The Last Hours: Chain of Thorns

“I want you to be nice in there,” she said sternly. “I don’t want to hear any comments about how the furniture is shabby and the bust of Apollo has its nose chipped.”

Alastair arched one eyebrow. “My concern is never with the shabbiness of the furniture,” he said loftily, “but the shabbiness of the company.”

“All your Thieves are already upstairs,” she said to Cordelia with a nod, and then turned to take in Alastair with wide eyes. “Cor, who knew the Shadowhunters have been hidin’ their handsomest away until now. What’s your name, love?”

Alastair, shocked into silence for a change, let Cordelia pull him past and up the stairs. “That was—did she really—”

“Fret not,” Cordelia said with a grin. “I shall keep a weather eye out lest she assail your virtue.”

But you cannot fix someone, Cordelia,” she added. “In the end, if they can be fixed at all, they must do the repairs themselves

“I used to think that it was most important to endure, to stay strong. But unhappiness, over time . . . it poisons your life.”

he complained. “A Frenchman?”

“Be quiet, he’s asleep,” said Cordelia. “He speaks no English, but he can sing ‘Frère Jacques’ and he makes excellent crêpes suzette.”

She looked up at the house. She was fond of it—fond of the calm white front, the shiny black 102 painted on the rightmost pillar, fond of the quiet, leafy London street. But it was not home, she thought, as she followed Alastair up the front path to the door. This was her mother’s house—a refuge, but not home. Home was Curzon Street.

“Is she angry at me?” Cordelia hadn’t realized she was going to say such a thing until it was already out of her mouth.

“For going to Paris? No, not at all. She was quite calm when we got your note; calmer than I’d expected, I must say. She said that if your dreams had taken you to Paris, then she was happy. I don’t recall anyone ever saying that about me when I went to Paris,” he added. “It is a dreadful chore, being the eldest.”

“Look, you need not discuss your feelings about James, Matthew, or whatever other harem of men you may have acquired, with me. I merely want to know if you’re all right.”

“No, you want to know if either of them has done something awful to me, so you can chase them around, shouting,” said Cordelia darkly.

“I could want both,” Alastair pointed out

“Generally not. Charles seems to be healing up, and beyond him surviving, I have no further interest in what happens to him,” said Alastair. “In fact, there have been a few touch-and-go moments with my caring about whether he survives. He was always demanding that I adjust his pillows. ‘And now the foot pillow, Alastair,’” he said, in a squeaky voice that, to be fair, sounded nothing like the actual Charles. Alastair was terrible at impressions.

“I wouldn’t mind a foot pillow,” said Cordelia. “It sounds rather nice.”

“You are clearly in an emotional state, so I will ignore your rambling,” said Alastair.

She made a dismissive gesture, which was spoiled when Alastair burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But those gloves are enormous on you.”

“Humph,” said Cordelia.

“About James—”

“Are we the sort of family that discusses our intimate relationships now?” Cordelia interrupted. “Perhaps you would like to talk about Charles?”