Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,224

among the shadows was Grace, her pale green dress almost luminous in the dimness. She grimaced when she saw Lucie. “I suppose it looks as if I have been eavesdropping,” she said. “I assure you, however, I had no desire to overhear any of that.”

Lucie put her fists on her hips. “Then why were you here?”

“I was already on the steps,” said Grace. “I heard you galumphing down and decided it would be preferable to hide than to engage in conversation.”

“You were leaving,” said Lucie. “Weren’t you?”

Grace said nothing. She was standing very upright, not leaning against the wall. Lucie recalled something that James had said to her once, about Tatiana forcing Grace to walk back and forth in the parlor of Blackthorn Manor with a book balanced on her head to perfect her posture.

“You know,” Lucie said, feeling very weary, “you don’t have to marry Charles.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “Please don’t worry yourself. I am not impatient to be gone because of some excess of hurt feelings. And don’t bother telling me James doesn’t really want to marry Cordelia; I know that, too.”

Lucie froze. “I would never have said that.”

“No,” said Grace. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”

Lucie blew out an exasperated breath. “I know you think we have nothing in common,” she said. “But I am the only other person in the world who knows about your brother. Who knows the secret you’re protecting.”

Grace went still. “You saw Jesse in Idris,” she said. “I spoke with him. I know that he told you not to help him, and I know that you Herondales are honorable.” She practically spat the word. “If he asked you not to help him, you won’t. What use do you imagine I have for yet another person who won’t help my family?”

Lucie raised her chin. “That shows how well you know me, Miss Blackthorn. I have every intention of doing all I can to help Jesse—whether he wants me to or not.”

Grace stepped forward, out of the shadows. Her green earbobs danced in the light, like the jeweled eyes of cats. “In that case,” she said, “do tell me more.”

* * *

It did not take Magnus long to find Matthew Fairchild, leaning against the wall near the door to the withdrawing room, his necktie entirely undone.

Magnus stood a moment, looking at him: Matthew was exactly the sort of person Magnus always wanted to help, and later scolded himself roundly for having tried to help. In Magnus’s life there had been a hundred Matthew Fairchilds: young men and women as self-destructive as they were beautiful, who despite all the gifts that had been given to them, seemed to wish for no more than to burn down their own lives. He told himself over and over that the Matthew Fairchilds of this world could not be saved, and yet he could not stop himself from trying.

He leaned against the wall next to Matthew. He wondered why Matthew had chosen to stand here, half-hidden from the rest of the room by a pillar. He seemed to be staring rather blankly at the dance floor.

“I have always heard,” Magnus said, “that it was rude for a gentleman to be a wallflower.”

“Then you must also have heard that I am generally considered to be very rude,” said Matthew. There was a flask in his right hand, and a ring with the insignia of the Fairchilds sparkled on his finger.

Magnus had long observed to himself that a man who brought his own drink to a party where drinks were provided was indeed in a sorry state. But the real question was, he thought, why no one else seemed to notice that Matthew was only standing up because the wall was holding him.

Ordinarily, it would not have struck Magnus as particularly strange—getting tipsy at a party was nothing unusual for a boy of seventeen—but Matthew had been drunk when they were at Tower Bridge as well, though a less expert eye than Magnus’s might never have spotted it. A less expert eye might not spot it now. It wasn’t the drinking, Magnus thought, so much as the fact that Matthew was clearly practiced at pretending he had not been drinking.

Magnus said mildly, “I had thought that I might be an exception, since you said you admired my waistcoats.”

Matthew did not answer. He was still looking at the dance floor—though not just the crowd of dancers themselves, but rather a specific couple. Cordelia Carstairs and James Herondale.

Another Carstairs binding themselves to another Herondale. Magnus