She took down a book on Constantinople as he came over to the fire and held out his hands to the flames. “How was Matthew’s?” she asked.
“Nice enough,” James’s sharp cheekbones were flushed with the cold. “Whitby Mansions, I think it’s called, all very posh—they’ve got a motorcar he can use when he likes, which seems a recipe for disaster, and a cook and cleaners on the premises. Not that I think the Enclave would be too thrilled if they knew where he was. They don’t like us having servants who don’t know about Downworld, lest they see something untoward. I’ve warned him not to bring home any tentacles.”
“He’s more likely to burn the flat down trying to make tea,” Cordelia said with a smile. “Do you want supper? Risa’s been cooking all day, and muttering about it. We could eat in here,” she added. “It’s cozier.”
He gave her a long, measuring look. The kind that made her heart thump harder for no real reason. The snow in his hair had melted, and the damp strands were curling at the ends. “Why not?”
She went to talk to Risa; by the time she returned, James had sprawled on the couch with A Thaumaturgy of Dreams, leafing idly through the pages. “Anything useful in here?” he asked.
“Not really,” said Cordelia, settling onto the couch beside him as Risa came in with a tray full of dishes. She left them to serve themselves: soup and rice, spiced vegetables, and tea. “Mostly about how to give other people dreams, not what to do if you’re having them yourself.”
“Matthew went into greater detail about his centaur dream,” said James, spooning up the soup. “It was very troubling.”
“Was he the centaur, or was someone else? Or do I not want to know?” asked Cordelia. James stared at his spoon. “Is the soup all right? It’s ash reshteh. Risa cooked it for you when you had scalding fever.”
“Did she?” he said slowly.
“We were both fourteen,” she said. He had to remember. “You had come to Cirenworth; Alastair wasn’t there, and you and Lucie and I played all through the gardens. Then one day you collapsed; you were burning up. Do you recall any of that?”
James rubbed at his eyes. “It’s strange. I ought to remember more about the fever. It’s the most ill I’ve ever been.”
“They sent Lucie away, but I’d already had the fever. They let me stay and sit with you,” she said. “Do you remember me reading to you at all?”
James rested his chin in his hand. “Well, I remember stories of some kind, but I don’t know if it was something I dreamed, or a real memory. There was a tale like Romeo and Juliet, perhaps? Something melancholy and romantic?”
“Yes,” Cordelia said slowly. Could he really have forgotten? It seemed to her that months ago, when they had spoken of the tale, he had remembered it well. Had she been mistaken? “The story of Layla and Majnun—you liked that one quite a bit. We talked about it afterward. We talked a lot, actually, because it seemed to take your mind off how badly you felt. You really don’t remember?”
“I’m sorry, Daisy. I wish I did.”
There was a copy of the book upstairs, Cordelia knew, in among the volumes that had been brought from her old house. She stood up, suddenly determined. If she couldn’t jog his memory, maybe Nizami could. “Then there’s only one thing to be done. I’m going to remind you.”
* * *
James rose and paced the room the moment Cordelia left. He wished he could remember what she so clearly badly wanted him to recall. He felt as if he were disappointing her, letting her down somehow. Yet when he reached back into his mind, it was as if a curtain had been drawn across that time at Cirenworth, and he could see only in glimpses through gaps in the fabric.
The smell of jasmine and woodsmoke.
The length of a body, warm and solid, all along his own.
Her husky voice: I sought not fire, yet is my heart all flame. Layla, this love is not of earth.
He took a deep breath. His head ached. He had come into the study earlier preoccupied, thinking of Matthew, worried about him alone in his new flat. And then he had seen Cordelia—her head bent over her book, her hair shining like a new penny; she had been wearing a soft woolen dress that clung to her body, outlining every curve. He had nearly gone to her and kissed her, as any man coming home to his wife might do. Only at the last minute had he recalled himself, and turned toward the fire instead.
And still his body ached, as if it yearned for something entirely separate from what his mind knew was good for him. Long ago—he was almost sure of it—Cordelia had put her arms around him while he burned with fever. Yesterday morning, he had held her, soft and pliant against him, and he had burned with another sort of fever.