“Esme,” James said, “that family tree is going to be very inaccurate if this is the way you’re going about things.”
Looking highly offended, Esme sniffed. “Not at all,” she said. “You’ll see.”
* * *
Events like the Christmas party were Anna’s ideal milieu. She liked nothing better than to observe the peculiarities of people’s behavior: the ways they made small talk, their gestures, the way they stood and laughed and smiled. She’d started when she was small, trying to guess what the grown-ups were feeling while she watched them talk at parties. She’d quickly discovered she was quite good at it, and often made Christopher laugh by telling him what this or that person was secretly thinking.
Sometimes, of course, her subjects made it easy, as in this moment, when she was watching James as he looked at Cordelia as if he were longing for the moon. Cordelia did look stunning—she must have gotten her dress on her ill-judged trip to Paris; it had the hallmarks of a more daring fashion than was usually seen in London. Instead of boasting ruffles, it curved in swirls around Cordelia’s hips; instead of lace, the deep neckline was edged with jet beads that glimmered against her light brown skin. She was talking to Alastair and Thomas now, as Thomas tossed a delighted and giggling Alex into the air; though Anna knew perfectly well that Cordelia had a great deal on her mind, one could certainly not tell it by looking at her.
Beside Anna, Ari chuckled. They were both at the refreshment table, shamelessly eating the miniature iced queen’s cakes. Each was decorated with the crest of a Shadowhunter family. “You do enjoy people-watching, don’t you?”
“Mm,” Anna said. “It’s always so deliciously telling.”
Ari cut her eyes around the room. “Tell me a secret about someone,” she said. “Tell me what you’ve deduced.”
“Rosamund Wentworth is thinking of leaving Thoby,” said Anna. “She knows it will be a scandal, but she cannot bear that he’s really in love with Catherine Townsend.”
Ari’s eyes were like saucers. “Really?”
“You just wait—” Anna began, and broke off at Ari’s expression. She had gone very still and was looking past Anna, her expression flat and strained. Anna turned toward the door to see who had just arrived, though she had already guessed. Of course. Maurice and Flora Bridgestock.
Anna curled her hand around the crook of Ari’s elbow; it was an automatic gesture, a need to help brace Ari on her feet. “Remember,” she said, steering her gently away from the refreshment table. “If they want to make a scene, that is their decision. It does not reflect on you.”
Ari nodded but didn’t take her eyes off her parents, and Anna could feel her hand trembling slightly. It was Flora who caught sight of her daughter first. She started in their direction, looking hopeful. Before she could get within twenty feet, Maurice had swept up behind her, put his hand on her waist, and firmly steered her away. Flora said something to her husband, who looked irritated as he replied; Anna thought they were arguing.
Ari watched them with a look that cut at Anna’s heart. “I don’t think they will make a scene,” she said softly. “I don’t think they care enough to do that.”
Anna swung around so she was facing Ari. Ari, who had been her first love, who had opened and then broken her heart. But also Ari who slept in her bed, who liked to do the washing-up but put all the dishes away in the wrong places, Ari who sang to Percy the stuffed snake when she thought no one was listening, Ari who used her hairpins as bookmarks and put too much sugar in her tea, so that when Anna kissed her, she always tasted sweet.
“Dance with me,” Anna said.
Ari looked at her in surprise. “But… you’ve always said you don’t dance.”
“I like to break rules,” Anna said. “Even ones I have set myself.”
Ari smiled and held out her hand. “Then let us dance.”
Anna led her out onto the dance floor, knowing full well that Ari’s parents were watching. One hand on Ari’s shoulder, another on her waist, she led her into the steps of the waltz. Ari began to smile as they whirled around the dance floor, her eyes glowing, and for once, Anna’s need to observe the rest of the party—the interactions, gestures, conversations—fell away. The world shrank down to only Ari: her hands, her eyes, her smile. Nothing else mattered.
20 IRON HEART
By thy leave I can look, I rise again;
But our old subtle foe so tempteth me,
That not one hour I can myself sustain;
Thy grace may wing me to prevent his art,
And thou like adamant draw mine iron heart.
—John Donne, “Thou Hast Made Me, and Shall Thy Work Decay?”
Cordelia was looking for Matthew.
Every once in a while, she would reach up and touch the necklace around her throat. Now that she knew its secret, it felt different, as if the metal were hot against her skin, though she knew that was ridiculous—the necklace had not changed. Only her knowledge of it had.
She kept seeing James, standing over her, his dark gold eyes fixed on hers. The feeling when he opened the necklace, his fingers brushing her throat. That breathless, shivery feeling that sent goose bumps flooding across her skin.
So you loved me and you loved Grace at the same time, she had said to James, thinking he would take hold of that, nod gratefully at her understanding. But the look that had flashed across his face—bitter despair, self-loathing.
I never loved her. Never.
It made no sense, not when matched with his behavior, and yet she felt as if her reality had tilted on its axis. James did love her; he had loved her. Whether that was enough, she did not know; but she knew the depth of her own reaction, reading the words he had written inside her necklace. She had felt as if her heart were pumping light, not blood, through her veins.
Her stomach churned now: confusion, mixed with a hope she had not dared to feel before. If someone—if Lucie—had asked her that moment what she felt, she would have said, I don’t know, I don’t know, but she knew enough: her own feelings were too strong to be ignored any longer. There were things that could go no further, before real damage was done.
She found Matthew at last on the dance floor, being flung about energetically by Eugenia. She hung back among the crowd waiting for the next dance and saw Eugenia look over at her and smile sadly. To Cordelia, the smile said, Please don’t hurt him, though perhaps it was her own imagination. Her own dread.
When the song was over, Eugenia tapped Matthew on the shoulder and pointed to Cordelia; his face lit up, and he walked off the dance floor to join her, rubbing his shoulder. He had grown thinner, she thought with a pang, and that, combined with the bright coat and the enamel leaves in his hair, made him look like a faerie prince.
“Are you rescuing me from Eugenia?” he said. “She’s a good girl, but she does toss one around like a rag doll. I swear I saw through the wards of London to a new and terrible world.”
Cordelia smiled; he sounded all right, at least. “Can we talk?” she said. “Perhaps in the games room?”
Something lit in his eyes: guarded hope. “Of course.”
The games room had been readied: it was a tradition, as a party came to a close, for some of the guests—mostly the men—to retire here for port and cigars. The room smelled of cedar and pine, the walls hung with red-berried holly wreaths. Upon the sideboard had been set bottles of sherry, brandy, and all manner of whiskies. The windows were silvered with ice, and a high fire burning in the grate illuminated the framed portraits on the walls.