He chuckled, only a sliver of gold visible beneath his half-closed eyelids. “You’re better than a Baedeker,” he said. “Go on, then.”

And she did, until the fire burned down and she had to rouse him, and they crept upstairs together. They parted at their separate doors. Sometimes she thought his hand lingered at her shoulder as he kissed her good night, chastely, on the cheek.

She had dreamed of all this, in a half-guilty way—living with him, being so close, so often. But she had never imagined the reality of it. The sweet, piercing intimacy of ordinary married life. Of James making her giggle while teaching her slang words (considered too rude for ladies) over breakfast—a “donkey’s breakfast” was a straw hat, and “half-rats” was being mostly intoxicated. Of wandering into their shared bathroom while he was shaving, shirtless, a towel around his shoulders. She had nearly fled, but he’d only waved at her amiably and struck up a conversation about whether they needed to attend Rosamund Wentworth’s engagement party.

“Oh, we might as well, I suppose,” she said. “Lucie’s going, and Matthew, too.”

He went to rinse the soap off his face, and she watched the smooth slide of muscles under the skin of his arms, his back. She had not known men had such deep grooves above their hip bones, nor did she know why the sight made the back of her throat feel odd. She glanced up hastily, only to notice that there were light freckles at the tops of James’s shoulders, like golden starbursts against his skin. There wasn’t a part of him she’d seen yet that she didn’t think was beautiful. It was nearly unfair.

He was most beautiful when he was in motion, she’d decided. It was a conclusion she’d come to while they trained together—another part of married life she’d never considered, but found she liked very much. The training room James had installed on the upper floor was small but comfortable, with a high enough ceiling to swing a sword around, a climbing rope, and platforms to create makeshift terrain. Here she and James sparred and went through forms, and she could really see him, the actual beauty of him in motion, the long line of his body extended in a lunge or graceful in a controlled fall. She wanted to believe that, when she wasn’t paying attention, he was sneaking looks at her just as she was sneaking looks at him. But she never caught him, and she told herself it was wishful thinking.

Sometimes Cordelia wondered if her unrequited love was a sort of third member of their household, present even when she was not—haunting James’s steps, wrapping ghostly arms about him as he tied his tie before the mirror, curling up insubstantially beside him as he slept. But if he felt any such thing, he certainly gave no sign.

“Daisy,” James said. He was in the corridor, outside Cordelia’s half-open door; Risa was nearly finished helping her dress. “Can I come in?”

“One moment,” Cordelia called; Risa was just doing up the last buttons on her gown.

“Bebin ke mesle maah mimooni,” said Risa, stepping back, and Cordelia glanced hastily at herself in the mirror. Look how you are beautiful like the moon.

Cordelia wondered dryly if Risa was referring to the fact that the dress was low-cut enough to reveal the tops of her breasts: swelling crescents above the dark green silk. She supposed it was true that a married woman could wear clothes that were far more daring than a single girl’s. Every seam in her dress had been designed to emphasize her curves; every inset panel of lace offered a trompe l’oeil hint of her bare skin beneath. The effect, as Anna had explained to her when she chose the material, lay in the eye of the beholder: even the most ardent gossip could not fault its cut, but an admirer could easily imagine what lay underneath.

But will James imagine it? said a small voice in the back of her mind. Will he notice the dress? Compliment it?

She didn’t know: it had been two weeks since her wedding to James and he was sometimes entirely opaque. Still, they had been two weeks so happy they had surprised her. Maybe this mad gamble would pay off. She would have this to look back on when she was old and gnarled like a tree trunk—a year of happiness married to a boy she adored. Some people never had so much as that.

“Maybe the dress is too much,” Cordelia said, tugging at the neckline.

“Negaran nabash.” Risa batted her hand out of the way, tsking. “Don’t worry. This is your first real night out before the whole Enclave as a married woman. Show them you are proud. Show them you will not be made to feel small. Show them you are a Jahanshah.” She made a shooing motion. “Now I shall go.” She winked. “You must not keep Alijenab James waiting.”

Risa slipped out, leaving Cordelia to stand there feeling rather foolish. James rarely came into her room; she sensed he wanted her to have her privacy. He knocked once now before coming in and closing the door behind him.

She tried not to stare. James was wearing a black tailcoat and white waistcoat. His father’s mad werewolf tailor had done another excellent job: James’s clothes fitted him perfectly, dark broadcloth shaping his shoulders and long legs, white linen shirt showing the lean strength of his chest and throat. His gaze fell on her, his body going utterly still. There was a dull flush of color along the tops of his cheekbones.

“Daisy,” he said. “You look—” He broke off, shaking his head, and fumbled something out of his pocket. It was a simple black velvet box. He held it out to her and she took it, quite surprised.

“Our two-week anniversary,” he said, in answer to her quizzical expression.

“But—I didn’t get you anything.” She took the box, the velvet nap soft against her fingers. “I didn’t know I was supposed to.”

“You weren’t,” said James. “Sometimes I have foibles. This is one of them.” He grinned. “Open it.”

She did, revealing, nestled on a bed of more dark velvet, a glimmering gold pendant on a chain. She drew it out of the box, exclaiming as she realized what it was—a small, round globe, the faint outline of seas and continents etched onto its surface.

“We have talked so much of travel,” James said. “I wanted to give you the world.”

“It’s perfect.” Cordelia felt as if her heart might flutter out of her chest. “Here—let me put it on—”

“Hold on, hold on.” James laughed, coming up behind her. “The clasp is small. I’ll help you.”

Deftly, he found the clasp at the back of her neck. She froze. His fingers slid lightly across the delicate skin at the top of her spine, where her dress dipped down. He smelled delicious, like bay leaves and clean masculine skin. There was a click as the necklace fastened; he breathed in deeply as he reached around to straighten the pendant and she felt it, felt his chest expand as he breathed, the linen of his shirt against her back, making the hairs rise all along the back of her neck. His hands drifted for a moment, inches from green silk, from bare flesh.

He stepped back, clearing his throat. She turned to look at him. The Mask had slid into place, and she could read nothing in his expression but an amiable blankness. “It looks lovely,” he said, taking a folded piece of paper from his pocket. “And I nearly forgot—Neddy came with notes for the both of us, from Lucie. I didn’t open yours, despite my obvious burning curiosity.”