Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,173

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.

“A little of both, I imagine.” His tone was light, but he put away the flask. “Did you know Dick Whittington’s cat might never have existed? Scandalous fiction, apparently.”

“Does it matter if he had a cat or not?”

“The truth always matters,” Matthew said.

“Not when it comes to stories,” Cordelia said. “The point of stories is not that they are objectively true, but that the soul of the story is truer than reality. Those who mock fiction do so because they fear the truth.”

She felt, rather than saw, Matthew turn to look at her in the dimming light. His voice was hoarse. “James is my parabatai,” he said. “And I love him. The only thing that I have never understood about him is his feelings for Grace Blackthorn. I have wished for a long time for him to place his affections somewhere else, and yet, when I saw him with you in the Whispering Room, I was not happy.”

Cordelia had not expected such frankness. “What do you mean?”

“I suppose I question if he knows what he feels,” said Matthew. “I suppose I worry that he will hurt you.”

“He is your parabatai,” said Cordelia. “Why should you care if he hurts me?”

Matthew tipped his head back to look at the darkening evening sky. His lashes were several shades darker than his blond hair. “I don’t know,” he said. “But I find that I do care.”

Cordelia wished they were discussing anything else. “Don’t worry. Alastair gave me the same warning about James just yesterday. I have been well told.”

Matthew’s jaw tightened. “I always said that the day I would be in charity with Alastair Carstairs would be the day I burn in Hell.”

“Was he really so horrible to James at school?” said Cordelia.

Matthew turned to her, and the look on his face startled her. It was the purest fury. “It was more than that—”

James appeared out of the shadows, his black hair disarrayed, and beckoned to them. “I’ve found the entrance. We ought to go quickly.”

They proceeded to the cemetery and passed through the tall gates. Dark cypress trees soared overhead, their overlapping leaves blocking out the last of the evening light. In their shadow rose elaborate monuments to the dead. Great mausoleums and Egyptian obelisks towered beside broken granite columns, symbolizing life cut short. Headstones were carved into hourglasses with wings, Greek urns, and beautiful women with streaming hair. And everywhere, of course, there were stone angels: chubby and sentimental-looking, sweet-faced as children. How little mundanes understood about angels, Cordelia thought, picking her way along the twig-strewn path after James. How much they did not understand what was terrifying about their power.

James turned off one of the gray avenues then, and they found themselves in an open space that seemed deep in the woods, leaves clustered so thickly above them that the waning light was tinged with green. In the center of the clearing was a statue of an angel, but this was no cherub. It was the marble figure of a beautiful man of great height. Scaled armor had been carved on his body. He held a sword in one outstretched hand, etched