“When I found out that Jem had been orphaned, I came to Shanghai straightaway, of course,” Elias said. “The Shanghai Institute wanted revenge just as badly as I did, and they partnered me with the fiercest warrior they had: the legendary Ke Yiwen.”
James murmured some sort of acknowledgment or agreement, but Elias didn’t seem to need his input; by now he was off and running. “For two years Yiwen and I tracked the demon across the world. The passage to Yanluo’s own realm was in Shanghai, so he never strayed too far for too long, but he eluded our grasp. Until one day…”
The story went on. Cordelia had heard it so many times she had ceased to really hear the words, but she grasped that her father was going over his most impressive feats of tracking, the terrible conditions he’d endured, and several dramatic hairbreadth near misses with lesser demons. The story grew a little more embellished each time it was told. Cordelia looked to Alastair, hoping to share a long-suffering look.
But Alastair looked more than long-suffering. His gaze was focused on their father with a barely contained loathing. Finally he gulped down his wine in a single swallow and interrupted Elias midsentence:
“Father, I’ve wondered: Are you still in touch with Ke Yiwen? Or is she too busy to write letters these days, given that she’s the head of the Shanghai Institute?”
There was a moment of awful silence. Nothing Alastair had said was truly that bad, but it was impossible to miss the implication. Everyone at the table was now thinking about the difference in the current status of Yanluo’s killers: one an Institute head and celebrated hero, one who had been imprisoned by the Clave for drunken incompetence and now hoped only to return to being a Shadowhunter in good standing at all.
James looked from Alastair to Elias. Not much showed on his face; in that moment, Cordelia was grateful for the Mask. Then he smiled, that smile that lit his face up, transformed it into something luminous. He inclined his head to Sona. “Truly,” he said, “to bayad kheili khoshhal bashi ke do ta ghahraman tooye khanevadat dari.”
Truly, you must be proud to have two such heroes in your family.
Cordelia gaped. She’d had no idea James knew any Persian beyond a few words for food, “thank you,” and “goodbye.” Even Alastair was staring at him with a mixture of surprise and respect.
Sona clapped her hands together in delight. “Have you been learning Persian, James? How wonderful!”
“It was a wedding surprise for Cordelia,” said James. He turned to Elias, still seeming perfectly at ease. “Cordelia tells me you taught her chess,” he said, as if there were no tensions roiling beneath the surface of the dinner. “She is a fierce player. She has beaten me every time we’ve had a match.”
Elias chuckled; the maid had come around to clear the plates, and he was on his fourth glass of wine. There was a red stain on his lapel. Alastair stared at him stonily, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Well, chess is a Persian game, you know, according to the Book of Kings,” he said. “Have you heard the story of how it originated?”
“Not at all,” said James with a straight face. “Do tell.”
He kicked Cordelia lightly under the table. It was fortunate they didn’t play cards more, she thought; he had a perfect face for bluffing.
“Maman,” she said, rising from the table. “Let me help you with the chai.”
It was a bit unorthodox for a lady to have anything to do with the preparation of food, but Cordelia knew her mother: no matter how strict the instructions, she would never trust someone else to make tea for her family. It had to be steeped for hours, and spiced with the right blend of saffron, cardamom, cinnamon, and rose water. Water would then be added from the samovar; water from a kettle simply would not do. Sona insisted it made all the difference.
In the kitchen, Cordelia saw with a touch of homesickness that the desserts had already been laid out on a silver tray: sweet sohan assali, and chunks of fried zoolbia bamieh soaked in rose syrup. She came up behind her mother and gently laid an arm about Sona’s shoulders, the silk sleeve of her lace-and-chiffon tea gown fluttering gently. “Maman,” she insisted. “You shouldn’t be on your feet so much.”
Sona ignored this and gave a look in the direction of the dining room. “James and your father seem to be getting along.”
Cordelia made an impatient noise. “Father’s rewriting what happened. Every time he tells that story it gets more elaborate and he gets more heroic.”