I do, said Brother Zachariah. He is the best of good fellows.
Matthew shrugged. “If you say so. I like my Uncle Gabriel better. Not as much as Uncle Will, of course.”
Will has always been my favorite too, Jem agreed solemnly.
Matthew chewed on his lower lip, clearly considering something. “Would you care to accept a wager, Uncle Jem, that I can clear that fire with a foot to spare?”
I would not, said Brother Zachariah with conviction. Matthew, wait—
Matthew charged at the flames sparkling with jade light, and leaped. He twisted in midair, slim black-clad body like a dagger thrown by an expert hand, and landed on his feet in the shadow of the church spire. After a moment, several members of the Shadow Market began to clap. Matthew mimed taking off an imaginary hat, and bowed with a flourish.
His hair was gold even by strange flames, his face bright even in shadow. Brother Zachariah watched him laugh, and foreboding crept into his heart. He experienced sudden fear for Matthew, for all of the shining beloved children belonging to his dear friends. By the time he was Matthew’s age, he and Will had been through fire and burning silver. His generation had suffered so they could bring the next one forth into a better world, but now it occurred to Jem that those children, taught to expect love and walk fearless through shadows, would be shocked and betrayed by disaster. Some of them might be broken.
Pray disaster never came.
Fairchild residence, London, 1901
Matthew was still thinking about his visit to the Shadow Market the next day. In some ways it had been rotten luck, coming upon Uncle Jem like that, though he had been glad for the chance to become better acquainted. Perhaps Uncle Jem would think Jamie had not made a bad choice in his parabatai.
He rose early to help Cook with the baking. Cook had arthritis, and Matthew’s mama had asked if she was not getting along in years and wishing to retire, but Cook did not wish to retire and nobody had to know if Matthew lent a hand in the early morning. Besides, Matthew liked to see his papa and mama and even Charles eating breakfast he had prepared. His mother always worked too hard, lines of worry etched between her brows and around her mouth that never disappeared even if Matthew managed to make her laugh. She liked scones with cranberries baked in, so he tried to make them for her whenever he might. Matthew could not do anything else for her. He was not a strong support for her like Charles.
“Charles Buford is so serious-minded and reliable,” one of his mother’s friends had said when they were taking tea together in Idris. She had bit into one of Mother’s special scones. “And Matthew, well, he is . . . charming.”
That morning at breakfast Charles Buford reached for the plate of Mama’s scones. Matthew gave him a smile and a very decided shake of his head, moving the plate to his mother’s elbow. Charles Buford grimaced in Matthew’s direction.
Charlotte gave him a distracted smile, then returned to contemplating the tablecloth. She was in a brown study. Matthew wished he could say that was an unusual occurrence these days, but it was not. For months there had been something wrong in the atmosphere of home, with not only his mother but his father and even Charles Buford looking abstracted and occasionally snapping at Matthew. Sometimes Matthew dreaded the thought of what he might be told: that it was time he knew the truth, that his mother was going away forever. Sometimes Matthew thought if he only knew, he could bear it.
“My dear,” said Papa. “Are you feeling well?”
“Perfectly, Henry,” said Mama.
Matthew loved his father beyond reason, but he knew him. He was well aware that there were times when the entire family could have had their heads replaced with parakeet heads and Papa would simply tell the parakeet heads all about his latest experiment.
Now his father was watching his mother with worried eyes. Matthew could picture him saying, Please, Charlotte. Do not leave me.
His heart lurched in his chest. Matthew folded his napkin three times over in his hands and said: “Could somebody tell me—”
Then the door opened, and Gideon Lightwood came in. Mr. Lightwood. Matthew refused to think or speak of him as Uncle Gideon any longer.
“What are you doing here?” said Matthew.
“Sir!” Mama said sharply. “Really, Matthew, call him sir.”
“What are you doing here?” said Matthew. “Sir.”
Mr. Gideon Lightwood had the cheek to give Matthew a brief smile before he walked over and put his hand upon Mama’s shoulder. In front of Matthew’s papa.
“Always a pleasure to see you, sir,” said Charles Buford, that wretch. “May I serve you some kippers?”
“No, no, not at all, I already ate breakfast,” said Mr. Lightwood. “I merely thought to accompany Charlotte through the Portal to Idris.”
Mama smiled properly for Mr. Lightwood, as she had not for Matthew. “That’s very kind, Gideon, though not necessary.”
“It is most necessary,” said Mr. Lightwood. “A lady should always have the escort of a gentleman.”
His voice was teasing. Matthew usually waited until after breakfast to take his father down in his chair to his laboratory, but he could not bear this.
“I must see James at once upon urgent business!” he declared, bolting upright.
He slammed the door of the breakfast parlor shut behind him, but not before he heard Mama apologize for him, and Mr. Lightwood say: “Oh, that is all right. The age he is at is a difficult one. Believe me, I remember it well.”
Before Matthew left, he ran up to his bedroom mirror to adjust his hair, cuffs, and smooth his new green waistcoat. He stared at his face in the glass, framed in gold. A pretty face, but not a clever one like everyone in his family’s. He remembered the faerie woman saying, Some would say only a shallow river could flash so bright.
He tilted his head as he looked into the glass. Many people thought his eyes were dark like his mama’s, but they were not. They were such a dark green that they fooled people, except when light struck the dark a certain way and the depths flashed emerald. Like the rest of him, his eyes were a trick.
He drew the vial of truth potion from his sleeve. Uncle Jem had not seen him buy it. Even if Uncle Jem suspected he had it, Uncle Jem would not peach on him. When Uncle Jem said something, you believed it: he was that kind of person.
Matthew had refrained from ever mentioning his thoughts about Gideon to James, because Matthew was the soul of discretion and Jamie had an awful temper on him sometimes. Last summer a perfectly amiable Shadowhunter named Augustus Pounceby had come to the London Institute on his tour abroad, and Matthew had left Pounceby in James’s sole company for less than half an hour. When Matthew returned, he found Jamie had thrown Pounceby into the Thames. All James would say was that Pounceby had insulted him. It was quite a feat, since Pounceby was a Shadowhunter fully grown and Jamie was fourteen at the time. Still, however impressive, it could not be considered good manners.
Neither James nor Uncle Jem would buy potions like a sneak, or consider administering them. Only, what harm would it do to finally learn the truth? Matthew had considered adding a drop from the vial to breakfast this morning; then Father and Mother would have to tell them all what was happening. Now that Mr. Gideon Lightwood had started popping in of a morning, he wished he had.
Matthew shook his head at his reflection and determined to banish melancholy and dull care.
“Do I look dapper?” he asked Mr. Oscar Wilde. “Do I look dashing and debonair?”
Mr. Oscar Wilde gave him a lick on the nose, because Mr. Oscar Wilde was a puppy Jamie had given Matthew on his birthday. Matthew took this as approval.
Matthew pointed to his reflection.
“You may be a waste of space in a waistcoat,” he told Matthew Fairchild, “but at least your waistcoat is fantastic.”
He checked his pocket watch, then tucked pocket watch and vial into his waistcoat. Matthew could not linger. He had an important appointment at a most exclusive club.