James’s golden eyes shone. “I cannot say, not yet. But I believe all the stories are true, even the ones that contradict each other. Perhaps especially those.” He reached out to take the stele from her hand; surprised, she let him do it. “You asked me before if I opened a door to return here. I didn’t. I couldn’t. Magnus was right—it’s not something I ever practiced with Jem, or even considered that I could do: opening paths between worlds with my mind.”

“Magnus seemed so sure—”

“Well, I tried. I thought of this house, the study, tried to picture every piece of it. Nothing worked. I might as well have been trapped in quicksand.” He set the stele down. “Until I thought of you.”

“Of me?” Cordelia said, a little blankly, as James rose to his feet. Now she was looking up at him, at his serious eyes, his thick lashes, the grim turn to the corners of his mouth.

“I thought of you,” he said again, “and it was as if you were there, with me. I saw your face. Your hair…” He wound a finger through a dangling curl beside her face. She could feel the warmth from his hand against her cheek. “And I was no longer afraid. I knew I would be able to come home, because of you. That you would lead me back. You are my constant star, Daisy.”

She wondered for a moment if he were light-headed—though she had given him a blood-replacement rune. “James, I—”

His fingers stroked down her cheek, slid under her chin. He lifted her face gently. “I only want to know one thing,” he said. “Did you mean it, what you said?”

“Mean what?”

“What you said in the shadow realm,” he murmured. “That I was yours.”

Her stomach lurched; she’d fancied he hadn’t heard her. She remembered shouting the words into the shadows; she had not been able to see Belial, but she had sensed him, all around, sensed his claws in James.

But clearly he had. His golden eyes were fixed on her, lovely as sunrise, fierce as a hawk’s gaze. She said, “It doesn’t matter what I said. I wanted him to leave you alone—”

“I don’t believe you,” he said. She could feel the slight tremors running through his body—tremors of stress, which meant he was forcing himself to otherwise hold very still. “You don’t say things you don’t mean, Daisy—”

“Fine.” She jerked her chin up, away from his hand, her mouth trembling as she said, “I meant it, then—you belong to me and not to him—you will never belong to him, James—”