“Would wild horses be able to stop you?” said James. Please, don’t, he thought. The last thing I want is for you to think my marriage failed because your advice was flawed.
“That depends,” said Will. “Do you currently have access to any wild horses?”
James had to smile. “Not at the moment.”
“Then no,” said Will. “So here it is: always tell Cordelia what you feel.” He looked James in the eye. “You may fear what will happen if you speak your heart. You may wish to hide things because you fear hurting others. But secrets have a way of eating at relationships, Jamie. At love, at friendship—they undermine and destroy them until in the end you find you are bitterly alone with the secrets you kept.”
Tessa laid her hand quietly over Will’s. James just nodded, feeling sick. Secrets. Lies. He was lying to his parents now—lying to everyone about his feelings. What would they say when he and Cordelia divorced in a year’s time? How would he explain? A picture rose to his mind of his father, striking through James’s marriage runes with a look of devastation on his face.
Will looked as if he were about to say something more when a rattling, crunching sound came from outside: wheels on snow and stone. Someone shouted a greeting. The first of the guests had begun to arrive.
They all rose, and Will reached out to brush a light hand through James’s hair. “Do you need a moment? You’re quite white-faced. It’s natural to have nerves before such an event, you know.”
I owe Cordelia a better performance than this, James thought. Oddly, the thought of Daisy strengthened him: he forgot sometimes, it was Daisy he was marrying, Daisy with her light laugh, her gentle, familiar touch, her surprising strength. It was not some stranger. If it were not for the thought of how disappointed his parents would be when it all came apart, he might be quite content.
“No need,” he said. “I am only excited—that is all.”
His parents broke into relieved smiles. The three of them made their way downstairs, through the brightly decorated Institute. Will opened the door, letting in a gust of sparkling ice crystals along with the first of the guests, and as James prepared to greet them, he realized that he was still wearing Grace’s bracelet. Well, there was no time to remove it now. Cordelia would understand.
* * *
James was in the midst of greeting what seemed like every Shadowhunter in London （and a good number from elsewhere）， when he saw Lucie appear across the room.
He excused himself from the line of guests and hurried toward her. They had moved to what Tessa called the Long Hall, the rectangular room that separated the entryway from the chapel. Through the wide double doors of the chapel itself, James saw that it had been transformed. The beams were festooned in garlands of chrysanthemums woven with winter wheat and tied with gold ribbons, the aisle strewn with golden petals. The ends of the pews were decorated with sprays of yellow-hearted lilies, Welsh daffodils, and marigolds, and gold velvet banners hung from the ceiling, stitched with designs of birds and castles—the symbols of the Herondale and Carstairs families, united. On either side of the altar—the altar where you will be standing, soon enough, murmured a voice inside his head—huge crystal vases stood, overflowing with more flowers. Candles glowed from every niche and surface.
His mother and Sona had planned it all, he knew; they had truly outdone themselves.
“Where have you been?” James whispered, catching up to his sister. She was wearing a peach-colored silk dress with a chiffon overlay and gold satin bows at the sleeves. The gold locket she was fond of glittered at her throat. He’d asked her before where she’d acquired it: Lucie had told him not to be silly, she’d had it for a long time, and indeed he recalled her pressing it to his lips the night he’d nearly died in Highgate Cemetery. For good luck, she’d said afterward. “Matthew’s not here yet and I’ve been greeting a thousand strangers all on my own. Including the Pangborns from the Cornwall Institute.”
Lucie made a face at him. “Even Old Sticky Hands?”
James grinned at their nickname for Albert Pangborn, who had taken over the running of the Cornwall Institute from Felix Blackthorn in 1850. “I believe Father required me to refer to him as ‘sir.’ And shake his sticky hand.”
“Alas.” Lucie gazed at him loftily. “I,” she said, “must be by Cordelia’s side today, James. Not yours. I am her suggenes. She’s getting ready in my room.”
“Why can’t I get ready in peace too?” James wondered—reasonably, he thought.