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—Nizami Ganjavi, Layla and Majnun
It always surprised Cordelia, how London could be at once overcast and even rainy, and yet also bright enough to sting her eyes. From inside the carriage with Alastair, she blinked against the glare of the milk-white sky, and thought about the clear sunshine in Paris. Her time there was already beginning to seem removed and distant, like the memory of a dream.
They sat in silence as the driver navigated traffic on the Strand. Alastair, even a year ago, would have had a torrent of questions. He now seemed content to wait for Cordelia to speak.
“Alastair,” she said as they swung onto the Mall, with its terraced white facades. “I assume Magnus let you know to come and fetch me?”
Alastair frowned at her. “Cordelia, put gloves on. It’s cold. And yes, Magnus told me you’d just Portaled back. He said that you seemed exhausted after your travels and that you might appreciate being retrieved.”
“Retrieved,” Cordelia muttered. “Makes me sound like luggage. And I haven’t got gloves with me. I must have left them back at the hotel.”
With an exaggerated sigh, Alastair removed his own gloves and began to jam them onto Cordelia’s hands. They were comically too big, but very warm, especially since he’d just been wearing them. She flexed her fingers gratefully.
“I was surprised,” Alastair said. “I would have thought you’d be returning to your house on Curzon Street. You might recall it? The house in which you reside with James Herondale? Your husband?”
Cordelia looked out the window. Carriages, omnibuses, and the like were snarled up around a large stone arch ahead—some sort of monument, though she couldn’t recall which one. Up above, the driver was complaining loudly about the traffic. “I was worried about Mâmân,” she said. “I oughtn’t to have left with the baby due so soon. In fact, I think I shall stay in Cornwall Gardens at least until the baby is born.”
“Your devotion to family is admirable,” Alastair said dryly. “I’m sure it is unrelated to your having just run off to Paris with your husband’s parabatai.”
Cordelia sighed. “I had my reasons, Alastair.”
“I’m sure you did,” he said, surprising her again. “I wish you’d tell me what they were. Are you in love with Matthew?”
“I don’t know,” Cordelia said. Not that she didn’t have thoughts on the matter, but she didn’t feel like sharing them with Alastair at the moment.
“Are you in love with James, then?”
“Well. We are married.”
“That’s not really an answer,” said Alastair. “I don’t really like James,” he added, “but on the other hand, I also don’t like Matthew very much. So you see, I am torn.”
“Well, this must be very difficult for you,” Cordelia said crossly. “I cannot imagine how you will find it within yourself to go on.”
She made a dismissive gesture, which was spoiled when Alastair burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “But those gloves are enormous on you.”
“Humph,” said Cordelia.
“About James—”
“Are we the sort of family that discusses our intimate relationships now?” Cordelia interrupted. “Perhaps you would like to talk about Charles?”
“Generally not. Charles seems to be healing up, and beyond him surviving, I have no further interest in what happens to him,” said Alastair. “In fact, there have been a few touch-and-go moments with my caring about whether he survives. He was always demanding that I adjust his pillows. ‘And now the foot pillow, Alastair,’?” he said, in a squeaky voice that, to be fair, sounded nothing like the actual Charles. Alastair was terrible at impressions.
“I wouldn’t mind a foot pillow,” said Cordelia. “It sounds rather nice.”
“You are clearly in an emotional state, so I will ignore your rambling,” said Alastair. “Look, you need not discuss your feelings about James, Matthew, or whatever other harem of men you may have acquired, with me. I merely want to know if you’re all right.”
“No, you want to know if either of them has done something awful to me, so you can chase them around, shouting,” said Cordelia darkly.
“I could want both,” Alastair pointed out. They had made it out of the traffic finally and were rattling through Knightsbridge, past Harrods, bright with Christmas decorations, and streets crowded with barrow boys selling chestnuts and hot pies.
“I really have been worried about Mâmân,” Cordelia said.
Alastair’s expression softened. “Mâmân is fine, Layla, other than weariness. She sleeps a great deal. When she is awake, she grieves for our father. It is her grief that wearies her, I think, not her condition.”
“Is she angry at me?” Cordelia hadn’t realized she was going to say such a thing until it was already out of her mouth.
“For going to Paris? No, not at all. She was quite calm when we got your note; calmer than I’d expected, I must say. She said that if your dreams had taken you to Paris, then she was happy. I don’t recall anyone ever saying that about me when I went to Paris,” he added. “It is a dreadful chore, being the eldest.”
