Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

“Never mind,” Matthew said. “It was a gradual process; it’s unfair to ask.” He winced. “I feel as if there’s a gnome inside my head, banging away at my skull with an axe. I ought to give him a name. Something nice and gnomish. Snorgoth the Skullcrusher.”


“Now,” said James, “that was witty and charming. Think of Snorgoth. Think of him taking an axe to people you don’t like. The Inquisitor, for instance. Perhaps that can help you get through the party. Or—”

“Who is Snortgoth?” It was Eugenia, who had come up to them, her yellow cap askew on her dark hair. “Never mind. I am not interested in your dull friends. Matthew, will you dance with me?”

“Eugenia.” Matthew looked at her with a weary affection. “I am not in a dancing mood.”

“Matthew.” Eugenia looked woebegone. “Piers keeps stepping on my feet, and Augustus is lurking about as if he wants a waltz, which I just can’t manage. One dance,” she wheedled. “You’re an excellent dancer, and I’d like to have a bit of fun.”

Matthew looked long-suffering but allowed Eugenia to lead him out onto the floor. As they took up the positions for the next dance, a two-step, Eugenia glanced over at James. She cut her eyes toward the ballroom doors as if to say, Look there, before letting Matthew sweep her into the dance.

James followed Eugenia’s glance and saw that his parents were greeting Anna and Ari, who had just arrived, Anna in a fine blue frock coat with frogged gold clasps. With them was Cordelia.

Her fiery hair was pinned in braided coils around her head, as if she were a Roman goddess. She wore a dress of stark, satiny black, the short sleeves baring her long brown arms to the elbow, the front and back cut so low it was clear she was not wearing a corset. No fashionably pallid dress, covered in lace or white tulle, could hold a candle to hers. A snatch of a poem James had read once flashed through his mind: viewing the shape of darkness and delight.

She glanced over at James. Her dress set off the depth of her eyes. Around her throat gleamed her only jewelry: the globe necklace he had given her.

She seemed to see that he was alone and raised her hand to beckon him to join her and his parents at the door. James crossed the room in a few strides, his mind racing: it only made sense that he should join his wife when she arrived. Perhaps Cordelia was merely thinking of appearances.

But, said the small, hopeful voice that still lived in his heart, the voice of the boy who had fallen in love with Cordelia during a bout of scalding fever, she said we would talk. At the party.

“James,” Will said cheerfully, “I’m glad you’ve turned up. I require your help.”

“Really?” James glanced around the room. “Everything seems to be going well.”

“Will,” Tessa scolded. “You haven’t even let him greet Cordelia!”

“Well, they can both help,” announced Will. “The silver trumpet, James, the one that was given to your mother by the Helsinki Institute? The one we always use as a centerpiece at Christmas? It’s gone missing.”

James exchanged a mystified look with Tessa. He was about to ask his father what on earth he was on about when Will said, “I’m quite sure it was left in the drawing room. Can you and Cordelia fetch it for me?”

Cordelia smiled. It was a thoroughly expert smile, the sort that showed nothing at all of what she was thinking. “Of course we can.”

Well, James thought as he and Cordelia crossed the ballroom, either she believes the story about the trumpet or has accepted that my father is a mad person and needs to be humored. Most likely, he had to admit, it was the latter.

He followed Cordelia into the drawing room and closed the pocket doors behind them. He had to admit he rarely gave much thought to the drawing room; it tended to be used at the end of parties, when the ladies who were too tired to dance but not tired enough to go home sought a place to talk and gossip and play cards while the men retired to the games room. It was old-fashioned, with heavy cream-colored curtains, and delicate, spindly gilt chairs surrounding small tables set up for whist and bridge. Cut-glass decanters gleamed on the mantelpiece.

Cordelia turned to face James. “There is no silver trumpet,” she said, “is there?”

James smiled wryly. “You know my family well.”

Cordelia tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture sent a bolt of heat through James. Such a small gesture, one he wished he could make himself; he wished he could feel the softness of her hair, her skin.

“It is sweet that your father wants us to be alone together,” she said. “But it is also true that we ought to talk.” She tipped her head back to look up at him. “At the house—you said you had something to show me.”

And she blushed. Only slightly, but it was encouraging nonetheless. She seemed so calm, armored in her elegance, almost untouchable. It was a relief to know she also felt unease.

“Yes,” he said, “only for me to show you, you will have to come closer.”

She hesitated for a moment, then took a step toward him, and another, until he could smell her perfume. She was breathing quickly, the jet beads edging the neckline of her dress gleaming as her breasts rose and fell. His mouth was dry.

He reached out, capturing the gold pendant that hung around her neck, the tiny globe he had given her. The one she still wore, despite everything.

“I know you believe that I only want you now that I cannot have you,” he said. “But it is not true.”

He tapped the pendant with his thumb. There was a faint click and the globe popped open; her eyes widened. From inside he drew a small slip of paper, carefully folded. “Do you remember when I gave this to you?”

She nodded. “Our two-week anniversary, I believe it was.”

“I didn’t tell you then what was inside,” he said, “not because I did not want you to know, but because I could not face the truth of it myself. I wrote these words down and folded them up and put them where they would be near you. It was selfish. I wanted to speak them to you, but not to face the consequences. But here.” He held out the slip of paper. “Read them now.”

As she read, her expression changed. They were familiar, lines from Lord Byron.

There yet are two things in my destiny—

A world to roam through, and a home with thee.

The first were nothing—had I still the last,

It were the haven of my happiness.



“?‘A world to roam through,’?” Cordelia whispered. “That is why you chose this necklace. The shape of the world.” She fixed her gaze on his. “It means…”