Chain of Thorns

Chapter 1: Twilight Days 1 TWILIGHT DAYS My Paris is a land where twilight days Merge into violent nights of black and gold; Where, it may be, the flower of dawn is cold: Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways! -Arthur Symons, "Paris" The gold floor tiles gleamed under the lights of the magnificent chandelier, which scattered droplets of light like snowflakes shaken from a tree branch. The music was low and sweet, rising as James stepped out from the crowd of dancers and held out his hand to Cordelia. "Dance with me," he said. He was beautiful in his black frock coat, the darkness of the cloth accentuating the gold of his eyes, the sharpness of his cheekbones. Black hair tumbled over his forehead. "You look beautiful, Daisy." Cordelia took his hand. She turned her head as he drew her out onto the floor, catching a glimpse of the two of them in the mirror at the far end of the ballroom, James in black and she beside him, in a daring dress of ruby-red velvet. James was looking down at her-no-he was gazing across the room, where a pale girl in an ivory dress, her hair the color of creamy-white rose petals, was looking back at him. Grace. "Cordelia!" Matthew's voice made her eyes snap open. Cordelia, feeling dizzy, put a hand against the wall of the changing room for a moment to brace herself. The daydream-daymare? It hadn't turned out to be that pleasant-had been awfully vivid. "Madame Beausoleil wants to know if you require any aid. Of course," he added, his voice full of mischief, "I would render the help myself, but that would be scandalous." Cordelia smiled. Men did not usually accompany even wives or sisters into a dressmaker's shop. When they had arrived for their first visit, two days ago, Matthew had deployed the Smile and charmed Madame Beausoleil into allowing him to remain in the store with Cordelia. "She does not speak French," he had lied, "and will require my assistance." But letting him into the shop was one thing. Letting him into the trying-on closet, where Cordelia had just finished donning an intimidatingly stylish red velvet dress, would indeed be un affront et un scandale!-especially in an establishment as exclusive as Madame Beausoleil's. Cordelia called back that she was all right, but a moment later there was a knock on the door and one of the modistes appeared, wielding a buttonhook. She attacked the closures at the back of Cordelia's dress without requiring any instruction-clearly she had done this before-and pushed and pulled at Cordelia as if she was a stuffed mannequin. A moment later-her dress fastened, her bust lifted, and her skirts adjusted-Cordelia was decanted into the main room of the dressmaker's salon. It was a confection of a place, all pale blue and gold like a mundane Easter egg. On their first visit Cordelia had been both startled and oddly charmed to see how they displayed their wares: models-tall, slender, and chemically blond-promenaded up and down the room, wearing numbered black ribbons around their throats to show that they were displaying a particular style. Behind a lace-curtained door was a wealth of fabrics one could choose from: silks and velvets, satin and organza. Cordelia, upon being presented with the trove, had silently thanked Anna for instructing her on fashion: she had waved away the lace and pastels and moved quickly to select what she knew would suit her. In only a couple of days the dressmakers had whipped up what she had ordered, and now she'd returned to try on the final products. And if Matthew's face was anything t