Page 19 of Better in Black
“No!” Lucie set down the pen. “Jamie, no. You might never come back out! I can’t lose Daisy and you too!”
But James just shook his head. “Lucie,” he said. “If Cordelia were in another world, do you think I could live in this one without her? Do you think I could live with my heart torn out, trapped in the pages of a book?”
Lucie bit her lip. Shadowhunters all lived knowing they could, and likely would, die young. They loved the same way—with the understanding that with love came the dark promise of loss. That the more of yourself you gave to a person, the more you risked losing if they disappeared. Shadowhunters—and Herondales,especially—loved fiercely, with their entire beings. If Cordelia died—it was too horrible a phrase to put into words, even in the privacy of her own mind, but she forced herself to face theif—if Cordelia died, James would be shattered beyond mending.
If, on the other hand, Cordelia was trapped eternally in some faraway dimension, fictional or otherwise, James would not hesitate to join her there, leaving the world—and his sister—behind forever. It would be the right choice, the only choice he could make. Lucie could not fault her brother for the way his heart worked. She could only be brave enough to let him go, and trust herself enough to bring them both back.
“I’ll do it,” she told James, and reclaimed the pen. “But—you might not like how you are in this story.”
James arched an eyebrow. Lucie had spent years trying to explain to friends and family that, surface resemblances aside, the characters in her story were not supposed to bethem.So, for example, James Herondale had no reason to be offended that inThe Beautiful Cordelia,Cruel Prince James was an arrogant, imperious—some might say egomaniacal—scourge of a man with overly manicured hair.
This whole business was going to set her efforts back a bit.
“I am well aware of Cruel Prince James’s personality, if you want to call it that,” Lucie’s brother said. “Send me in anyway.”
Lucie took a deep breath. She was used to waiting for inspiration to strike, for the perfect words to materialize in her mind as if delivered by an angel—but these were dire circumstances. Gripping the pen, she wrote:
Cruel Prince James followed the Beautiful Cordelia. He would do anything to find her again.
They waited. Nothing happened. James tapped the page, looked at Lucie. “I think you wrote it wrong.”
“There’s no such thing as writing a storywrong,” Lucie said. “Orright,for that matter. It’s not like a mathematical equation with one correct answer. It only has to be true to the characters.”
“Well, it’s not working,” James pointed out. “Perhaps you need to add something about my motivation?”
“Oh, all right,” Lucie said, and wrote:
He would do anything to find her again, because he loved her more than life itself.
“Is that good enough for you?” she asked, turning to her brother, but James didn’t answer her.
He had disappeared.
Cruel Prince James looked sneeringly at the road upon which he had found himself. It was as he had imagined it, a disgusting jumble of the sorts of things Lucie found pretty—flowery hedgerows, mountains in the distance, whispering willow trees—but it was missing the very beauty of which he had come in search. Neither the Beautiful Cordelia nor her demon companion were anywhere in sight.
“That’s not fair!” Lucie exclaimed, watching the words unspool across the page. It seemed she could add to the story, but not wrestle it entirely under her control. Which meant James was going to have to do a little of the work himself if he wanted to bend the story in the right direction. Though he shouldn’t have to be entirely by himself; that wouldn’t do. She wrote,
Cruel Prince James was not, of course, alone on the now deserted road. A handsome young man stood beside him, eager to serve his every need.
The page began to take over again, telling the story instead of Lucie.
“Who are you?” Cruel Prince James demanded. (Cruel Prince James did not ask things. He only demanded them, just like he never smiled unless it was wickedly. Perhaps the occasional wolfish grin.)
“Oh, Prince James, you are so cruel to pretend not to know who I am,” the young man said. “I have served you faithfully, for so many years!” He waited for Cruel Prince James to agree that this was, indeed, a mean-spirited jape. But there was only silence. Perhaps his master had suffered some form of head injury? “It is I,” he said helpfully. “Your manservant, Manfred.”
“Manservant Manfred?” Cruel Prince James echoed, with an incredulous twist of his handsome lip. “What fathead gave you such a ridiculous name?”
Manfred shrugged sadly. “I don’t think a lot of thought went into it.”
Lucie sighed. Everyone was a critic.
Passing a bend in the road, Cruel Prince James spied the gleaming spires of a castle on the horizon. Banners streamed in the wind and, in the distance, trumpets blared. Signs of a celebration in store. And, as if in answer to the trumpetingcall, a procession of finely dressed men and women passed along the road. Their horse-drawn carts were outfitted in velvet finery, as were they, each of them more elaborately decorated than the last in silk, satin, lace, and tulle.
“Where are they all going?” Cruel Prince James said.
Lucie tightened her grip on the pen and hunched over the manuscript. There wasn’t much time, she could feel it. This book needed its ending. And she finally knew what needed to happen. Seizing control of the narrative (and the pen), she wrote:
The Beautiful Cordelia had had many adventures. Many had adored her. But it was time for her to marry her true love and have a happy ending. A great royal wedding was planned for her and Cruel Prince James—
