Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,197

much better than I am.”

When he looked suspicious, she said, “I could use some help, Alastair. You see how careless my form is.”

Alastair came and took the knife from her. “Very careless,” he agreed. “I know swordplay comes naturally to you, but not everything will. You must slow down. Pay attention to your feet. Now, follow my gestures. That’s it, Layla. Stay with me.”

And she would.

21 BURN

My heart is bound by beauty’s spell.

My love is indestructible.

Although I like a candle burn,

And almost to a shadow turn,

I envy not the heart that’s free:

Love’s soul-encircling chains for me.

—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun

James lay on the bed in his room, atop the covers, his arm flung behind his head. He was gazing at a familiar crack in the ceiling that was shaped a bit like a duck. His father would be horrified.

Matthew sat beside him, wearing a velvet jacket and matching trousers. James had wavered in and out of consciousness for the first two days after his visit to Belial’s realm. Sometimes he dreamed of the demon world and woke up yelling, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. His knives might not have been beside him, but Matthew always was.

If there was anyone in the world who understood about parabatai, it was James’s parents. On the first night of their return from Highgate, Matthew had dragged a pile of bedding into James’s room, rolled himself up in it, and gone to sleep. No one tried to make him leave—when Tessa brought soup and tea to James, she brought some for Matthew, too. When Will came and brought card games to while away the time, Matthew played as well, and usually lost.

Not that others weren’t kind as well. When Anna brought James a stylish new necktie to cheer him, she brought one for Matthew. When Lucie smuggled in midnight tarts from the kitchen, there were extras for Matthew. It was possible, as a result, that Matthew was never going home. James could hardly blame him: Charles had certainly been a pill lately. Everyone was hailing Christopher as a hero for having created the antidote to the Mandikhor poison—a tale made even more romantic by the fact that Christopher had been stricken down and healed himself. Few knew Charles almost hadn’t let Thomas use the lab to make it. The words “If it hadn’t been for Alastair Carstairs, everything would have been ruined,” had actually passed Thomas’s lips, causing James to wonder if he’d wandered back into the demon realm.

Thomas and Christopher visited every day, carrying stories of the aftermath of the sickness. None of those who had been ill remembered chanting James’s name, nor did Ariadne recall her brief possession. The quarantine had been lifted and Charlotte and Henry were returning shortly; Christopher and James were currently both heroes, which angered James greatly as, he pointed out, Cordelia had been with him in the demon realm and had it not been for her, he would have died. Lucie had also saved the day, as had Matthew. Thomas had helped retrieve the malos root from Chiswick House and had made the antidote with his own hands. Anna had taken them to the Hell Ruelle. They were all heroes, in his opinion.

It was Matthew who asked him, when they were alone, if he thought he might be missing Cordelia. She alone hadn’t come to visit him: the break in her leg was a bad one, it turned out, and would take several days to heal. Lucie had been to see her and reported her in good spirits. “I read to her from The Beautiful Cordelia and she went right to sleep,” Lucie said with delight, “so she must have been very tired.”

Thomas and Christopher had gone to see her as well, and brought her chocolates. They asked James if he had anything he wanted them to bring to her with his compliments. He shook his head without speaking, afraid what might pour out if he opened his mouth. He didn’t want to discuss Cordelia with anyone. He just wanted to see her. If he saw her, he would know.

“So,” Matthew said, folding his own arms behind his head. “With your new status as hero of the Clave, do you plan to make any demands?” He regarded the crack in the ceiling plaster. “I would ask for my own personal valet, and Oscar Wilde to be brought to me for conversation.”

“Isn’t he dead?” said James.

“Nothing wrong with the undead.” Matthew chuckled. “Wait until our next visit