Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Her eyes were deep and wide, and this time he let himself touch her cheek, his palm against her soft skin, his whole body burning at even that little touch. “It means I would rather have a home with you than all the world,” he said fiercely. “If you cannot believe me now, believe the James who gave you that necklace, long before you left for Paris. My God, what other reason could I have for placing those verses there, save that I loved you, but was too much a coward to say it?”


Cordelia leaned her cheek against his hand and looked up at him through the dark fringe of her lashes. “So you loved me and you loved Grace at the same time. That is what you are telling me?”

He felt his heart tighten in his chest. She was offering him a way out, he knew, a way to explain his past behavior. A way to say, Yes, I loved you both, but then I realized I love you more.

It was a story that made sense, in a way that the story he had offered her so far did not. And perhaps she would even accept it, forgive it. But it would never be something he could accept for himself. He dropped his hand from her face and said, “No. I never loved Grace. Never.”

Her expression changed. It had been questioning, curious; now it seemed to close like a fan. She nodded once and said, “All right. If you will excuse me, James. There is something I must do.”

And she walked out of the room, sliding open the pocket doors as she went. James followed her but hesitated in the doorway. He could see Cordelia, who had paused to speak to her brother and Thomas; he could not stop himself from staring after her, at the elegant line of her back, the crown of her flame-red hair. Why couldn’t you just lie? he asked himself savagely. If you can’t bring yourself to tell her the truth—

But there had been enough lies between them. He had given Cordelia one more piece of the truth, a piece he could bear to give. It was in her hands what she would do with it.

“James?” He nearly jumped out of his skin; lurking next to the drawing room door was Esme Hardcastle, a pen and notepad in hand. She peered at him owlishly. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, James,” she added, tapping the pen against her front teeth, “but as you know, I’m working on a family tree, and it would be awfully helpful to know: Are you and Cordelia planning to have children, and if so, how many? Two?” She tilted her head to the side. “Six or seven?”

“Esme,” James said, “that family tree is going to be very inaccurate if this is the way you’re going about things.”

Looking highly offended, Esme sniffed. “Not at all,” she said. “You’ll see.”



* * *



Events like the Christmas party were Anna’s ideal milieu. She liked nothing better than to observe the peculiarities of people’s behavior: the ways they made small talk, their gestures, the way they stood and laughed and smiled. She’d started when she was small, trying to guess what the grown-ups were feeling while she watched them talk at parties. She’d quickly discovered she was quite good at it, and often made Christopher laugh by telling him what this or that person was secretly thinking.

Sometimes, of course, her subjects made it easy, as in this moment, when she was watching James as he looked at Cordelia as if he were longing for the moon. Cordelia did look stunning—she must have gotten her dress on her ill-judged trip to Paris; it had the hallmarks of a more daring fashion than was usually seen in London. Instead of boasting ruffles, it curved in swirls around Cordelia’s hips; instead of lace, the deep neckline was edged with jet beads that glimmered against her light brown skin. She was talking to Alastair and Thomas now, as Thomas tossed a delighted and giggling Alex into the air; though Anna knew perfectly well that Cordelia had a great deal on her mind, one could certainly not tell it by looking at her.

Beside Anna, Ari chuckled. They were both at the refreshment table, shamelessly eating the miniature iced queen’s cakes. Each was decorated with the crest of a Shadowhunter family. “You do enjoy people-watching, don’t you?”

“Mm,” Anna said. “It’s always so deliciously telling.”

Ari cut her eyes around the room. “Tell me a secret about someone,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve deduced.”

“Rosamund Wentworth is thinking of leaving Thoby,” said Anna. “She knows it will be a scandal, but she cannot bear that he’s really in love with Catherine Townsend.”

Ari’s eyes were like saucers. “Really?”

“You just wait—” Anna began, and broke off at Ari’s expression. She had gone very still and was looking past Anna, her expression flat and strained. Anna turned toward the door to see who had just arrived, though she had already guessed. Of course. Maurice and Flora Bridgestock.

Anna curled her hand around the crook of Ari’s elbow; it was an automatic gesture, a need to help brace Ari on her feet. “Remember,” she said, steering her gently away from the refreshment table. “If they want to make a scene, that is their decision. It does not reflect on you.”

Ari nodded but didn’t take her eyes off her parents, and Anna could feel her hand trembling slightly. It was Flora who caught sight of her daughter first. She started in their direction, looking hopeful. Before she could get within twenty feet, Maurice had swept up behind her, put his hand on her waist, and firmly steered her away. Flora said something to her husband, who looked irritated as he replied; Anna thought they were arguing.

Ari watched them with a look that cut at Anna’s heart. “I don’t think they will make a scene,” she said softly. “I don’t think they care enough to do that.”

Anna swung around so she was facing Ari. Ari, who had been her first love, who had opened and then broken her heart. But also Ari who slept in her bed, who liked to do the washing-up but put all the dishes away in the wrong places, Ari who sang to Percy the stuffed snake when she thought no one was listening, Ari who used her hairpins as bookmarks and put too much sugar in her tea, so that when Anna kissed her, she always tasted sweet.

“Dance with me,” Anna said.

Ari looked at her in surprise. “But… you’ve always said you don’t dance.”

“I like to break rules,” Anna said. “Even ones I have set myself.”

Ari smiled and held out her hand. “Then let us dance.”

Anna led her out onto the dance floor, knowing full well that Ari’s parents were watching. One hand on Ari’s shoulder, another on her waist, she led her into the steps of the waltz. Ari began to smile as they whirled around the dance floor, her eyes glowing, and for once, Anna’s need to observe the rest of the party—the interactions, gestures, conversations—fell away. The world shrank down to only Ari: her hands, her eyes, her smile. Nothing else mattered.





20 IRON HEART




By thy leave I can look, I rise again;

But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,

That not one hour I can myself sustain;

Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,

And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.

—John Donne, “Thou Hast Made Me, and Shall Thy Work Decay?”



Cordelia was looking for Matthew.