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A moment later James had pulled her toward him. His arms went round her, lifting her up and against him. His mouth was gentle, even as he crushed her against him; she realized what he was doing a beat later as the door opened, and she heard voices on the threshold. She gave a little gasp, and felt James’s pulse jump; his right hand slid into her hair, his rune-scarred palm against her cheek as he kissed her. James was kissing her.
his. She felt his breath hiss out against her mouth; he was kissing her carefully, even as the movements of his hands and body mimicked passion.
She understood now why poets said love was like burning.
He had kissed her with violent desperation, as if he were dying for her. He had said her name: Daisy, my Daisy. Hadn’t he?
“Now you’re fiddling with a Pyxis. I see you have decided to follow in the long Herondale tradition of poor decision-making.” “So have I!” said Lucie, determined not to be left out.
James sighed. “Matthew, you would be a terrible spy. You might not break under torture, but you’d tell someone anything they wanted to know in exchange for a nice pair of trousers.”
“Have you heard of the death of a thousand cuts?” Cordelia replied. “I always preferred the death of a thousand cats, in which one is buried under kittens,” said Matthew.
“I kissed you because I wanted to,” he said. “Because I’d never wanted anything so much.”
This was James at his best, she thought. His faith in his friends was unwavering: it was strength, and they shared that strength between them.
“Cordelia—” Cordelia leaned over and kissed James swiftly on the cheek. She saw him blink and touch his fingers to the spot in surprise. “Come back,” she said.
You brought light into my lightless world, and for that I am grateful.”
“Then perhaps she is planning to kill Charles?” said Matthew. “Matthew, cease sounding hopeful at the prospect of homicide.”