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“Grace is in the Silent City,” said James, in a stony voice. “In the custody of the Silent Brothers.”
“After the discovery of what your mother did to you, she took herself there,” Will said swiftly. “The Silent Brothers are making sure that no similar dark magic was worked upon her.”
Jesse looked stunned. “In the Silent City? She must be terrified.” He turned toward Will. “I have to see her.” Lucie could tell he was expending effort to seem calmer than he was. “I know that Silent Brothers are our fellow Shadowhunters—but you must understand, our mother raised us to think of them as fiends.”
“I’m sure a visit can be arranged,” said Will. “And as for thinking of the Silent Brothers as fiends—if a Silent Brother had done your protection spells, and not Emmanuel Gast, you would not have been harmed as you were.”
“His protection spells!” Lucie sat up straight. “They must be done again. Until they are, he will be vulnerable to demonic possession.”
“I will arrange for it with Jem,” said Will, and Lucie saw an odd look flash across James’s face. “We cannot carry out this deception without the cooperation of the Brothers; I will make it known to them.”
“Malcolm, is there anyone else besides you who has access to this information about the American branch of the Blackthorns?” said Magnus. “If anyone were to suspect—”
“We should organize this plan,” said James. “Sit down and think of every objection, every question anyone might have about Jesse’s story, and come up with answers. This must be a complete deception, with no weak spots.”
There was a chorus of agreement; only Jesse did not join it. After a moment, when it was quiet again, he said, “Thank you. Thank you for doing this for me.”
Magnus mimed raising a glass in his direction. “Jeremy Blackthorn,” he said. “Welcome, in advance, to the London Enclave.”
That night Cordelia put on her red velvet dress and her fur-trimmed cloak, along with a pair of elbow-length silk gloves, and joined Matthew in a fiacre bound for Montmartre. Paris slid by outside the windows as they rode, passing up the Rue de la Paix, lights glimmering from the rows of shopwindows, squares of illumination in the darkness.
Matthew had matched his waistcoat and spats to Cordelia’s dress—scarlet velvet, which flashed like rubies as they passed beneath the light of intermittent gas lamps. His gloves were black, his eyes very dark as he watched her. “There are other clubs we could investigate,” he said as the carriage rattled past the church of Sainte-Trinité with its great rose window. “There is the Rat Mort—”
Cordelia made an amused face. “The Dead Rat?”
“Oh, indeed. Named after and featuring the mummified body of a rodent put to death for annoying the customers.” He grinned. “A popular place to eat lobster at four in the morning.”
“We can certainly go—after L’Enfer.” She raised her chin. “I am quite determined, Matthew.”
“I understand.” His voice was level. “We all have those we wish to reach, by any means possible. Some are separated from us by death, some by their refusal to listen, or our inability to speak.”
Impulsively, she took his hand, threading her fingers through his. His black gloves were striking against her scarlet ones. Black and red as the pieces on a chessboard. She said, “Matthew. When we return to London—for someday, we will—you must talk to your parents. They will forgive you. They are your family.”
His eyes seemed more black than green. He said, “Do you forgive your father?”
The question hurt. “He never asked for my forgiveness,” she said. “Perhaps, if he had—and perhaps that is what I want to hear, why I wish I could speak to him one more time. For I wish I could forgive him. It is a heavy weight to bear, bitterness.”
His hand tightened on hers. “And I wish I could take the weight for you.”
“You carry enough already.” The carriage began to slow, rolling to a stop before the cabaret. Light spilled from the open doors of the demon’s mouth. Cordelia squeezed Matthew’s hand and drew her own back. They were here.
The same bearded, heavy-shouldered guard stood beside the cabaret door as Cordelia approached; Matthew was a few steps behind her, having paused to pay the driver. As she drew near the entrance, Cordelia saw the guard shake his head.
“No entrance for you,” he said, in heavily accented English. “Paladin.”
6 THROUGH BLOOD
Whose hearts must I break? What lie must I maintain?
Through whose blood am I to wade?
—Arthur Rimbaud, “A Season in Hell”
Cordelia’s blood turned to ice. But no one knows, she thought. No one knows. It was a secret, that she was bound to Lilith. She and Matthew had spoken of Cortana here, last night, but they had not mentioned the Mother of Demons, nor the word “paladin.” She said, “You must be mistaken. I—”
“Non. Je sais ce que je sais. Vous n’avez pas le droit d’entrer,” the guard snapped. I know what I know. You cannot come inside.
“What’s going on?” Matthew asked in French, approaching the door. “You are refusing us entrance?”
