There was Christopher Lightwood, of course. Not that he loved her; he barely knew her. But he had seemed legitimately interested in her, in her thoughts, her opinions, her feelings. If things had been different, he could have been her friend.
He smiled, that kind smile that lit up his unusually colored eyes. Christopher was not handsome in an ordinary way, and Grace knew perfectly well that there were plenty of people, her mother included, who would have thought him not attractive at all. But Grace had known handsome men in abundance, and she knew outward beauty did not ensure kindness, or cleverness, or any kind of a good heart.
Grace’s anxiety had quickly faded as soon as she saw the pages, covered in Christopher’s unreadable scrawl. Now she found she was smiling a bit, even.
Grace felt a smile spread over her face. Probably the first time she’d really smiled since—well, since the last time she’d seen Christopher. “Christopher Lightwood,” she said, “there is absolutely nothing I would like to do more.”
There was a feeling in Grace’s stomach that she didn’t recognize, a sort of fizziness like champagne itself. “You are a very strange boy.”
“Am I?” said Christopher, sounding legitimately surprised.
“You are,” said Grace. “You turn out to be very sensitive, for a scientist.”
“Christopher,” she breathed.
He looked at her, worry plain on his face. “Are you all right?”
It’s nothing, she wanted to say. She wanted to force a smile, not to burden him, for she knew men did not like to be burdened by women. Her mother had told her.
But she could not make the smile come. This was Christopher, with his blunt honesty and kind smile. Christopher would know she was lying.
Grace felt tears burn against the backs of her eyes. “How are you so wise? Not about science, or magic, I mean. About people.”
At that, he did smile. “I am a Lightwood. We are a complicated family. Someday I shall tell you all about it.” He reached a hand through the bars, and Grace, relieved beyond measure that there might be a someday, took hold of his hand. It was gentle and warm in her own, scarred by acid and ichor, but perfect.
She lifted her hands, as if she could ward something off, something terrible and invisible. Christopher caught at her wrist as Jesse’s jacket slid to the floor. To Lucie’s surprise, his touch seemed to calm Grace. She leaned toward him—it seemed instinctive, unconscious—and said, “She ripped the power out of me. Not with her own hands. She had some kind of creature with her, some kind of demon.”
Grace was kneeling at the top of the steps, shivering, her arms wrapped around herself. Lucie thought that she was looking at Christopher, but she couldn’t be sure.
Grace knew he was trying to give her a moment to gather herself, but she could only scrub tiredly at her aching eyes: Jesse wasn’t the problem. The problem was Christopher. She needed Christopher.
“I thought,” she whispered, “ghosts could only return if they had unfinished business. Are the fire-messages yours?”
“I think,” he said, “that you are my unfinished business.”
“I knew you could do it.” She heard the smile in his voice. “And you’ve invented ever-burning vellum. Splendid work, Grace.”
Something brushed against her temple, tucking her hair behind her ear. A ghostly touch, a goodbye. A moment later, she knew he was gone.
"If you are reading this, this is the first Fire-Message that has been sent with success. It has been written by Grace Blackthorn and invented by Christopher Lightwood."
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