Cordelia smiled. “I don’t know.”
She didn’t. She had given Cortana to Alastair and told him to hide it. She trusted that he had. She was glad not to know more.
“I made sure I wouldn’t know,” she added, “so that I couldn’t tell you. No matter what you do to me.”
“How brave,” Lilith said, with some amusement. “That is, after all, why I chose you. That brave little heart that beats inside your chest.” She took a step forward; Cordelia held her ground. Any fear she felt was for Matthew. Would Lilith harm him, just to show Cordelia her power?
She vowed to herself that if Lilith did, she, Cordelia, would dedicate her life to finding some way to hurt Lilith back.
Lilith looked from Matthew to Cordelia, and her smile widened. “I will not hurt him,” she said. “Not yet. He does well in that area himself, don’t you think? You are loyal, faithful to your friends; but sometimes I think you are too clever.”
“There is nothing clever,” said Cordelia, “in my doing what you want. You wish to have the sword so you can slay Belial—”
“Which you also desire,” Lilith pointed out. “You will be glad to know those two wounds you dealt him pain him still. He is in agony without respite.”
“We may desire the same thing,” Cordelia conceded. “But that does not make it clever to give you what you want—a paladin, a powerful weapon. You are not better than Belial. You simply also hate him. And if I accepted you, became your true paladin, that would be the end of me. The end of my life, or any part of it that is worth living.”
“And otherwise a long and happy life will be yours?” Lilith’s hair rustled. Perhaps the serpents she liked so much, slithering among the dark mass of her locks. “You think danger is behind you? The greatest danger lies ahead. Belial has not stopped his planning. I, too, have heard the whispers on the wind. ‘They wake.’”
Cordelia started. “What—？” she began, but Lilith only laughed, and vanished. The quai was empty again, only the stains of ichor, and her and Matthew’s fallen coats and weapons, to show anything had occurred.
Matthew. She whirled, and saw him on his knees. She darted to his side, but he was already rising, his face white, the cut on his cheek standing out stark and red. “I heard her,” he said. “I couldn’t move, but I could see—I heard all of it. ‘They wake.’” He stared down at her. “Are you all right? Cordelia—”
“I’m so sorry.” She fumbled off her gloves, reached for her stele. She was already starting to shiver, with reaction and with cold. “Let me—you need an iratze.” She pushed up the cuff of his shirt, began to scrawl the healing rune with the tip of her stele. “I’m so sorry you’re hurt. I’m so—”
“Do not say you are sorry again,” Matthew said in a low voice. “Or I will begin shouting. This is not your fault.”
“I let myself be fooled,” she said. The inside of Matthew’s forearm was pale, blue-veined, marked with white, lacelike patterns where old runes had faded. “I wanted to believe that Wayland the Smith had chosen me. I was a fool—”
“Cordelia.” He caught hold of her with such force that her stele clattered to the ground. The cut along his cheek was already healing, his bruises fading. “I am the one who believed a faerie who told me that what I was purchasing was a harmless truth potion. I am the one who nearly murdered my own—” He inhaled, as if the words hurt to speak. “Do you think I don’t understand what it is to have made a wrong decision, believing you were making the right one? Do you think anyone could imagine what that is like better than I could?”
“I should cut my own hands off so that I can never pick up a weapon again,” she whispered. “What have I done?”
“Don’t.” The agony in his voice made her look up. “Don’t talk about hurting yourself. What wounds you wounds me. I love you, Daisy, I—”
He cut himself off abruptly. Cordelia felt as if she were floating in a dream. She knew she had dropped her cloak, that cold air was cutting through the fabric of her dress. She knew she was in a sort of shock, that despite all she knew, she had not truly expected Lilith to appear. She knew despair was there, reaching out long, dark fingers for her like a siren, desperate to draw her under, to drown her in misery, in the whisper of voices that said, You have lost James. Your family. Your name. Your parabatai. The world will turn its back on you, Cordelia.
“Cordelia,” Matthew said. “I’m sorry.”
She put her hands flat against his chest. Took a deep breath, air stuttering in her chest. She said, “Matthew. Hold me.”
Without a word, he pulled her close. The future was cold and dark, but Matthew was warm against her, a shield against shadow. He smelled of night air, of sweat and cologne and blood. You are all I have. Hold the darkness back. Hold the memories back. Hold me.
“Matthew,” she said. “Why have you not tried to kiss me, since we came to Paris?”
His hands, which had been stroking her back, stilled. He said, “You told me you considered me only a friend. You remain a married woman, at that. I may be a drunk and a wastrel, but I do have my limits.”
“Surely we are already a deplorable scandal in London.”
“I don’t care about scandal,” Matthew said, “as should be obvious from every single thing I do. But I have my limits for… myself.” His voice shook. “Do you think I have not wanted to kiss you? I have wanted to kiss you every moment of every day. I have held myself back. I always will, unless…” There was a hunger in his voice. A desperation. “Unless you tell me I need no longer do so.”
She let her fingers fold themselves into the fabric of his shirt. Pulled him closer. Said, “I would like you to kiss me.”
“Daisy, don’t joke—”
She raised herself up on her toes. Brushed her lips across his. For a moment, memory flashed against the darkness in her mind: the Whispering Room, the fire, James kissing her, the first kiss of her life, kindling an unimaginable blaze. No, she told herself. Forget. Forget.
“Please,” she said.
“Daisy,” Matthew whispered, in a strangled voice, before control seemed to desert him. With a groan, he gathered her up against him, ducking his head to cover her mouth with his own.
* * *
When Brother Zachariah came to tell her that she had a visitor, Grace felt her heart begin to race. She could not think of anyone who might visit her who would bring good news. It could not be Jesse; if it were public knowledge that Lucie had brought him back, if he were in London, surely Zachariah would have told her so? And if it were Lucie… Well, James would have told Lucie the truth of the bracelet by now. Lucie would have no reason to see her save to berate and blame her. No one would.
Then again… she had lost track of how many days she had been in the City of Bones. She thought it had been about a week, but the lack of sunlight, and the irregularity of the Brothers’ demands on her time, made it hard to know. She slept when she grew tired, and when she was hungry, someone would bring her something to eat. It was a comfortable prison, but a prison nonetheless. A prison where no human voice broke the silence; sometimes Grace wanted to scream, just to hear someone.