And she did, until the fire burned down and she had to rouse him, and they crept upstairs together. They parted at their separate doors. Sometimes she thought his hand lingered at her shoulder as he kissed her good night, chastely, on the cheek.
She had dreamed of all this, in a half-guilty way—living with him, being so close, so often. But she had never imagined the reality of it. The sweet, piercing intimacy of ordinary married life. Of James making her giggle while teaching her slang words （considered too rude for ladies） over breakfast—a “donkey’s breakfast” was a straw hat, and “half-rats” was being mostly intoxicated. Of wandering into their shared bathroom while he was shaving, shirtless, a towel around his shoulders. She had nearly fled, but he’d only waved at her amiably and struck up a conversation about whether they needed to attend Rosamund Wentworth’s engagement party.
“Oh, we might as well, I suppose,” she said. “Lucie’s going, and Matthew, too.”
He went to rinse the soap off his face, and she watched the smooth slide of muscles under the skin of his arms, his back. She had not known men had such deep grooves above their hip bones, nor did she know why the sight made the back of her throat feel odd. She glanced up hastily, only to notice that there were light freckles at the tops of James’s shoulders, like golden starbursts against his skin. There wasn’t a part of him she’d seen yet that she didn’t think was beautiful. It was nearly unfair.
He was most beautiful when he was in motion, she’d decided. It was a conclusion she’d come to while they trained together—another part of married life she’d never considered, but found she liked very much. The training room James had installed on the upper floor was small but comfortable, with a high enough ceiling to swing a sword around, a climbing rope, and platforms to create makeshift terrain. Here she and James sparred and went through forms, and she could really see him, the actual beauty of him in motion, the long line of his body extended in a lunge or graceful in a controlled fall. She wanted to believe that, when she wasn’t paying attention, he was sneaking looks at her just as she was sneaking looks at him. But she never caught him, and she told herself it was wishful thinking.
Sometimes Cordelia wondered if her unrequited love was a sort of third member of their household, present even when she was not—haunting James’s steps, wrapping ghostly arms about him as he tied his tie before the mirror, curling up insubstantially beside him as he slept. But if he felt any such thing, he certainly gave no sign.
* * *
“Daisy,” James said. He was in the corridor, outside Cordelia’s half-open door; Risa was nearly finished helping her dress. “Can I come in?”
“One moment,” Cordelia called; Risa was just doing up the last buttons on her gown.
“Bebin ke mesle maah mimooni,” said Risa, stepping back, and Cordelia glanced hastily at herself in the mirror. Look how you are beautiful like the moon.
Cordelia wondered dryly if Risa was referring to the fact that the dress was low-cut enough to reveal the tops of her breasts: swelling crescents above the dark green silk. She supposed it was true that a married woman could wear clothes that were far more daring than a single girl’s. Every seam in her dress had been designed to emphasize her curves; every inset panel of lace offered a trompe l’oeil hint of her bare skin beneath. The effect, as Anna had explained to her when she chose the material, lay in the eye of the beholder: even the most ardent gossip could not fault its cut, but an admirer could easily imagine what lay underneath.
But will James imagine it? said a small voice in the back of her mind. Will he notice the dress? Compliment it?
She didn’t know: it had been two weeks since her wedding to James and he was sometimes entirely opaque. Still, they had been two weeks so happy they had surprised her. Maybe this mad gamble would pay off. She would have this to look back on when she was old and gnarled like a tree trunk—a year of happiness married to a boy she adored. Some people never had so much as that.
“Maybe the dress is too much,” Cordelia said, tugging at the neckline.
“Negaran nabash.” Risa batted her hand out of the way, tsking. “Don’t worry. This is your first real night out before the whole Enclave as a married woman. Show them you are proud. Show them you will not be made to feel small. Show them you are a Jahanshah.” She made a shooing motion. “Now I shall go.” She winked. “You must not keep Alijenab James waiting.”
Risa slipped out, leaving Cordelia to stand there feeling rather foolish. James rarely came into her room; she sensed he wanted her to have her privacy. He knocked once now before coming in and closing the door behind him.