Anna’s posture changed; she had been lounging with her hands in her pockets, but now she straightened up. “No one else is wandering about the ballroom, Ariadne.”
Ariadne worried at a fold of her dress with her fingers. “We could talk,” she said. “It might be nice.”
Cordelia tensed; Ariadne was opening herself up to a cutting riposte. But instead Anna only said, “I don’t think so,” her tone very flat, and walked off without a word.
“She’s a more complicated person than she pretends,” Magnus offered to Ariadne.
Ariadne didn’t seem to welcome the sympathy. Her eyes flashed. “I know that better than almost anyone.” She nodded stiffly at James and at Cordelia. “Again, I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
Cordelia felt an odd urge to wish her luck in battle, but there was no time: she had departed, her head held high in the air.
“Well,” Magnus said, toying idly with the gold flower tucked into his buttonhole. A peony, Cordelia noted, dipped in gold. “It’s hard not to admire her spirit.”
“She is very determined,” said Lucie. “She approaches Anna at every dance and party, always with some sort of request.”
“Has Anna been responsive?”
“Not judging by her social calendar,” James said. “Every time I see her, she’s squiring some new lady about the town.”
“She and Ariadne certainly have a history,” said Thomas. “We just don’t quite know what it was.”
Cordelia thought of Anna kneeling by Ariadne’s sickbed, murmuring softly, Please don’t die. She had never mentioned the moment to anyone. Anna, she felt, would not like her to do so.
Magnus didn’t comment; his attention had been caught by something else. “Ah,” he said. “Mr. Carstairs.”
It was Alastair, determinedly approaching Cordelia and James. Magnus, as if sensing the advent of an awkward situation, excused himself and slipped away smoothly into the crowd.
Cordelia regarded Alastair worriedly—did he really feel obligated to brave the den of Merry Thieves to offer his congratulations? It appeared that he did: spinning toward his sister with a near-military precision, he said sharply, “I’m here to offer my felicitations to both of you.”
James regarded him. “I suppose you at least have enough social grace to know the right things to say,” he said quietly, “even if you can’t bring yourself to sound like you mean them.”
Alastair’s mouth set in a hard line. “No credit for the attempt, then?”
Stop, Cordelia thought. She knew Alastair was not always like this—she knew he could be kind, sweet, vulnerable even. She knew her father had broken his son’s heart a dozen different ways, and Alastair was doing the best he could with the pieces. But it didn’t help for Alastair to behave like this, to retreat behind a cold facade as cutting as glass.
The way James retreated behind the Mask.
“We are brothers now, Alastair,” James said, “and you are welcome in our house. I will be civil to you and I hope you will be civil to me, for Cordelia’s sake.”
Alastair looked a little relieved. “Of course.”
“But you had best be good to her,” James said, still in an even, calm tone. “Because my hospitality lasts exactly as long as Cordelia finds your presence pleasing.”
“Of course,” Alastair said again. “I would expect nothing else.” He turned to Thomas, who had been staring fixedly down at his plate. “Tom,” he said carefully. “If I could talk to you for a moment—”
Thomas stood up, almost knocking over the table. Cordelia looked at him in astonishment.
“I told you before that if you spoke to me again, I would throw you into the Thames,” said Thomas. His normally open, friendly face was twisted into an expression of fury. “You might at least have chosen a warmer day to take your plunge.”
“Stop.” Cordelia threw down her napkin. “Alastair is my brother, and I love him. And this is my wedding day. No one will be throwing my family members into the Thames.”
“Honestly, Thomas,” said Lucie, looking at her friend with disappointment. Thomas clenched his fists at his sides.
“Now,” said Cordelia. “Will someone tell me what this is all about?”
There was an awkward silence. Even Alastair didn’t look at her. He made an odd sort of sound, in the back of his throat. “This is—unbearable,” he said. “It is not to be endured.”