Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,70

you loved was the worst feeling in the world.

Then at lunch, her mother and Alastair had occupied themselves by trading the latest gossip—Raziel knew where they’d found it out—that James had been discovered wandering about Tatiana Blackthorn’s gardens, having merrily smashed in all her windows and terrified her and her daughter by racing drunkenly about her lawn. Even Risa looked amused as she refilled the teapot.

Cordelia was horrified. “That is not what happened!”

“And how would you know?” said Alastair, sounding a bit as if he knew exactly why she did. But he couldn’t have guessed, could he? Cordelia couldn’t be sure; Alastair often seemed as if he knew a great deal more than he was letting on. She thought longingly of the distant past when the two of them had been able to settle their differences by hitting each other over the head with toy teakettles.

So, thank goodness for tea with Anna, even if she had nothing decent to wear. Cordelia cast a last glance at herself in the pier glass between the vestibule windows. While her apple-green princess dress with pink embroidery was fashionable and pretty, all the flounces made her resemble an old-fashioned lamp, and her face above the lace collar looked jaundiced. With a sigh, Cordelia caught up her gloves and reticule from the hall table and headed toward the door.

“Cordelia!” Sona hurried toward her, the heels of her boots click-clicking on the parquet floor. “Where are you going?”

“To take tea with Anna Lightwood,” said Cordelia. “She invited me yesterday.”

“That’s what your brother said, but I didn’t credit it. I want you to make friends, Layla.” Sona rarely used Cordelia’s pet name—given to her by Sona, after the heroine of the poem they both loved—unless she was worried. “You know that I do. But I am not sure you should visit Miss Lightwood.”

Cordelia felt her back stiffen. Alastair had come to observe the conversation between his sister and mother. He was leaning against the doorway to the breakfast room, smirking. “I accepted the invitation,” she said. “I will go.”

“At the ball the other night, I overheard much talk about Anna Lightwood,” said Sona, “and none of it was complimentary. There are those in the Enclave who see her as improper and brash. We have come here to make friends and form alliances, not to alienate the powerful. Are you certain she is the best choice for a social call?”

“She seems proper enough.” Cordelia reached for her new straw hat, decorated with a silk posy and ribbons.

Alastair spoke from the doorway. “There may be those in the older generation who disapprove of Anna, but in our set she is one of the most popular Shadowhunters in London. It would be unwise for Cordelia to turn down her invitation.”

“Really?” Sona looked curious. “Can that be true?”

“It is.” Alastair pushed back a lock of his pale hair. Cordelia could remember when his hair had been black as a crow’s wing, before he had started dying it. “Anna’s uncle is the head of the Institute. Her godmother is the Consul. Without a question, the most prominent families to know in London are the Herondales, the Lightwoods, and the Fairchilds, and Anna is tied to all of them.”

“Very well,” said Sona, after a pause. “But Alastair, you go with her. Pay a short call and observe the proprieties. Afterward, if you like, the two of you can go shopping in Leadenhall Market.”

Cordelia half expected a protest from Alastair, but he only shrugged. “As you say, Mother,” he said, brushing past Cordelia on his way to the door. He was already dressed to go out, Cordelia thought with mingled surprise and amusement, in a deep gray flannel coat that suited his dark eyes. The shape of his weapons belt was just visible beneath the line of his coat; the Enclave had suggested that all Shadowhunters arm themselves as a precaution when going out, even in daylight. Cordelia herself had Cortana strapped to her back, glamoured so that it would be invisible to mundanes.

Perhaps Alastair really did know more than he was letting on.

* * *

The late afternoon sun shone brightly on Grosvenor Square as Matthew’s father, Henry, answered the door at the Consul’s house.

James ceased what he suspected might have been overly loud knocking as the door swung open. Henry smiled when he saw James: he had a plain but kindly face, ginger hair that had faded to brown streaked with gray, and a hint of Matthew’s grin.

“Come in, come in, James,” he