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London, 1903
James Herondale staggered into a world of dust and shadows.
He knew better than to scream because no one would hear him in this world where the earth was scorched and seared and the sky was set aflame. This world that was empty and cold, ruthless, unyielding; suffocating emptiness. James Herondale knew that here, he was a lone man.
Yet he recognised their flickering frames: Cordelia's wine stained hair, Christopher's tapping foot, Barbara's tender hands reaching for her partner in unison with shadowed tendrils sprouting from the ground, reaching up for her.
It was as if the earth could no longer carry his weight— so suddenly did its strength deplete that James felt himself become one with the dust beneath his feet as it wrapped him in a tight embrace head to toe. It was so dark, the heavens empty. James couldn't breathe. He felt it reach for his upper arms, pulling him further below and into what dreadful things awaited until it... couldn't. He felt the touch of something else. Something brisk, lighter than a feather would be, the ghost of something real, something warm with blood flowing through its veins and life dancing in its fingertips. It shook him and despite that, James felt firmly grounded in this world that was not real. He felt as though he was seen.
It was as though lightning struck, veins branching along the vacant sky, reflected by eyes of rich soil and warmth like the crackle of the fireplace in the library. He reached for the warmth, had it in his firm grasp. The lightning struck again, though this time it was ruthless and flaming, an abrupt stinging crackle on his cheek.
"Jamie, Jamie. Jamie!" James' focus snapped to Matthew's urgent voice, the blurred voices and music sharpening. His cheek stung. He realised he was pressed against the wall, hands clinging onto the sleeve of a royal blue gown fitted over steady arms— his eyes locked with ones before him, the same brown pair he'd seen in the shadow realm. It took mere seconds to process Almas Morgenstern's flushed face inches from his, eyes wide with horror and astonishment. With that same exact horror, James let his hands fall to his sides.
***
As soon as she was released from James Herondale's iron grip, Almas Morgenstern had to take a few small steps back to process what had just occurred and catch her fearful breaths.
"Jamie, breathe," said Matthew Fairchild towering above a limp and unresponsive James whose only support for balance seemed to be the draped wall behind him. Matthew turned to her: "I think you might have struck him a little too hard."
"You'd rather I give him a pat on the head and a kiss? That would've woken him up instantly, surely!" At the moment, Almas could care less about how hard she'd slapped James, though couldn't deny a twinge of remorse watching as she observed a faint red mark appear on the boy's cheek. Blood rushed through her ears, her skin replaying the wisp of his desperate grip on her arms, his breath still lingering on her cheek. She'd come to London with hopes of being perceived as a proper lady with integrity. No trouble, she'd told herself. I shall cause no trouble. Oh how the future loved to ruin her carefully crafted plans. She strained from looking behind her, in fear of seeing the gaze of some bystander with no context of the situation.
