Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,38

casual voice. “Alastair is here.”

“Yes,” said Cordelia. “He’s the man of our house at the moment, since my father is in Idris.”

Christopher had produced a small black notebook and was scribbling in it. Anna was gazing down at the lake, where several of the young ladies—Rosamund, Ariadne, and Catherine among them—had decided to take a turn. “He has my sympathy,” said Thomas, with an easy smile. “My father is often in Idris as well, with the Consul—”

I know, Cordelia thought, but before she could ask him anything, she heard Lucie calling her name. She looked up to see her future parabatai heading toward them, holding a straw hat in place with one hand and a basket in the other. Behind her was James, his hands in the pockets of his pin-striped trousers. He wore no hat, and the wind tugged at his already tousled black hair.

“Oh, lovely!” Lucie said, upon seeing Cordelia’s mountain of food. “We can combine our winnings. Let’s see what you have.”

Anna and Christopher made space as Lucie dropped to her knees and began unpacking yet more food—cheese and jam tarts, sandwiches and lemonade. James sat down by Christopher, glancing idly at his notebook. He said something in a low voice, and Thomas and Christopher laughed.

Cordelia felt her breath catch in her throat. She hadn’t really spoken to James since they’d danced the night before. Unless one counted him asking her to remove his stele from his jacket. She remembered the way his hands had been fisted at his sides. He seemed a different person now.

“What did it turn out to be, last night?” she said to Lucie. “The demon business in Seven Dials.”

James glanced over at her. His smile was easy—too easy, Cordelia thought. As if he were an actor on a stage, told to look as if he were enjoying himself. “Shax demons all up and down Monmouth Street. They had to call on Ragnor Fell to help glamour the place so the mundanes wouldn’t notice what was going on.”

Thomas frowned. “It’s odd,” he said, “after so long, we encountered that demon the other night, and now yesterday—”

“You encountered a demon?” Lucie demanded. “When was that?”

“Er,” said Thomas, his hazel eyes darting around. “I may have been wrong. It may not have been a demon. It may have been a textbook about demons.”

“Thomas,” said Lucie. “You are the most dreadful liar. I want to know what happened.”

“You can always get the truth out of Matthew,” said James. “You can wheedle anything out of him, you know that, Luce.” He glanced around the lake. “Where is Matthew? Isn’t he meant to be coming?”

He looked over at Cordelia, and she felt a sudden rush of anger. She’d been quiet—now that she’d managed to lure all these people to her Picnic Blanket of Machinations, how was she meant to bring up her father? But James’s words brought back the night before in a sharp flash of memory. He was asking her if she knew where Matthew was because she’d danced with Matthew, and she’d danced with Matthew because James had abandoned her and Matthew had stepped in.

Cordelia rose to her feet, nearly knocking over a bottle of ginger beer. She took a deep breath, brushed off her blue serge skirt, and said, “James, I’d like to speak with you in private for a moment, if you don’t mind.”

Everyone looked astonished, even Lucie; James only nodded.

“Lead the way,” he said.

* * *

There was a small Italian folly near the lake, complete with white pillars. Cordelia led James away from the crowd of picnickers in silence, passing a few groups of strolling mundanes; now she climbed the few steps of the folly to its central pavilion, turned, and faced him.

“Last night,” she said, “you were most appallingly rude to me, and I would like an apology.”

He looked up at her. So this was what it would be like to be taller than James, she thought. She didn’t mind it. His expression was calm, unreadable even. It wasn’t an unfriendly look, but it was entirely closed off, letting no one in. It was an expression she had seen on James’s face before: she had always thought of it privately as the Mask.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to apologize?”

Maybe it wasn’t better to be taller than him, she thought. When he looked up at her, he had to do it through his eyelashes, which were thick and black as the silk fringes on a scarf. “I am trying to think