Will looked intrigued. “There is more to this story, and I will get it out of both of you before we reach Cornwall.” He sighed. “I’ll check on the horses. Then we leave. We can make it to Basingstoke by morning; we’ll rest then.”
He stomped away, and James could hear him murmuring to the horses. Magnus’s horses, presumably, though Will generally loved all horses. All animals, really, with the exception of ducks. And cats. Focus, James told himself. His mind was spinning; too many shocks and reversals of the day had left him as stunned as if he had fallen from a great height.
He would get used to the new situation, he knew. And when he did, it would hurt. Only shock was cushioning the pain of losing Cordelia—and Matthew—and when that shock passed, the pain would be greater than anything he had ever felt in association with Grace. One day he would be able to reach Cordelia again, to explain to her, but by then, would she care? Or believe him?
Magnus raised an eyebrow. “So Cordelia has suddenly decided to go to Paris with Matthew, the same day that you stopped Charles Fairchild’s murder and Leviathan, an ancient Prince of Hell, attacked the Institute?”
“Yes,” James said shortly. “It’s been a very long day.”
“You will forgive me if I say that you don’t look like someone whose wife just left for a pleasant trip to Paris,” said Magnus. “You look like someone who just had his heart kicked out on a train station platform.”
James was silent. We suffer for love because love is worth it.
Magnus softened his voice. “You know Matthew’s in love with her, right?”
James blinked—how had Magnus known? Perhaps Matthew had told him—an odd thought—or he had guessed; he was very observant. “I know it now. I should have known it before.” His head ached dully. “There isn’t much I can say to defend myself. I have been very blind. In that blindness I have hurt Cordelia and I have hurt Matthew. I have no right to be angry that they have gone.”
Magnus shrugged. “Rights,” he said. “We all have the right to feel pain, James, and unhappiness. I would venture to guess that Cordelia and Matthew are fleeing from their own. It is natural to believe that you can outrun your miseries. There have been times I have fled mine halfway across the world. But the truth is that sorrow is fleet and loyal. It will always follow you.”
James tilted his head back. The air was full of fog and smoke; he could not see the stars. He wondered if Cordelia could see them yet—if the train had carried her far enough from London for the skies to clear. “I fear it has been following Matthew for a long time,” he said. “I fear that in that time I have been… disconnected from the people I love the most, the people who I should have been able to save from such pain.”
“You cannot save people who do not want to be saved,” said Magnus. “You can only stand by their side and hope that when they wake and realize they need saving, you will be there to help them.” He paused. “It’s something to keep in mind as we go to help your sister.”
Magnus straightened up; Will had returned, rubbing his ungloved hands together to warm them. Seeing James standing miserably on the pavement, he reached out to gently ruffle his hair. “I know it’s hard, Jamie bach. You’d rather be in Paris. But you made the right choice.” His hand fell to James’s shoulder; he held on tight for a moment before letting go. “All right,” he said gruffly. “We can’t delay. Everyone into the carriage.”
James clambered into the carriage and sank back against one of the velvet seats. Sliding his hand into his pocket, he took hold of Cordelia’s glove, the kidskin soft against his palm. He held it tightly, silently, as the carriage pulled away from Waterloo and rumbled into the night.
Epilogue
The wind whipped across the rocky plain like the tail of an angry cat. Tatiana Blackthorn pulled her tattered cloak more tightly around her as she struggled up the lee of a jagged hill. Far below her, she could see the Adamant Citadel, growing ever smaller in the distance, encircled by its red-penny moat of hot slag and magma. The Iron Sisters disposed of adamas weapons that could not be used in the lava, so dangerous was the material outside of the right hands.
Not that they had noticed when she had smuggled a chunk of it out herself, Tatiana thought with satisfaction. They thought of her as a sort of mad Cinderella, muttering to herself in ashy corners, flinching when spoken to, given to long walks alone on the emerald-moss plains. She could not help but wonder when the alarm would be raised today. When they would realize she had left the Citadel for good, and would not be back.