He closed his eyes for a moment, as if he felt a flash of pain. When he opened them, he was smiling, though it did not reach his eyes. “You have been quite a surprise since you came into our lives,” he said, and she knew by “our” he meant the five of them, the Merry Thieves and Lucie. “I did not feel that our little group was missing anything before you arrived, but now that you are here, I cannot imagine it without you.”

Before Cordelia could respond, the door opened and Risa was there. She took one astonished look at Cordelia, then called over her shoulder for Sona. Cordelia’s mother appeared, wrapped in a silk robe de chambre. She looked from Matthew to Cordelia, dripping water on the front steps, and her dark eyes widened. “Oh,” she said, her voice carrying that mixture of disapproval and concern that only a mother’s could. “Oh, Layla. What happened?”

* * *

If Cordelia had expected her mother to be angry, she was pleasantly surprised. Like a master artisan of falsehoods, Matthew spun a story for Sona of bravery, intrigue, danger, and hinted romance. Cordelia had been at the Institute, he claimed, and would have remained loyally by James’s side—for he was suffering the loss of Barbara with great sorrow—but knew her mother would worry if she did not return home. Matthew had offered to escort her, but they had been set upon by demons on the Thames footpath. Cordelia had fought bravely but was knocked into the river. It had all been very dramatic.

Sona forced a bar of Fry’s Chocolate Cream and a thick scarf on Matthew before he was able to make his escape. She then went for Cordelia with an icy will, making sure she stripped off her wet clothes and that Risa drew a hot bath for her. No sooner had Cordelia exited the bath and put on a nightgown and slippers than she found herself reclining on the couch in the library in front of a roaring fire. A cozy dressing gown was wrapped around her shoulders, and Risa placed a fresh cup of tea in her hands while shaking her head with a disapproving air.

Cordelia had never been so hot in her life.

Sona perched on the arm of the sofa. Cordelia watched her mother warily over the edge of her teacup, fairly sure that Sona was settling in for a lengthy scold. Instead her dark eyes were worried. “Cordelia,” she said. “Where is Cortana?”

Cordelia started. She knew when she had last seen Cortana—in James’s hand, by the riverbank. But in the ensuing chaos, she had forgotten to take it back from him before she climbed into the carriage Magnus had summoned.

“I…”

“I don’t want you to be worried, Cordelia joon delam,” said Sona. “I know how your father has always made you feel about that sword. That it was a greater part of the Carstairs destiny than you—than I believe it is.” Cordelia stared; this was the closest she’d seen her mother come to criticizing Elias. “A weapon can be lost during a battle. It is always better to lose the weapon than the warrior.”

“Mâdar,” Cordelia began, struggling up against the mass of pillows. “It is not what you think—”

A knock sounded at the door. A moment later Risa stepped back into the library, James in tow.

He had changed out of the filthy gear he’d been wearing on the bridge and wore a dark chesterfield coat, its velvet collar turned up against the wind outside. He was carrying Cortana carefully, the gold bright and sharp against the dark tweed of his clothes.

Risa dusted off her hands with a satisfied air and headed for the kitchen. Sona was beaming all over her face. “Cordelia! James has brought you back Cortana.”

Cordelia was speechless. She had certainly expected to get Cortana back, but not for James to show up in Cornwall Gardens after midnight.

“I will leave you alone to talk,” said Sona, and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Cordelia was a little shocked. If Sona was willing to leave her daughter alone with James while Cordelia was wearing her night attire, she must be very convinced of James’s marital intentions. Oh, dear.

Setting her teacup down on the low table beside the sofa, Cordelia lifted her head to look at James. His deep gold eyes were startling in their intensity; there were several bruises on his skin, and his hair was damp, probably from being recently washed.

The quiet seemed to stretch out between them. Maybe neither of them would ever speak again.

“Did you tell your parents?” asked Cordelia. “About the Mandikhor? And what happened on the bridge?”

“Most of it,” James said. “Not about the Pyxis, of course, or Agaliarept, or—well, really I left most of what we’ve done lately out of it. They do know the Mandikhor is responsible for the attacks now, and that’s the important part.”

