Cordelia nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “The Basilias was supposed to have cured him, but—”

James cupped her face in one hand, his thumb brushing her cheek. “He was under a lot of stress. This might not happen again. And if he sleeps in the games room until morning, it’ll do him no harm.”

She glanced at Alastair. He was talking calmly with her mother. Cordelia had always thought that Alastair’s moodiness was the result of their odd, lonely upbringing. Now she knew it was more. How often had Alastair had to deal with their father like this? What kind of toll had it taken on him?

I’ll speak to him about it at home, I’ll make some tea and we—

But no. She wasn’t going home to Cornwall Gardens. She would not be sleeping in the same house as Alastair. She was going to go home with James. To their own house.

She raised her chin. James’s face was just above hers: she could see the amber flecks in his eyes, the small white scar on his chin. His full lower lip, which she had kissed only a few hours before. His gaze clung to hers, as if he did not want to look away, although she knew it was only her imagination.

She felt tired. So extraordinarily tired. All day, she had played a part. All she wanted was to be at home, whatever that meant now. And if home meant James, well then, she could no longer pretend to herself that it was something she did not want.

“Let’s go home, James,” she said. “Take me home.”

5

THE KING IS DEAD

’ Tis all a chequer-board of nights and days

Where Destiny with men for pieces plays:

Hither and thither moves, and mates, and slays,

And one by one back in the closet lays.

—Edward FitzGerald (trans.),

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

They managed to depart the Institute with a minimum of fuss, bidding goodbye to their families and their suggenes. Lucie hugged Cordelia tightly, speechless for once. Over her shoulder, Cordelia saw Matthew whisper something in James’s ear. James smiled.

“Take good care of my boy,” Will said to Cordelia, looking as if he wanted to ruffle her hair but was stumped by the sheer number of flowers and seed pearls in it.

Alastair touched Cordelia’s cheek. “Agar oun ba to mehraboon nabood, bargard khooneh va motmaen bash man kari mikonam ke az ghalat kardene khodesh pashimoon besheh.”

If he ever hurts you, come home, and I will make him regret it.

It was Alastair’s way of telling her he would miss her. Cordelia hid a smile.

As they left the Institute, everything felt echoing, vast, and strange to Cordelia, as if she were dreaming. In the entryway, James paused at the door, pretending to busy himself with pulling on his gloves while he took a lingering look at the grooves worn in the stone floor by hundreds of years of visitors, the staircase with its wooden banister smoothed by countless hands. It felt peculiar enough to Cordelia to leave her house in South Kensington forever, though she had lived there only four months. How much stranger it must be for James to be leaving behind the only home he’d ever known.

“Are you going to tell me where our new house is?” she asked, hoping to distract him. “Or is it still a secret?”

He glanced over at her and she was relieved to see there was a spark of wicked humor in his golden eyes. “I’ve kept the secret this long. Might as well keep it an hour longer.”

“Well, it had better be quite spectacular, James Herondale,” she said with mock sternness as they descended the icy steps. The last of the sun was a faint yellow band in the east, the city having descended into the quiet of a winter evening.

Bridget had had their carriage sent around: a gift from Tessa and Will along with the new house. It was a sturdy brougham with extra fold-down seats for when they traveled with friends. The coachman, inherited from the Institute, tipped his hat to them. Hitched to the carriage was a horse called Xanthos, which had been Will’s when he was young; he had a sweet, speckled white face and an even temperament. Xanthos was to belong to James and Cordelia from now on, and when Lucie married, his brother Balios would be hers.

Probably due to Cordelia’s habit of feeding Xanthos carrots, Will had deemed him to be the horse with the best opinion of Cordelia, and she’d merely nodded and asked James later whether his father had been joking.

“It’s often difficult to say,” James had said. “Sometimes he’s just pulling your leg, but then sometimes it’s mysterious Welsh business. I think where horses are concerned, it’s probably the latter.”

Cordelia found herself grateful for the familiarity of the carriage and horse both. She had been trying to get into the spirit of the thing and let herself be surprised by the house, though due to her mother’s warnings, she couldn’t help but fear damp rooms, no heat, perhaps no furnishings. What if the house didn’t have a roof? No, surely James would have noticed the lack of a roof. And Risa would be there; she had gone ahead of them, to get the place ready for their arrival. Cordelia tried not to smile, imagining Risa cursing angrily while snow fell into the coal scuttle.

As they rattled through the streets, she found herself trying to guess the house’s location by the carriage’s direction. They traveled west along the Strand, through the chaotic traffic of Trafalgar Square, and headed down Pall Mall past the War Office, its gates flanked by royal guards in bearskin hats. A few more quick turns followed, and Cordelia saw they were on something called Curzon Street, outside a pretty white town house on a quiet block. Cordelia was relieved to see it indeed seemed to have a roof on it, and all the other necessary outside bits to match.

She turned to James, astonished. “Mayfair!” she said, poking an accusing finger into his chest. “I was never expecting such a posh address!”

“Well, I’d heard the Consul lives near here, with her ne’er-do-well sons,” James said. “Wouldn’t want them lording it over us.” He disembarked from the carriage and offered her a hand to help her down.

“By which you mean you wanted to live near Matthew.” Cordelia laughed, looking up to take in the house’s four stories. Warm light spilled from the windows. “You ought to just say so! I wouldn’t blame you.”

The front door opened and Risa stepped out. She had been in more formal clothes earlier, for the wedding, but she had changed into a plain dress and apron, and clutched her cotton roosari at her chin against the wind. She waved them inside. “Come in out of the snow, silly children. There is hot food for you inside, and tea.”

She had spoken in Persian, but James seemed to understand well enough. He bounded up the front steps and quickly took control of the logistics, directing the coachman to take their valises upstairs.

Cordelia came inside more slowly. Risa helped her with her velvet sacque coat, and then with Cortana, taking the sword carefully as Cordelia stared around in surprise. The entryway was lit with a soft glow from the ornate brass sconces that lined the walls. There was wallpaper in a pattern of birds and passiflora on a deep emerald-green background. “So pretty,” she said, grazing the outline of a golden peacock with her fingertips. “Who chose it?”

“I did,” James said. At her surprised look, he added, “Perhaps I should show you around the house? And Risa, perhaps Effie could set out a simple supper? I believe you said something about tea.”