Perhaps she did not feel that melancholy with Matthew. Perhaps, having been sure James would never love her, that their marriage would never be anything but a lie, Cordelia had found joy with someone who could tell her straightforwardly that he loved her, without caveats or denials.
James had come to Paris determined to tell Cordelia the truth—about Grace, about the bracelet. To tell her she had his whole heart and soul and always had. He realized now that this would be binding her with chains. She was kind, his Daisy, the sort to weep over an injured kitten in the street. She would pity him and his chained love, pity him for what Grace and Belial had done to him. She would feel obligated to stay by his side, return to their marriage, because of that pity and that kindness.
For a moment, the temptation was before him. Tell her the truth, take her kindness and her pity and let it chain her to him. Let it bring her back to Curzon Street with him. It would be like before: they would play chess, they would walk and talk and dine together and eventually he would win her back, with gifts and words and devotion.
He let the image hover in his mind, of the two of them in the study, before the fire, Cordelia smiling through the fall of her unbound hair. His fingers under her chin, turning her face toward him. What are you thinking about, my love?
He pushed the thought away, sharply, as if he were puncturing a soap bubble. Pity and kindness were not love. Only free choice was love; if he had learned nothing else from the horror of the bracelet, he had learned that.
“I love you,” he said. He knew it wasn’t enough, knew it even before she closed her eyes, as if terribly weary. “I may have believed I loved Grace, but she was not the person I imagined. I think also I did not want to believe I could have been so wrong, especially about something so important. The time I have been married to you, Daisy, has been—the happiest of my life.”
There, he thought wretchedly. It was some of the truth, if not the whole of it.
She opened her eyes slowly. “Is that all?”
“Not quite,” he said. “If you love Matthew, then tell me now. I will stop importuning you. I will leave you two to be happy.”
Cordelia shook her head slowly. For the first time, she looked a little uncertain as she said, “I don’t—I don’t know. James, I need time to think about all this. I cannot give you any sort of answer now.”
She had put her hand to her throat, an unconscious gesture, and James realized suddenly what lay there above the neckline of her dress: the gold pendant he had given her, in the shape of the globe.
Something lit within him. A small, insane spark of hope. “But you are not leaving me,” he said. “You do not want a divorce?”
She gave the ghost of a smile. “Not yet, no.”
More than anything else, he wanted to pull her toward him, to crush his mouth to hers, to show her with lips and hands what words were inadequate to prove. He had fought Belial, he thought, had twice faced down a Prince of Hell, yet this was the hardest thing he had ever done: to nod, to back away from Cordelia, to leave her without another question or another word.
He did it anyway.
8 AGAINST PEACE
Once for all; I knew to my sorrow, often and often, if not always, that I loved [Estella] against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Once for all; I loved her none the less because I knew it.
—Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
Ariadne had never awoken in another person’s bed before, and as she blinked sleep from her eyes, she wondered if it was always so strange. She was disoriented, first by the shafts of light through the windows, at different angles and different shades than the light into her own bedroom. And then the thought that she was in Anna’s bedroom came to her, and for a moment she allowed herself to simply be in the place, in the moment. She was sleeping where Anna slept, where she put her head down every night, where she dreamed. She felt a sort of intimate separation from Anna, as if they were two hands pressed to opposite sides of the same glass. She remembered their hands intertwining in the Whispering Room, Anna slowly threading Ariadne’s hair ribbon through her fingers.…
And then of course reality came crashing down, and Ariadne scolded herself for allowing this much romantic feeling. It was only because she was just awake, she told herself.
Anna had sworn off love, so she had said, and Ariadne had to believe her. She had cut away a part of herself, for protection, and Ariadne could not rescue that part of her, could not bring it back.
The water in the jug on the washstand had a thin scrim of ice on it. Ariadne washed her face hurriedly, plaited her hair, and pulled on the dress she’d been wearing when she arrived; it was rumpled and stale, but she hadn’t brought anything else with her. She’d have to buy some new things.
Cautiously she emerged into the living room, not wanting to wake Anna if she was still asleep. Not only was Anna not asleep, she had company. At the breakfast table sat Anna’s brother Christopher, and, of all people, Eugenia Lightwood. The three of them appeared to be in the final throes of breakfast. Eugenia, who Ariadne thought of as pleasant, but not someone in whom she would necessarily confide, gave her a little wave and a smile. Whatever Anna had told her about the circumstances of Ariadne’s presence, she seemed unbothered.
“Ah, Ariadne. I didn’t want to wake you,” Anna said, her voice bright. “Do you want a bit of breakfast? It’s only tea and toast, I’m afraid. Christopher, shove over and make some room.”
Christopher dutifully did so, scattering crumbs as he shifted sideways on a tufted sofa that had been drawn up to make one side of the table’s seating. Ariadne sank down next to him, took a slice of toast from the rack, and began to butter it. Anna, looking placid, poured her a cup of tea.
“I’ve never understood toast racks,” murmured Eugenia. “All they do is make sure one’s toast gets cold as soon as possible.”
“Anna,” Christopher said, “I’ve been doing some work lately and—well, with your permission, I’d like to inscribe just a couple of small runes onto the bottom of your kettle before you put it on the fire, in order to—”
“No, Christopher,” Anna said, patting him on the shoulder. “Ariadne, as you can see, I have assembled a team for our mission today.”
Ariadne blinked. “What mission?”
“The mission to gather your things and move you out of your parents’ house, of course.”