Cordelia wondered for a moment if he had told them what the Mandikhor had said to him on the bridge. Child of demons. It was the second time she had heard a demon taunt him about his heritage. It was the way of Greater Demons, to find the weak spots in humans and pierce them. She hoped James was able to dismiss their words, to see that he was no more a child of demons than Lucie, or Tessa, or Magnus Bane.

“Thank you,” James said, making her start. “For what you did on the bridge. That was exceedingly brave.”

“Which part?”

His smile flashed like heat lightning, transforming his face. “That’s true. You did quite a lot of brave things on the bridge.”

“That’s not what I—” she began to sputter, then reached up as he held Cortana out to her. It was lovely to have it in her arms again. “Cortana, moosh moosh-am,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Did you just use a term of endearment for your sword?” said James. He had looked exhausted when he’d come into the room, but he seemed greatly cheered up now.

“It means ‘mouse,’ and yes, it is a term of endearment. Cortana has been with me through many difficult times. It should be appreciated.” She leaned the sword against the fireplace grate; the heat would not tarnish the blade. Nothing did.

“I wish I knew more Persian,” said James. He sank into one of the armchairs. “I would like to thank you in it, Daisy, for saving my life and risking your own. And for helping us as you have, especially when no one you know is ill. You could all have fled back to Paris or Cirenworth the moment this started.”

Cordelia had often dreamed of teaching James Persian herself. English endearments were so limited and bland in comparison, she had always thought: Persians thought nothing of telling someone they loved fadat besham, I would die for you, or calling that person noore cheshmam, the light of my eyes, or adelbaram, the thief of my heart. She thought suddenly of the sparking fire in the Whispering Room and the smell of roses. She bit her lower lip.

“You should not thank me,” she said. “Or treat me as though I am being entirely unselfish.”

James raised his winging black eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I have my own reasons for involving myself in the search for a cure. Of course I want to help those who are sick, but I also cannot help believing that if I were able to do such a service to the Clave as aiding in ending this demonic disease, surely they would grant my father leniency in his trial.”

“I wouldn’t call that selfish,” said James. “What you are talking about is undertaking to do good for the sake of your father and your family.”

Cordelia smiled weakly. “Well, I’m sure you’ll add that to the list of my many qualities when you are helping me find a husband.”

James did not smile back. “Daisy,” he said. “I cannot—I do not think that I—” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps, after what happened in the Whispering Room, I am not the right person to find you a husband. I can’t imagine you would trust me to—”

“I do trust you.” Cordelia spoke through numb lips. “I entirely understand. You did not take liberties, James. It was a pretense. It was false, I know—”

“False?” he echoed.

Despite the heat, Cordelia shivered as James rose to his feet. The firelight flickered through his hair, edging the black locks with scarlet, as if he wore a crown of flames.

“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he said. “Because I’d never wanted anything so much.”

Cordelia felt herself go scarlet.

“I am no longer bound to Grace,” he went on. “Yet for so many years I loved her. I know—I remember—that I did. That love ruled my life.”

Cordelia’s fingers tightened on her dressing gown.

“I wonder sometimes now if it was a dream,” James said. “I idealized her, I suppose, as children do. Perhaps it was a child’s dream of what love should and must be. I believed love was pain, and when I bled, I bled for her.”

“It need not be pain,” Cordelia whispered. “But James, if you love Grace—”

“I don’t know,” James said, turning away from the fire. His eyes were dark, as they had been in the Whispering Room, and desperate. “How can I have loved her so much, and feel what I feel now, for—” He broke off. “Maybe I am not who I thought I was.”

“James—” The pain in his voice was too much. She started to rise to her feet.

“No.” He shook his head, voice rough. “Don’t. If you come close to me, Daisy, I will want—”

The library door flew open. Cordelia looked up, expecting to see her mother.

But it was Alastair, fully dressed for the outside in boots and an Inverness cape. He slammed the door behind him and turned to face them both, his gaze raking Cordelia and then James.

“My mother said you were both in here,” he said in the drawl that meant he was out of his mind with rage. Cordelia’s heart sank. The last time she had seen Alastair, he had been furious. He seemed still furious. She wondered if he had ever stopped being furious, or if he had been in a temper all day. “I didn’t credit it at first, but now I see it is true.” His black gaze snapped to James. “She may feel that it is permissible to leave you alone with my sister, but I don’t. You brought her home in the dead of night, injured and looking like a drowned rat.”