Chain of Gold (44 page)

“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.”

James crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were golden slits. “Actually, Matthew brought her back. I've only just arrived.”

Alastair shrugged off his heavy coat and threw it angrily over the arm of a chair. “I thought you had better sense, Herondale, than to put yourself in a position to compromise my sister.”

“He brought back Cortana,” Cordelia protested.

“Your mother welcomed me into this room,” said James, his expression like ice. “Hers is the authority here, not yours.”

“My mother doesn't understand—” Alastair broke off. He was yanking at the gloves on his hands with shaking fingers, and Cordelia realized with a shock that Alastair was far more upset than she'd realized. “I know you hate me for how I treated you in school, and rightfully so,” Alastair said, fixing James with a level gaze. “But however much you hate me, do not take it out on my sister.”

Cordelia saw a flicker of surprise in James's eyes. “Alastair, you made my life a living hell at the Academy. But I'd never take it out on Cordelia. That's something you would do, not something I would do.”

“I see how it is. In school I had the power, and here you have the power to lord it over me. What's your game? What do you want with my sister?”

“Your sister,” James said, speaking with a slow, deliberate cold
ness. “Your sister is the only thing keeping me from punching you in the face. Your sister loves you, Angel knows why, and you aren't even the least bit grateful.”

Alastair's voice was hoarse. “You have no idea what I've done for my sister. You have no idea about our family. You don't know the first thing—”

He broke off and glowered.

It was as if a jolt went through Cordelia. She had always thought of their family as fairly ordinary, aside from their constant travel. What was Alastair hinting at? “James,” she said. The air was crackling with violence; it was only a matter of time before one of the boys took a swing at the other. “James, you'd better go.”

James turned to her. “Are you sure?” he said in a low voice. “I won't leave you alone, Cordelia, not unless you wish me to.”

“I'll be fine,” she whispered back. “Alastair's bark is worse than his bite. I promise.”

He raised his hand, as if he meant to cup her cheek, or brush back a lock of her hair. She could feel the energy between them, even now, even with her brother three feet away and mad with rage. It felt like the sparks of a bonfire.

James dropped his hand, and with a last hard look at Alastair, strode from the room. Cordelia went immediately to the door, shut and locked it. She turned to face him.

“What did you mean?” she said. “By ‘you have no idea what I've done for my sister'?”

“Nothing,” Alastair said, picking up his gloves. “I meant nothing, Cordelia.”

“Yes, you did,” she said. “I can tell that there is something you're not telling me, something that has to do with Father. All this time you have acted like my attempts to save him, to save
us
, are childish and silly. You haven't stood up for him at all. What are you not telling me?”

Alastair squeezed his eyes shut. “Please stop asking.”

“I won't,” Cordelia said. “You think Father did something wrong. Don't you?”

The gloves Alastair had been holding fell to the floor. “It doesn't matter what I think, Cordelia—”

“It does matter!” Cordelia said. “It matters when you hide things from me, you and
Mâmân
. I got a letter from the Consul. It said that they couldn't try Father with the Mortal Sword because he didn't remember a thing about the expedition. How could that be? What did he do—”

“He was drunk,” Alastair said. “The night of the expedition, he was drunk, so drunk he probably sent those poor bastards into a nest of vampires because he didn't know enough not to. So drunk he doesn't remember a thing. Because he's
always
bloody drunk, Cordelia. The only one of us who didn't know that is you.”

Cordelia sank down on the couch. She no longer felt her legs could hold her up. “Why didn't you tell me?” she whispered.

“Because I never wanted you to know!” Alastair burst out. “Because I wanted you to have a childhood, a thing I never had. I wanted you to be able to love and respect your father as I never could. Every time he made a mess, who do you think had to clean it up? Who told you Father was ill or sleeping when he was drunk? Who went out and fetched him when he passed out in a gin palace and smuggled him in through the back door? Who learned at ten years old to refill the brandy bottles with water each morning so no one would notice the levels had sunk—?”

He broke off, breathing hard.

“Alastair,” Cordelia whispered. It was all true, she knew. She could not help but recall Father lying day after day in a darkened room, her mother saying he was “sick.” Elias's hands shaking. Wine ceasing to appear at the dinner table. Elias never eating. Cordelia coming across bottles of brandy in odd places: a hall closet, a trunk
of linens. Alastair never acknowledging any of it, laughing it off, turning her attention in some other direction, always, so she did not dwell. So she would not have to.

“He will never win this trial,” said Alastair. He was trembling. “Even though the Mortal Sword is useless, he will indict himself with the way he looks, the way he speaks. The Clave knows a drunk when they see one. That is why Mother wants you married quickly. So you will be safe when the shame of it comes down.”

“But what of you?” said Cordelia. “No shame should accrue to you, either—Father's weakness is not your weakness.”

The fire in the grate had nearly burned down. Alastair's eyes were luminous in the dark. “I have my own weaknesses, as you well know.”

“Love is not a weakness, Alastair
dâdâsh
,” she said, and for a moment she saw Alastair hesitate at the use of the Persian word.

Then his mouth tightened. The shadows under his eyes looked like bruises; she wondered where he had been, to return so late at night.

“Isn't it?” he said, turning to leave the room. “Don't give your heart to James Herondale, Cordelia. He is in love with Grace Blackthorn and he always will be.”

“You should brush your hair,” Jessamine said, pushing the silver-backed hairbrush along the nightstand toward Lucie. “It will get tangled.”