Chain of Iron
Cordelia said nothing; when James glanced down at her, concerned, he saw that her eyes were very bright. She raised her hand slowly and laid her palm against his cheek. “James,” she said, and he let himself shiver as she drew her finger from his cheek to his lips. Her pupils darkened, expanded. She tilted her head back, and he kissed her.
She tasted like spiced honey. Sweetness and heat. He cupped the back of her head in his hand, let himself fall into the kiss. He drew her against him—she was soft, strong, curving. Perfect. He had never felt such tenderness—never even quite known what people meant when they spoke of it, for it had formed no part of his feelings for Grace. Pity and need, yes, but this—this overwhelming mix of passion, admiration, adoration, and desire—was something he had never felt before, and he realized with some wonder that it felt so new, so different, that he had not at first known to label it correctly. He had thought it was not love precisely because it was.
He loved Cordelia; no, he was in love with her. He had been pushing the thought back all day, knowing he could not let himself fully realize it until the danger was over—until he was alone with Daisy, until he could tell her—
She broke away, breathless. Her lips and cheeks were bright red, her hair tousled. “James—James—we must stop.”
Stopping was the last thing he wanted to do. He wanted to kiss her so hard it lifted her off her feet. He wanted to tangle his hands in her thick, smooth hair, and tell her that the curve of her collarbone made him want to write sonnets. He wanted to taste the notch at the base of her throat. He wanted to ask her to marry him again, properly this time.
“Why?” he said instead. It was not his most eloquent moment, he knew, but it was all he could manage.
“I … appreciate what you have said about how we will face this together.” Her brow furrowed; she looked enchantingly puzzled. “I know you would do anything to help your friends. But I cannot rely on you so completely, cannot behave as if this is a real marriage. It is not. We both must remember that.”
“It is real,” he said roughly. “What we have is—is a marriage.”
She looked at him squarely. “Can you say you feel about me as you have felt about her? About Grace?”
He felt a twisting inside himself. Anger. Revulsion. He thought of the bracelet, the two broken pieces of it in his pocket. “No,” he said, almost savagely. “I do not feel about you at all as I feel about Grace. How I ever felt about Grace.”
Only when she looked as if he had slapped her did he realize what he had said. How it would sound. She stood up from the couch, looking a little stunned, reaching up automatically to fix the combs in her hair. “I,” she began, “I ought to—”
There was a knock on the front door. The sound echoed through the house. James mentally cursed Effie for most likely being asleep, then cursed doors and people who knocked at them.
The knock came again, louder this time. James bolted to his feet. “That,” he said, “is almost certainly my father. I had rather expected he might arrive here once everyone left the Institute.”
Cordelia nodded. She still looked a little stunned. “Of course you should talk to him, then.”
“Daisy.” He caught hold of her shoulders. “I’m not going to talk to him. I’m going to send him away. We must talk, you and I. It is past time for it.”
“But if you want to—”
“I want to talk to you.” He kissed her forehead, then let her go. “Wait for me upstairs, in your room. There is a great deal I need to explain to you. It’s desperately important. Do you believe me?”
“Well,” she said. “If it’s desperate.” She tried to smile, abandoned the effort, and left the room; he heard her footsteps on the stairs. James paused to brush his clothes off—it wouldn’t do to tell his father to go to blazes, politely, while totally rumpled—and headed for the vestibule. His mind was full of what he would say to Cordelia. How he would tell her. He barely knew how to explain it all to himself—what he suspected, what he knew, what he felt. But he needed to tell her, more than he had ever needed anything in his life.
James had reached the entryway. He flung open the front door, letting in a blast of cold air—and found himself staring into Grace’s ice-gray eyes. He stood frozen in shock as she threw herself into his arms.
GRACE: 1900
In the moment when Grace stood in the forest and fastened the bracelet onto James’s wrist, she saw something change in him. It was as if she had taken a lamp and turned down its flame.
From then on, James loved her. Or believed he loved her. To him, there was no difference.
28
NO WISE MAN
I am caught in Love’s web so deceitful
None of my endeavors turned fruitful.
I knew not when I rode the high-blooded steed
The harder I pulled its reins the less it would heed.
Love is an ocean with such a vast space
No wise man can swim it in any place.
—Rabi’a Balkhi
For a moment, James could not move. He stood frozen with shock and horror as Grace clung to him, her slim arms tenacious, her body pressed flat to his. For years he had dreamed about holding Grace in his arms, with a sort of restless hunger, wanting it almost without knowing why.
Now he knew why. And now, with her in his arms, he felt only revulsion.
“James.” Grace drew back a little, though her fingers were still laced behind his neck. “I came as soon as I got the message.”
What message? He didn’t ask. He had to keep her here, he realized. If he gave her a chance to run, he might never get answers.
“I had to tell you, darling,” she went on, her gray eyes wide and earnest. “I am going to end it with Charles. I cannot bear it anymore, James. I will not marry him. There never was anyone for me but you.”
“Thank God,” he said. He saw her smile; now was his chance. He drew back and reached around her to slam the door closed, bolting it. When he turned back to her and caught at her hand, cold and bony in his, she let him take it almost eagerly. Didn’t she even wonder where Cordelia was? James thought. Whether they might be interrupted? Was no one in the world real to her except herself? Did nothing matter but her immediate needs?
“Thank God,” he said again. “Thank God and the Angel that this farce is finally over.”
Her smile vanished. James could not help but marvel at what he was feeling—or rather, not feeling. Gone was the need for her so strong it felt like an illness. Gone was the sense of shock and amazement he felt at the sight of her.
In its place was something else. A rising anger.
Her lips were moving, starting to shape questions. But James could hear footsteps—the sound of the door had probably roused Effie. The last thing he wanted was to be interrupted. Tightening his grip on Grace’s wrist, he marched her down the hall into the drawing room. Once inside, he let go of her immediately, yanking his hand back with such force that her mouth opened in indignant protest. He slammed the door behind them, locked it, and placed himself in its path.
She stared at him. She was panting a little. Objectively, he knew, she was still beautiful. Her features, her fine hair, her slender figure, none of that had changed. But they revolted him now as surely as if she’d been a monster extruding warts and tentacles in all directions. “James,” she said. “What’s wrong?”