Silver Threads ↠ Matthew Fairchild [1]

EPILOGUE

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E P I L O G U E

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Chiswick House, London

Not far from the lights of London, Nephilim guards had escorted Tatiana to Chiswick House, its gates and lanes choked and rendered almost impassable with thorns. Briars clawed sunlight from every window, preventing the guards—who included her brothers, Gabriel and Gideon—from seeing inside as Tatiana gathered her things and reappeared at the front door of the house, a small brown valise in hand.

She looked down at them from the top of the stairs. "I would like to be allowed to go one more time to the garden," she said. She did not think the hatred she felt for them showed in her face. They did not seem to know it; they never had understood how much they deserved her loathing. "To bid goodbye to the memories of my husband and my father."

A sort of spasm seemed to cross Gabriel's face. Gideon put a hand on his brother's shoulder. They never had respected their father properly. Never had mourned him after they let Will Herondale and Jem Carstairs murder him.

Gideon nodded. "Go ahead," he said, with a short nod. "We will await you here."

Herondales, Tatiana thought as she made her way to the Italian gardens. Tainted blood ran in their veins. In her opinion, their name dominated the history books more than it should. There should be far more instances of the name "Lightwood" and less of the name "Herondale." After all, she wouldn't be surprised if Will Herondale's warlock wife wasn't the first time they'd sullied the line with Downworlder blood.

She had reached the small, walled structure in the center of the garden. The door was unlocked—she cursed Grace silently: stupid, lazy girl—and she hurried inside to see if any danger had been done. To her relief, Jesse's coffin was pristine: the wood glowing, the glass untouched by dust. The ancient Blackthorn sword that would one day be her son's hung gleaming on the wall.

She laid a hand on the surface. There lay her boy, her sleeping prince. He resembled her husband, in her opinion. Rupert had possessed such fine bones, such delicacy and perfection of feature and form. The day he had been torn from this world had been a tragedy. She had stopped every clock in this house and for the country manor at the time they had taken his body away, for then her world had ended.

Save for Jesse. She lived for Jesse now, and for revenge.

"Worry not," said a silken voice.