James stood at the altar, looking out over the gathered crowd. He felt a little dizzy to see the pews so completely filled with wedding guests—the Wentworths and Bridgestocks, the Townsends and Baybrooks sat alongside people he barely knew. Then there were his parents in the front pew, their hands tightly clasped. Cordelia’s family—Sona in ivory silk with gold and silver embroidery; Elias looking tired, and years older than James remembered. Alastair, his face haughty and unreadable as ever. James’s aunts and uncles, clustered together. Henry, a broad grin on his face, his Bath chair drawn up beside the pew where Charles sat. Thomas and Anna, smiling encouragingly.

Everywhere were pale flowers from Idris, garlanding the aisles and spilling over the altar, their delicate scent filling the chapel. The room glimmered in the soft golden haze of the candlelight. James had walked the flower-strewn aisle with Matthew’s hand steady on his arm. Matthew had murmured to him—light, funny comments about the guests and a few harsh words for Mrs. Bridgestock’s hat—and James had thought how lucky he was, to have a parabatai who was always there for him. He could never truly fall with Matthew to hold him up.

The chapel doors opened a crack—everyone looked up, but it was not Cordelia; it was Grace, escorted by Christopher. She made her way quickly to Charles’s pew and slid in beside him, while Kit hurried to join Thomas and Anna.

James felt Matthew’s grip tighten on his arm. “Well done, Kit,” he murmured.

James had to agree. He had made a vow to himself that he would not spend time with Grace alone, and his wedding day seemed hardly the time to break it. Once she had left the Long Hall, he could no longer imagine what had induced him to say yes to meeting her.

Matthew had said not to worry, he would send Christopher to let Grace know the meeting was off. Feeling a little guilty, James had thrown himself into greeting guests—chatting with Anna and Thomas, welcoming Ariadne, introducing Matthew to Filomena and watching their flirting with amusement. Eventually Bridget had appeared, slightly grim-faced, and demanded that the last of the guests be ushered into the chapel. It was time for the ceremony.

James knew that at mundane ceremonies there was often music, and it was the case at Shadowhunter weddings as well sometimes, but it was dead silent now. One could have heard a pin drop. The palms of his hands itched with nervousness.

The doors opened, thrown wide this time. The candles flared up; the guests turned to stare. A soft exhale went round the room.

The bride was here.

Matthew moved closer to James, their shoulders touching. James knew Matthew was staring too; they were all staring, and yet he felt as if he were alone in the room, the only one watching as Cordelia entered, Lucie at her side.