Daisy. She seemed to blaze like a torch. James had always known she was beautiful—had he always known? Had there been a moment he had realized it?—but still the sight of her hit him like a blow. She was all fire, all heat and light, from the gold silk roses woven into her dark red hair to the ribbons and beads on her golden dress. The hilt of Cortana was visible over her left shoulder; the straps that secured it had been fashioned from thick gold ribbons.

“By the Angel, she is brave,” he heard Matthew murmur, and he could not help but agree: technically, this wedding existed to correct a terrible social violation. Cordelia was a compromised bride, and to some it would seem quite daring that she went to her wedding in full gold, a Shadowhunter bride in all her glory, her sword at her back, her head held high.

If there were ever to be an expression of disapproval from the more ancient and pigheaded of the Enclave, it would be now. But there was nothing—only little gasps of appreciation, and the delighted look on Sona’s face as Cordelia took her first step onto the aisle, the froth and gold of her dress parting for a moment to reveal a gold-and-ivory brocade boot.

Something chimed in James’s ear. At first he thought he was hearing the sound of the wind in the icy branches outside. But he saw Lucie smile and glance behind her—it was indeed music, growing closer, rising in volume. A sound delicate and crystalline as winter, touched with an almost melancholy sweetness.

The sound of a violin, audible even through the thick stone walls. The guests looked about them, startled. James looked at Matthew. “Jem?”

Matthew nodded and indicated James’s parents: Will and Tessa were both smiling. James thought there were tears in his mother’s eyes, but it was natural to cry at weddings. “Your parents asked him if he would play. He’s outside in the courtyard. He wouldn’t come in—said Silent Brothers had no place at weddings.”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” James murmured, but he recognized it for what it was: a gift from the man who had always been like an uncle to him. The music rose, as exquisite as Cordelia, as pure and proud as the look on her face as she stepped up to join him at the altar.

Cordelia had not expected to feel as odd as she did: both extraordinarily present and distant, as if she were watching the proceedings from a faraway place. She saw her family, saw Alastair glance at her and then over at the front pew, saw the look on her mother’s face. She had not expected the scent of the flowers, or the music, which seemed like a carpet unrolling before her, urging her down the aisle, lifting her to the altar.