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“Not at all,” Cordelia said, and thought she saw a flicker of disappointment on her brother’s face. There was a time, not long ago, when Alastair would never have tolerated his sister invading his room, and she would never have thought to seek out his advice. They had both guarded their privacy so carefully; she was glad that some of that had fallen away. “I just wanted to see you.”
Alastair closed his book, marking his place with a slim finger. “What is it, moosh?” Which meant mouse; it was something he hadn’t called Cordelia since she was quite small. He looked tired; there were shadows under his eyes, and a slump to his shoulders that wounded Cordelia’s heart. “If you’re wondering about Matthew, all his friends did stop by his flat yesterday. In fact, they spent the night.”
Cordelia exhaled a deep breath of relief. “Really? James, too? I’m so glad.”
“Yes.” He looked at her soberly. “Do you think Matthew will be angry at you? For telling them?”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia admitted. “But I would do the same again. He needed them. He wasn’t willing to be desperate or sick in front of me. But in front of them, I think he knows it is not weakness, or shameful. I hope so.”
“I hope so as well.” Alastair looked over at the wall where his daggers were displayed; one was missing, which was odd. Alastair was particular about his things. “The disease he has, that our father had—it is a disease of shame, as well as of addiction and need. Shame poisons you. It makes you unable to accept help, for you do not believe that you deserve it.”
“I think that is true about many things,” Cordelia said softly. “Turning away love because one believes one does not deserve it, for instance.”
Alastair looked at her beadily. “You are simply not going to stop bothering me about Thomas, are you?”
“I just don’t understand it,” Cordelia said. “Ariadne is living with Anna—surely it would not be the end of the world if you and Thomas were to love each other?”
“Ask Mâmân,” said Alastair grimly.
Cordelia had to admit she’d no idea how her mother would react to finding out that Alastair’s romantic love was for men.
“Our deepest illusions, and the most fragile, are the ones we hold on to about our friends and families. Thomas believes our families would be happy as long as we were happy; I look at the Bridgestocks and know that is not always the case. Thomas believes his friends would accept me with open arms; I believe they would sooner abandon him. And what a terrible situation that would be for him. I could not allow it.”
“That,” Cordelia said, “is beautifully noble. And also very stupid. And you are not the one who is going to allow Thomas to do anything; he has the feelings he has, and they are his business.”
“Thomas could have anyone,” said Alastair, with a righteously moping air. “He could choose better than me.”
“I am not sure we choose who we love,” said Cordelia, turning toward the door. “I rather think love is something like a book written just for us, a sort of holy text it is given to us to interpret.” She paused in the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. “And you are refusing to read yours.”
“Oh?” said Alastair. “What does yours say?” Cordelia glared at him, and he relented, waving a hand in apology. “Are you off somewhere, Layla?”
“Just to Curzon Street,” Cordelia said. “Most of my clothes are still there—I need to fetch something I can wear to the Christmas party tomorrow.”
“I can’t believe they’re still holding that,” Alastair said, opening his book. “Just—be back before full dark, all right?”
Cordelia only nodded before slipping out the door. Of course she had no intention of returning before nightfall—her plan required her to be out after the sun set. But a nod wasn’t precisely a lie, now, was it?
Letty Nance had been employed by the Cornwall Institute since she was twelve years old. The Sight ran in her family, which to her parents, who had both worked for the Cornwall Institute before her, had always been an honor. To Letty it seemed a cruel joke that the Lord had chosen to allow her to see that the world contained magic, but not to allow her to be part of it.
She had thought the Institute would be an exciting, wonderful kind of place to work. Unfortunately, it wasn’t. Over the years she had come to understand that not all Nephilim were like the ancient Albert Pangborn, too cranky to be kind to the help, and too cheap to even keep the wards up around the Institute properly. Local piskies were always wandering onto the property, and about the only contact with real magic she had most weeks was chasing them out of the garden with a rake while they yelled filthy oaths at her.
Some excitement had come to her at last, though, with the events of two nights before. Pangborn often patrolled the area with a group of younger Shadowhunters—as far as Letty could tell, patrolling meant riding about on horses looking for Downworlders, seeing if they were up to no good, and returning to the Institute to drink when it turned out they weren’t. Some of the Shadowhunters, like Emmett Kelynack and Luther Redbridge, weren’t half bad-looking, but none of them would look at a mundane girl twice, not even one with the Sight.
But two nights ago they’d brought in the old woman. Or at least she seemed old to Letty—not as old as Pangborn; nobody, after all, was as old as Pangborn—but she was scrawny, her light brown hair streaked with gray, and her skin sickly pallid.
The odd thing was that the woman was a Shadowhunter. She had Marks on her, like the others did, black printings of angelic script. And yet they brought her right quick to the Sanctuary and locked her in.
The Sanctuary was a great big stony crypt of a place, where Downworlders came sometimes when they wanted to speak to Pangborn. It doubled, as well, as a makeshift prison. After the old woman was locked up, Pangborn took Letty aside, saying, “Check in on her twice a day, Ms. Nance, and make sure she’s fed. Don’t speak to her, even if she speaks to you. With any luck, she’ll be gone out of here in a day or two.”
Now that, Letty thought, was a bit exciting. A Nephilim who’d done something bad enough to get themselves tossed in prison, and she, Letty, had the keeping of them.
She’d tried to bring her supper in the Sanctuary, and breakfast the next day, but the woman remained insensible, sprawled on the bed and unresponsive to any of Letty’s entreaties or even finger pokes. She had left the food on the table and then come and taken it away again hours later; the woman slept on. Letty hoped that this morning would be better—surely it was not good to sleep for a night and a day—and that the woman would wake and eat. She had to keep up her strength, considering her wounds.
Letty used the largest of the keys on the ring at her waist to open the Sanctuary. Inside the door, four steps led down to the stone floor, and as she descended she saw that the woman—Tatiana Blackthorn, that was her name—was awake, perched on the bed, her legs sprawled out in front of her in a most indecorous way. She was muttering to herself, in a voice too low for Letty to make out words. The supper from last night remained on the table, untouched.
“I’ve brought you some porridge, missus,” Letty said, taking care to make her voice slow and clear. Tatiana’s eyes followed her as she went over to the table. “Just simple porridge with some milk and a bit of sugar.”
Letty almost jumped and spilled her tray when Tatiana spoke. Her voice was raspy, but clear enough. “I was… betrayed. Abandoned by my master.”
