It had only been a few days since Robert Lightwood's death, but Horace Dearborn had already completely redecorated his office.
The first thing Emma noticed was missing was the tapestry of the Battle of the Burren. The fireplace was lit now, and over it Alec Lightwood's image had been replaced by Zara Dearborn's. It was a portrait of her in gear, her long blond-brown hair falling to her waist in two braids like a Viking's. ZARA DEARBORN, CLAVE HERO, said a gold plaque on the frame.
"Subtle," Julian muttered. He and Emma had just come into Horace's office; the Inquisitor was poking around in his desk, seemingly ignoring them. The desk at least was the same, though a large sign hung behind it that announced: PURITY IS STRENGTH. STRENGTH IS VICTORY. THEREFORE PURITY IS VICTORY.
Dearborn straightened up. "'Clave hero' might be a bit simple," he said thoughtfully, making it quite clear he'd hard Julian's comment. "I was thinking 'Modern Boadicea.' In case you don't know who she was —"
"I know who Boadicea was," said Julian, seating himself; Emma followed. The chairs were new as well, with stiff upholstery. "A warrior queen of Britain."
"Julian's uncle was a classical scholar," said Emma.
"Ah, yes, so Zara told me." Horace dropped heavily into his own seat, behind the mahagony desk. He was a big man, rawboned, with a nondescript face. Only his size was unusual — his hands were enormous, and his big shoulders pulled at the material of his uniform. They must not have had time to make one up for him yet. "Now, children. I must say I'm surprised at you two. There has always been such a... vibrant partnership between the Blackthorn and Carstairs families and the Clave."
"The Clave has changed," said Emma.
"Not all change is for the worse," said Horace. "This has been a long time coming."
Julian swung his feet up, planting his boots on Horace's desk. Emma blinked. Julian had always been rebellious at heart, but rarely openly. He smiled like an angel and said, "Why don't you just tell us what you want?"
Horace's eyes glinted. There was anger in them, but his voice was smooth when he spoke. "You two have really fucked up," he said. "More than you know."
Emma was jolted. Shadowhunter adults, especially those in positions of authority, rarely swore in front of anyone they considered children.
"What do you mean?" she said.
He opened a desk drawer and took out a black leather notebook. "Robert Lightwood's notes," he said.
"He took them after every meeting he had. He took them after the meeting he had with you."