Chain of Iron

“Oh,” Cordelia said softly. “Has Alastair—apologized? For that, for—for all of what he did at the Academy?” Oh, Alastair.

“To be fair to him, I don’t think Matthew and Thomas have given him a chance to do so,” said James. “He was not the only one who was unkind to me, to us, but—we had higher hopes of him, and I think thus a greater disappointment. I’m sorry, Daisy. I wish the answer was easier.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth. Alastair—he has always been his own worst enemy, seemingly determined to ruin his own life.”

“His life’s not ruined,” James said. “I believe in forgiveness, you know. In grace. Even for the worst things we do.” He stood up. “Shall I show you upstairs? I imagine you are as exhausted as I am.”

Upstairs. There it was. Cordelia was thrown right back into confusion as she followed James up the stairs, presumably to their bedroom. A space that belonged to just her and James, where no visitors could or would come. An intimacy she could not fathom.

All the lights were lit on the second floor. Gleaming sconces ran along a short corridor; James opened the first door, and indicated that Cordelia should follow him inside.

The blue-painted room faced the back garden. Cordelia saw white branches and a sliver of moon through the windowpanes before James turned a switch mounted on the wall. Twin lamps glowed to life on either side of a beautifully dressed bed that was certainly big enough for two.

Cordelia focused on the first thing her eye fell on, a carved panel over the fireplace. Worked into the marble were the crenellated towers of the Carstairs crest. “Is this … ?”

“I hope it’s all right,” James said quietly behind her. “I know that to the rest of the world, you are a Herondale now, but I thought you might like to have a reminder of your family.”

She took another look around the room, taking in the quilted velvet coverlet, the silk canopy, the jacquard curtains in her favorite jewel tones of emerald and amethyst. The colors were echoed in the thick Kerman carpet beneath her feet. Risa had hung Cortana on gilded brass hooks next to the bed, clearly intended for just that purpose. A window seat big enough for two was piled with tasseled silk pillows and flanked with shelves bursting with books … her books. James must have arranged in advance to have Risa unpack them as a final surprise for her. “The room,” she said. “It’s—you picked out everything just for me.”

But where are your things? Where are you, James?

He had taken off his gold jacket; it was folded over one arm. His hair was mussed, a smudge of pollen from the wedding flowers on one cheek, a spot of wine on his cuff. If she kissed him, he would taste like sugared tea, that sharp-sweet taste. Her insides felt muddled with uncertainty and desire.

“I thought your bedroom ought to be a place you could go just to be yourself,” he said. “Where you wouldn’t have to pretend anything.” He crossed the room, throwing open a smaller door: through it was a gleaming modern bathroom with an enameled tub and shiny nickel-plated fixtures. On the far side of it was another door, painted emerald.

“The green door goes to my room,” said James, “so if you need anything, and you don’t want to wake the staff, you can always knock.”

A terrible sense of shame washed over Cordelia. “Very sensible,” she heard herself say, her voice tinny and distant. Many married couples kept separate rooms with a shared bathroom in between. What on earth had made her think James planned to share a bedroom with her? Her own parents had shared a bedroom, but that was unusual. Every bit of this house had been customized: of course he would want his own room.

She realized that James was staring at her, waiting for her to speak.

“I’m very tired,” she said. “I ought to—”

“Yes, of course.” He headed to the bedroom door but paused there, his hand on the doorknob. When he spoke again, his tone was gentle. “We did it, didn’t we, Daisy? In the eyes of the Enclave, we are now married. We got through today. We will get through all the other days as well.” He smiled. “Good night.”

Cordelia nodded mechanically as he took his leave. She could hear his footsteps in the hall, the door to the other room opening and then closing again.

Very slowly, Cordelia shut the door to the bathroom, then turned off all the lamps but the witchlight on her bedside table. One of the drawers in the armoire was slightly ajar, and Cordelia knew her nightgown was waiting there for her, neatly folded and scented with linen water by Risa. There was a bell by the door; Cordelia had only to ring it, and Risa would appear to help her—

To help her out of her dress. Cordelia froze. She could not possibly call for Risa. If she did, Risa would know that the person who was supposed to be getting her out of her dress tonight—James—was asleep in another room, and certainly not planning to spend the night with his new bride. The news would be reported to Sona. There would be concern. Horror, even.

Cordelia tugged at the dress, trying to pull it off her body. But it was fitted tightly to her with a hundred little buttons, tiny and far out of her reach. She spun around frantically. Perhaps she could cut the dress off her body with Cortana. But no, Risa would find the ruination of the dress and she would know.

Heart slamming in her chest, Cordelia threw the bathroom door open. Her heels clicked on the parquet as she crossed the room. She had to do this now, right now, or she would lose her nerve.

She raised her hand and knocked on James’s door.

There was a rustling on the other side, the door opened, and James stood in the doorway looking puzzled. He was barefoot, his waistcoat open, and a few buttons at the top of his shirt undone as well. His jacket had been tossed over a nearby chair.

Cordelia fixed her gaze in the middle distance, though that didn’t quite work—she found she was staring directly at the hollow at the base of his throat, usually covered by a shirt button. He had a strong, slender neck, and the hollow was really very fascinating, but she couldn’t allow herself to go to pieces over parts of James Herondale right now. She set her jaw and said, “You are going to need to help me with my dress.”

He blinked, his long eyelashes flickering against his cheekbones. “What?”

“I cannot get the dress off without the help of a maid,” she said, “and I cannot call for Risa, or she will know we are not spending the night together, in the marital sense, and she will tell my mother, who will tell everyone else.”

He stared.

“There are buttons,” she said evenly. “Many buttons. You need not help with my corset. I can manage that. You will not need to touch my bare skin. You will be touching only fabric.”

There was a long, painful pause, during which Cordelia wondered whether it was possible to die of humiliation.

Then he swung the door wide. “All right,” he said. “Come in.”

She came into the room, trying to focus her attention on the decor. Books, of course, everywhere. This was where he had put his beloved poetry books—Wordsworth and Byron and Shelley and Pope, next to Homer and Wilde.

The room was decorated in shades of warm ochre and red. She gazed down at the dark crimson carpet as James said, “I suppose you had better turn around.”

Turning around was a relief, actually. It was much worse to have to look at him and know that he could see her blushing. She felt him come up behind her, felt his hands touch her shoulders lightly.