Ah, but the gold nights, and the scented ways!
—Arthur Symons, "Paris"
Gold tiles gleamed beneath the magnificent chandelier, scattering droplets of light like snowflakes shaken from a branch. The music was low and sweet, swelling as James stepped from the crowd of dancers and offered his hand to Cordelia.
"Dance with me," he said. He looked beautiful in his black frock coat, the dark cloth accentuating the gold of his eyes and the sharpness of his cheekbones. Black hair tumbled over his forehead. "You look beautiful, Daisy."
Cordelia took his hand. As he drew her onto the floor, she turned her head, catching their reflection 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 rose petals, looked back at him.
Grace.
"Cordelia!"
Matthew's voice snapped her eyes open. Dizzy, Cordelia pressed a hand against the changing room wall to brace herself. The daydream—or daymare? It hadn't been pleasant—had been vividly real.
"Madame Beausoleil wants to know if you require assistance. Of course," he added, mischief coloring his voice, "I would offer help myself, but that would be scandalous."
Cordelia smiled. Men rarely accompanied even wives or sisters into a dressmaker's shop. During their first visit two days ago, Matthew had deployed the Smile, charming Madame Beausoleil into allowing him to stay with Cordelia. "She does not speak French," he had lied. "She will require my assistance."
But letting him into the shop was one thing. Letting him into the fitting closet, where Cordelia had just donned 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 out that she was all right, but moments later, a knock sounded on the door. One of the modistes appeared, wielding a buttonhook. She attacked the closures at the back of Cordelia's dress without instruction—clearly she had done this before—pushing and pulling at Cordelia as if she were a stuffed mannequin. A moment later—dress fastened, bust lifted, skirts adjusted—Cordelia was ushered into the main room of the 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 startled, yet oddly charmed, by the display of wares: models—tall, slender, and chemically blond—promenaded the room, wearing numbered black ribbons around their throats to indicate the style. Behind a lace-curtained door lay a wealth of fabrics to choose from: silks and velvets, satin and organza. Presented with the trove, Cordelia had silently thanked Anna for her instruction on fashion: she waved away the lace and pastels, moving quickly to select what she knew would suit her. In only a couple of days, the dressmakers had whipped up her orders, and now she had returned to try on the final pieces.
If Matthew's face was anything to go by, she had chosen well. He had settled into a black-and-white striped gilt chair, a book—the scandalously daring *Claudine à Paris*—open on his knee. As Cordelia stepped from the cupboard to check her fit in the triple mirror, he looked up. His green eyes darkened.
"You look beautiful."
For a moment, she almost closed her eyes. *You look beautiful, Daisy.* But she would not think about James. Not now. Not when Matthew was being so kind, loaning her the money for these clothes. She had fled London with only one dress and was desperate for something clean to wear.
They had both made promises, after all. Matthew promised not to drink to excess while in Paris; Cordelia promised not to punish herself with dark thoughts of her failures: thoughts of Lucie, her father, her marriage. Since arriving, Matthew had not so much as touched a wineglass or a bottle.
Pushing aside her melancholy, she smiled at Matthew and turned her attention to the mirror. She looked almost a stranger to herself. The dress was made to measure. The neckline dipped daringly low, while the skirt clung to her hips before flaring out like the stem and petals of a lily. The sleeves were short and ruched, baring her arms. Her Marks stood out stark and black against her light brown skin, though her glamours would prevent any mundane eyes from noting them.
Madame Beausoleil kept her salon on the Rue de la Paix, where the world's most famous dressmakers—the House of Worth, Jeanne Paquin—were situated. According to Matthew, she was well acquainted with the Shadow World. "Hypatia Vex won't shop anywhere else," he'd told Cordelia over breakfast. Madame's own past was shrouded in deep mystery, which Cordelia found to be very French of her.
There was very little under the dress—apparently, the mode in France was for dresses to skim the body's shape. Here, slim stays were worked into the bodice fabric. The dress gathered at the bust with a rosette of silk flowers; the skirt flared out at the bottom in a ruffle of gold lace. The back dipped low, showing the curve of her spine.
It was a work of art. She told Madame as much—in English, with Matthew translating—when the woman bustled over, pincushion in hand, to inspect the results.
Madame chuckled. "My job is easy," she said. "I need only enhance the great beauty your wife already possesses."
"Oh, she's not my wife," Matthew said, green eyes sparkling. Matthew loved nothing more than the appearance of scandal. Cordelia made a face at him.
To her credit—or perhaps it was just that they were in France—Madame did not even blink. "Alors," she said. "It is rare I get to dress such a natural and unusual beauty. Here, the fashion is all for blondes—blondes everywhere—but blondes cannot wear such a color. It is blood and fire, too intense for pallid skin and hair. They are suited by lace and pastel, but Miss…?"
"Miss Carstairs," Cordelia said.
"Miss Carstairs has chosen perfectly for her coloring. When you step into a room, mademoiselle, you will appear as the flame of a candle, drawing eyes to you like moths."
Miss Carstairs. Cordelia had not been Mrs. Cordelia Herondale very long. She knew she should not be attached to the name. It hurt to lose it, but that was self-pity, she told herself firmly. She was a Carstairs, a Jahanshah. The blood of Rostam ran in her veins. She would dress in fire if she liked.
"Such a dress deserves adornment," said Madame thoughtfully. "A necklace of ruby and gold. This is a pretty bauble, but much too tiny." She flicked at the small gold pendant around Cordelia's neck. A tiny globe on a strand of gold chain.
It had been a gift from James. Cordelia knew she should take it off, but she was not ready yet. Somehow it seemed a gesture more final than the slashing through of her marriage rune.
"I would buy her rubies willingly, if she let me," said Matthew. "Alas, she refuses."
Madame looked puzzled. If Cordelia was Matthew's mistress, as she'd clearly concluded, what was she doing turning down necklaces? She patted Cordelia on the shoulder, pitying her terrible business sense. "There are some wonderful jewelers on the Rue de la Paix," she said. "Perhaps if you glance in their windows, you will change your mind."
"Perhaps," said Cordelia, fighting the urge to stick her tongue out at Matthew. "At the moment, I must concentrate upon clothing. As my friend explained, my valise was lost on the journey. Would you be able to deliver these outfits to Le Meurice by this evening?"
"Of course, of course." Madame nodded and retreated to the counter at the opposite end of the room, where she began doing figures with a pencil on a bill of sale.
"Now she thinks I'm your mistress," Cordelia said to Matthew, hands on her hips.