Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,73

had never fancied ducks since one had bitten him in Hyde Park as a small child. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I feel as if I have failed in helping Barbara.”

“No,” Thomas said quickly. “We have only just started. I was thinking—perhaps you and I and Matthew should go to the Devil Tavern and look through the book collection. There are volumes there that the Clave will never find combing through the Institute’s library. We could see if there is any mention of these daylight demon creatures.”

“What about Christopher?” said Matthew.

Christopher held up a vial filled with a red substance. “I managed to acquire some blood that the Silent Brothers had taken from one of the patients last night,” he said proudly. “I intend to mix modern science and Shadowhunter magic to attempt to create an antidote for the demon poison. Henry has said I can use his laboratory while he is in Idris.”

Thomas squinted. “That had better not be my sister’s blood.”

“It’s Piers’s,” said Christopher, “though for the sake of pure science, it should not matter.”

“And yet we are all relieved,” said James. “Matthew and I can go to Fleet Street—perhaps Thomas should help Christopher in the lab?”

Thomas sighed. “I always end up helping Christopher in the lab.”

“It is because you are remarkably good at dodging explosions,” said James, “and also, you can curse in Spanish.”

“How does that help?” said Thomas.

“It doesn’t,” said James, “but Christopher likes it. Now—”

“James!” It was Henry, calling from the house.

James sprinted away. Oscar had fallen asleep in the grass, his paws sticking up into the air.

There was a short silence. Matthew took his book from the tree and brushed off the cover.

“Grace,” Thomas said finally. “What is she like? I don’t think we’ve exchanged two words.”

“Very shy,” said Matthew. “Very quiet, looks painfully frightened a great deal of the time, yet always admired at social events.”

“That’s odd,” said Thomas.

“Not really,” said Christopher. “Men like the idea of a woman they can rescue.”

Both Matthew and Thomas looked at him in amazement. He shrugged.

“I heard my mother say it once,” he said. “Seems true in this case.”

“Do you think she’s in love with James?” said Thomas. “Because he seems gone on her. I hope it’s not unrequited.”

“She had better love him back,” said Matthew. “He deserves it.”

“We don’t always love people who deserve it,” said Thomas quietly.

“Maybe not,” said Matthew. “But often we don’t love those who don’t deserve it, and very right, too.” His fingers gripped the book he held so tightly that they had gone pale.

Thomas put his finger to his lips. James had returned, carrying a letter. The address had been written in a decidedly feminine hand: J. H., care of Matthew Fairchild. URGENT.

“Someone sent you a letter here?” said Thomas curiously. “Is it from Grace?”

James, who had already scanned the first few lines, nodded. “She didn’t want to risk getting me in hot water with the Enclave. She knew I’d either be here, or Matthew would find me and deliver the message.” He was quite sure his friends had been talking about him while he was gone, but he didn’t mind it: his relief at seeing Grace’s writing felt like a palpable thing. The loops and scrolls of her hand were as familiar to him as the forest outside Herondale Manor.

“So what does she say?” said Matthew. “She adores your face and yearns to run her fingers through your messy raven hair?”

“She wants me to meet her tonight, at ten,” James said. He slipped the letter into his pocket, his mind racing. “I had better go. I have no way to get a message back to her, and I’ll have to walk—the streets are entirely snarled up with traffic.”

“You can’t walk all the way to Chiswick—” Thomas protested.

James shook his head. “Of course not. She proposed a spot in London—a place Matthew and I used to do balancing exercises. I’ve described it to her before.”

“Still.” Matthew looked hesitant. “Is it wise? My brother is an idiot, but if the Enclave wants you to stay away from the Blackthorns—”

“I must,” said James, not wanting to explain; he knew his friends, and they would insist on coming with him if he did. Better to leave now and let them think his concern was a purely romantic one. He bent to rub Oscar’s head and said, “Thomas, Christopher, you handle the laboratory work. Matthew, I will find you when I return from meeting Grace, and we will go to the Devil.”

“I am always going to the