Upstairs. There it was. Cordelia was thrown right back into confusion as she followed James up the stairs, presumably to their bedroom. A space that belonged to just her and James, where no visitors could or would come. An intimacy she could not fathom.

All the lights were lit on the second floor. Gleaming sconces ran along a short corridor; James opened the first door, and indicated that Cordelia should follow him inside.

The blue-painted room faced the back garden. Cordelia saw white branches and a sliver of moon through the windowpanes before James turned a switch mounted on the wall. Twin lamps glowed to life on either side of a beautifully dressed bed that was certainly big enough for two.

Cordelia focused on the first thing her eye fell on, a carved panel over the fireplace. Worked into the marble were the crenellated towers of the Carstairs crest. “Is this…?”

“I hope it’s all right,” James said quietly behind her. “I know that to the rest of the world, you are a Herondale now, but I thought you might like to have a reminder of your family.”

She took another look around the room, taking in the quilted velvet coverlet, the silk canopy, the jacquard curtains in her favorite jewel tones of emerald and amethyst. The colors were echoed in the thick Kerman carpet beneath her feet. Risa had hung Cortana on gilded brass hooks next to the bed, clearly intended for just that purpose. A window seat big enough for two was piled with tasseled silk pillows and flanked with shelves bursting with books… her books. James must have arranged in advance to have Risa unpack them as a final surprise for her. “The room,” she said. “It’s—you picked out everything just for me.”

But where are your things? Where are you, James?

He had taken off his gold jacket; it was folded over one arm. His hair was mussed, a smudge of pollen from the wedding flowers on one cheek, a spot of wine on his cuff. If she kissed him, he would taste like sugared tea, that sharp-sweet taste. Her insides felt muddled with uncertainty and desire.

“I thought your bedroom ought to be a place you could go just to be yourself,” he said. “Where you wouldn’t have to pretend anything.” He crossed the room, throwing open a smaller door: through it was a gleaming modern bathroom with an enameled tub and shiny nickel-plated fixtures. On the far side of it was another door, painted emerald.

“The green door goes to my room,” said James, “so if you need anything, and you don’t want to wake the staff, you can always knock.”