“You needn’t go to all this trouble tonight,” Cordelia had protested. “It’s just a sledding party. My hair’s going to end up a mess no matter how many pins and combs you poke into it.”

Risa’s disapproving look had prevailed. Cordelia assumed she felt that her charge should be making an effort to look good for her fiancé. After all, Cordelia was marrying James Herondale, a catch by any standards of society, Shadowhunter or mundane—handsome, rich, well-connected, and kind.

There was no point in saying that it didn’t matter how she looked. James wouldn’t care if she showed up in an opera gown, or stark naked for that matter. But there was nothing to be gained in trying to explain that to Risa. In fact, it was much too risky to explain it to anyone.

“Dokhtare zibaye man, tou ayeneh khodet ra negah kon,” said Risa, holding up a silver hand mirror for Cordelia. My beautiful daughter, look in the glass.

“It looks lovely, Risa,” Cordelia had to admit. The pearl combs were striking against her dark ruby hair. “But how will you ever top this tomorrow?”

Risa just winked. At least someone was looking forward to the next day, Cordelia thought. Every time she thought about her wedding, she wanted to jump out of the window.

Tomorrow she would sit for the last time in this room, while her mother and Risa wove silk flowers into her long, heavy hair. Tomorrow she would have to appear as happy a bride as she was an elaborately dressed one. Tomorrow, if Cordelia was very lucky, most of her wedding guests would be distracted by her clothes. One could always hope.

Risa smacked her lightly on the shoulder. Cordelia rose obediently, taking one last deep breath before Risa tightened the laces of her corset, pushing her breasts up and straightening her spine. The nature of the corset, Cordelia thought irritably, was to make a woman aware of every minute way that her shape differed from society’s impossible ideal.

“Enough!” she protested as the whalebone stays cut into her skin. “I did hope to eat at the party, you know.”

Risa rolled her eyes. She held up a green velvet dress and Cordelia stepped into it. Risa guided the long, fitted sleeves up her arms, adjusting the frothy white lace at the cuffs and neckline. Then came the process of fastening each of the tiny buttons that ran up the back of the dress. The fit was snug; without the corset Cordelia would never have managed it. The Herondale ring, the visible sign of her engagement, gleamed on her left hand as she lifted her arm so that Risa could arrange Cortana across her back.

“I should hurry down,” Cordelia said as Risa handed her a small silk handbag and a muff to warm her hands. “James is hardly ever late.”

Risa nodded briskly, which for her was the equivalent of a warm hug goodbye.