grate; she picked up the small brass broom to whisk them back into the fireplace—
And paused.
Something white gleamed among the ashes in the fireplace grate. She could recognize her father’s neat copperplate handwriting on a stack of charred paper. She leaned closer—whatever kind of notes had her father felt he needed to destroy before he left London?
She took the papers out of the fireplace, flicked the ash from them, and began to read. As she did, she felt a piercing dryness in her throat, as if she were near choking.
Scribbled across the top of the first page were the words Herondale/Lightwood.
It was an obvious transgression to read further, but the name Lightwood burned its letters into her eyes; she could not turn aside from it. If there was some sort of trouble facing Anna’s family, how could she refuse to know it?
The pages were labeled with years: 1896, 1892, 1900. She flipped through the sheets and felt a cold finger creep up the back of her neck.
In her father’s hand were not accounts of money spent or earned, but descriptions of events. Events involving Herondales and Lightwoods.
No, not events. Mistakes. Errors. Sins. It was a record of any doing of the Herondales and Lightwoods that had caused what her father considered problems; anything that could be characterized as irresponsible or ill-considered was noted here.