“I have been trying, Mama,” Grace said. “Maybe it’s because he’s a Shadowhunter. Maybe they have more resistance to the magic.”
Tatiana didn’t say anything further then, but a few weeks later she abruptly announced that they were departing for Alicante in an hour, and Grace should ready herself to go out.
13 THE WINTRY WIND
No boughs have withered because of the wintry wind;
The boughs have withered because I have told them my dreams.
—William Butler Yeats, “The Withering of the Boughs”
Once Alastair was gone, the room seemed terribly quiet. Cordelia glanced at the door—she was used to falling asleep with James but a few feet away. Now he was miles away, and likely going to bed assuming she was furious with him.
James. She had grown accustomed to seeing him first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. It still felt very strange to undress in the bathroom knowing he was just a few feet away, but… Now she was alone. Not alone—her brother was down the hall, her mother asleep downstairs—but she missed James.
Cordelia sighed. She wasn’t going to get to sleep anytime soon, whatever Alastair had said. She was about to find a book to pass the time, when her window flew suddenly open with a crash, and someone hurtled through the gap, landing on the floor next to her bed in a hectic tumble of freezing-cold air, blond curls, and bright orange spats.
“Matthew?”
He had landed awkwardly on the floor. He sat up, rubbing his elbow and cursing softly. “That was the first decent thing Alastair ever did in his life. And to think I was here to see it. Well, spy on it, technically.”
“Go and close the window,” Cordelia said, “or I will throw the teapot at you. What are you doing here?”
“Visiting,” he said, dusting himself off and going to close the window. “What does it look like?”
“Most people use the front door,” Cordelia said. “What did you mean about Alastair?”
“Cortana. I’m talking about Alastair refusing your ridiculous offer. I agree with him, by the way: that sword can’t un-choose you and it has no reason to do so. Probably it’s broken.”
“It’s a mythical sword. It can’t be broken.” Cordelia tugged her covers up; it felt very odd indeed to be sitting in front of Matthew in her nightgown. “Were you really out there listening?”
“Yes, and you might have been quicker about sending your brother off. I was freezing.”
Matthew’s utter lack of repentance made it impossible to be angry at him. Cordelia hid a smile—her first smile of the day. “And why, pray tell?”
“When I heard what happened, I went to pay my respects at Curzon Street, but neither of you were there—”
“James wasn’t at home?”
“I suspect he was having a wander. He likes to walk about when he feels troubled—apparently Uncle Will used to do the same thing,” said Matthew. “I guessed you might be here, but I was afraid if I knocked on the door, your family wouldn’t let me see you, not at this hour.”
She looked at him, puzzled. “You could have waited until tomorrow.”
He sat down on the end of her bed. It was most improper, Cordelia thought, but then again, she was a married woman. As Anna had said, she was free to do as she liked, even to let young men in orange spats sit on the end of her bed. “I don’t think I could have,” he said, avoiding her gaze by prodding gently at her coverlet. “There was something I needed to tell you.”
“What?”
Very quickly, he said, “I know what it is to be in pain, and not to be able to seek comfort from the one you love the most, nor to be able to share that pain with anyone you know.”
“What do you mean?”
He raised his head. His eyes were very green in the dim light. “I mean,” he said, “this may be a false marriage, but you’re truly in love with James.”
Cordelia stared at him, horrified. His hair was madly tousled, damp with melting snow. The cold had whipped sharp color into his cheeks, and his eyes were bright with—nervousness? Could Matthew actually be nervous?
“Does James know?” she whispered.
“No,” Matthew said, forcefully. “Lord, no. I love James, but he’s blind as a bat where it comes to matters of the heart.”
Cordelia gripped the blanket in both hands. “How long? How long have you known, and how—how did you guess?”
“The way you look at him,” Matthew said simply. “I know you did not mean for this marriage to happen, that you did not scheme for it. Indeed, it must be a special sort of torture for you. And I am sorry for it. You deserve to be happy.”