Cordelia didn't look up. James Herondale moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, his presence a constant, low-thrumming ache in her chest.
"I'm thinking about what the cards don't say," she replied, finally turning the card over. The illustration showed a warrior—not unlike herself—standing before a rising sun, a massive gold-hued blade held aloft. "They show the glory of the hero, the sharp edge of the steel. They never show the hand that bleeds from holding it." Cordelia_tarot_Cordelia.epub
The London fog clung to the windows of the Institute like a living thing, damp and heavy. Inside, sat at a mahogany table, her fingers tracing the worn edge of a card from the Shadowhunter Tarot deck. Cordelia didn't look up