She wondered what it would be like, to be loved like that. Even alongside her sadness, there was a strange admiration in her for the way that James loved Grace, the all-encompassingness of it.
“Cordelia, A blade of Wayland the Smith is a great gift, but it is also a great responsibility. One that may one day cause you sorrow.”
Cordelia nodded. She was sure her father was right. Still, gazing down at Cortana, she couldn’t imagine ever being anything but happy with it.
“Of course I want to help those who are sick, but I also cannot help believing that if I were able to do such a service to the Clave as aiding in ending this demonic disease, surely they would grant my father leniency in his trial.”
Cordelia sensed the whisper of unspoken words passing between them, the silent communication of parabatai. Perhaps one day she would have that with Lucie; at the moment, it seemed almost like magic.
“No need to explain about Herondale,” said Alastair, with an unpleasant smile. “I imagine this happens to him fairly often.”
Cordelia stepped on his foot.
Cordelia had thought a tattoo would be rather more like their Marks, but it reminded her of something else instead. It was ink, the way books and poems were made of ink, telling a permanent story.
“It was amazing the way you charged at that demon, absolutely capital,” said Christopher. “I really thought you had him in your sights, until you fell into the river, that is.”
“Yes,” said Cordelia. “I was under the same misapprehension myself.”
She craned her head back to look up at him. “How do you know the antidote works?”
Alastair grinned in the dark. “I have faith in Thomas.”
“You do?” said Cordelia. “I didn’t think you even knew him that well.”