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“I always have loved him,” Cordelia said, with the ghost of a smile. “I always will. It is not a choice; it is part of me, like my heart or my soul or… or Cortana.”
“I can wait for you to change your mind.” Matthew sounded as if he were drowning.
“No,” Cordelia said, and felt as if she were breaking something, some fragile, delicate thing made of ice or glass. “I cannot and never will love you in the way you wish to be loved, Math. The way you deserve to be loved. I do not know what I will do about James. I have no plan, have made no decision. But I do know this. I know I must not”—and there were tears in her eyes—“let there be false hope between us.”
Matthew raised his chin. There was a terrible look in his eyes, the sort of look her father had when he had lost a great deal at the gambling table. “Am I so hard to love?”
“No,” Cordelia said, in despair. “You are so easy to love. So easy that it has caused all this trouble.”
“But you don’t love me.” There was real bitterness in his voice now. “I understand, you’ve made it clear enough; I’m a drunk and always will be—”
“That is not true, and not what this is about,” Cordelia said. “My decision has nothing to do with your drinking, nothing at all—”
But he was already backing away from her, shaking his blond head. Scattering green-gold leaves. “This is unbearable,” he said. “I can stand it no longer.”
And with a few strides, he was gone through the door, leaving Cordelia alone, her heart hammering in her chest as if she had just run a hundred miles.
Thomas had expected that the moment they arrived at the party, Alastair would peel away to join his usual cohort: Piers Wentworth, Augustus Pounceby, and the other boys who had graduated with him from Shadowhunter Academy.
To his surprise, Alastair stayed by his side. He did not devote his entire attention to Thomas—they stopped repeatedly to greet everyone from James to Eugenia, who looked from Thomas to Alastair and grinned maniacally, to Esme Hardcastle, who had a long list of questions for Alastair about his Persian relatives. “My family tree must be thorough,” she said. “Now, is it true that your mother was married to a French Shadowhunter?”
“No,” Alastair said. “My father was her first and only husband.”
“So she didn’t poison the Frenchman for his money?”
Alastair glowered.
“Did she murder him for a different reason?” Esme inquired, pen hovering.
“He asked too many questions,” said Alastair darkly, after which he was dragged away by Thomas, who, to his own surprise, was able to convince Alastair to join in playing with his cousin Alex. Alex had always enjoyed being put on top of Thomas’s shoulders, as it afforded an excellent view. It turned out he also liked it when Alastair picked him up and tickled him. When Thomas raised his eyebrows, Alastair said, “I might as well practice, oughtn’t I? I’ll have my own baby brother or sister soon.” Alastair’s dark eyes sparked. “Look at that,” he said, and Thomas turned to see that Anna and Ari were waltzing on the dance floor, arms around each other, seemingly oblivious to the world. A few of the Enclave were staring—the Baybrooks, the Pouncebys, Ida Rosewain, the Inquisitor himself, glaring from the sidelines—but most were simply going about their business. Even Ari’s mother was looking over at them wistfully, with no anger or judgment on her face.
“See,” Thomas said, in a low voice. “The sky has not fallen.”
Alastair set Alex down, and Alex toddled on chubby legs to his mother, pulling at her blue skirts. Alastair indicated that Thomas should come with him, and Thomas, wondering if he had annoyed Alastair and if so, how much, followed him behind a decorative urn that was exploding yew branches covered in red berries. From behind it, Thomas could catch only glimpses of the ballroom.
“Well, all right,” Thomas said, squaring his shoulders. “If you’re angry at me, say so.”
Alastair blinked. “Why would I be angry at you?”
“Perhaps you’re annoyed that I made you come to the party. Perhaps you’d rather be with Charles—”
“Charles is here?” Alastair looked honestly surprised.
“He’s been ignoring you,” Thomas noted. “Very rude of him.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I don’t care about Charles,” said Alastair, and Thomas was surprised at how startlingly relieved he felt. “And I don’t know why you want him to speak to me either. Perhaps you need to figure out what you do want.”
“Alastair, you are the last person—”
“Do you realize we’re under the mistletoe?” Alastair said, his dark eyes sparking with mischief. Thomas glanced up. It was true; someone had hung a bunch of the waxy white berries from a hook in the wall overhead.
Thomas took a step forward. Alastair instinctively retreated a step, his back against the wall. “Would you like me to do something about it?” Thomas said.
The air between them suddenly seemed as heavy as the air outside, weighted with the promise of a storm. Alastair laid a hand on Thomas’s chest. His long lashes swept down to hide his eyes, his expression, but his hand slid down, over Thomas’s flat belly, his thumb rubbing small circles, setting every one of Thomas’s nerves alight. “Right here?” he said, hooking his fingers into Thomas’s waistband. “Right now?”
“I’d kiss you right here,” Thomas said in a harsh whisper. “I’d kiss you in front of the Enclave. I am not ashamed of anything I feel about you. You are the one, I think, who doesn’t want it.”
Alastair tipped his face up, and Thomas could see what his lashes had been hiding: the slow-melting desire in his eyes. “I want it,” he said.
