He excused himself from the line of guests and hurried toward her. They had moved to what Tessa called the Long Hall, the rectangular room that separated the entryway from the chapel. Through the wide double doors of the chapel itself, James saw that it had been transformed. The beams were festooned in garlands of chrysanthemums woven with winter wheat and tied with gold ribbons, the aisle strewn with golden petals. The ends of the pews were decorated with sprays of yellow-hearted lilies, Welsh daffodils, and marigolds, and gold velvet banners hung from the ceiling, stitched with designs of birds and castles—the symbols of the Herondale and Carstairs families, united. On either side of the altar—the altar where you will be standing, soon enough, murmured a voice inside his head—huge crystal vases stood, overflowing with more flowers. Candles glowed from every niche and surface.

His mother and Sona had planned it all, he knew; they had truly outdone themselves.

“Where have you been?” James whispered, catching up to his sister. She was wearing a peach-colored silk dress with a chiffon overlay and gold satin bows at the sleeves. The gold locket she was fond of glittered at her throat. He’d asked her before where she’d acquired it: Lucie had told him not to be silly, she’d had it for a long time, and indeed he recalled her pressing it to his lips the night he’d nearly died in Highgate Cemetery. For good luck, she’d said afterward. “Matthew’s not here yet and I’ve been greeting a thousand strangers all on my own. Including the Pangborns from the Cornwall Institute.”

Lucie made a face at him. “Even Old Sticky Hands?”

James grinned at their nickname for Albert Pangborn, who had taken over the running of the Cornwall Institute from Felix Blackthorn in 1850. “I believe Father required me to refer to him as ‘sir.’ And shake his sticky hand.”

“Alas.” Lucie gazed at him loftily. “I,” she said, “must be by Cordelia’s side today, James. Not yours. I am her suggenes. She’s getting ready in my room.”

“Why can’t I get ready in peace too?” James wondered—reasonably, he thought.

“Because you are not the bride,” Lucie said. “You are the groom. And when you see her for the first time, in the chapel, in all her wedding attire, is meant to be magical.”

They were silent for a moment. Lucie knew the truth perfectly well, but there was a stubborn set to her mouth that made James suspect now was not the time to point out that it wasn’t that sort of wedding.

“Who lit all the candles?” James said. “It must have taken them an hour.”