“That is a strong word, Jamie,” said Matthew. “Consider my waistcoat wrath somewhat appeased.”
James still had his book tucked under his arm, but Matthew knew better than to fight doomed battles. He told Matthew about the book as they walked the London streets. Matthew enjoyed the modern and humorous, such as the works of Oscar Wilde or the music of Gilbert and Sullivan, but Greek history was not so bad when it was Jamie telling him. Matthew had taken to reading more and more literature of old, stories of doomed love and noble battles. He could not find himself in them, but he saw James in them, and that was enough.
They walked unglamoured, as Matthew always insisted they would in his quest to make Jamie feel less self-conscious after the disasters of the Academy. A young lady, arrested by Jamie’s bone structure, stopped in the path of an omnibus. Matthew seized her waist and whirled her to safety, giving her a tip of his hat and a smile.
Jamie seemed to miss the whole incident entirely, fiddling with something beneath his shirt cuff.
There were crowds protesting the mundane war outside the Houses of Parliament.
“The Bore War?” asked Matthew. “That cannot be right.”
“The Boer war,” said James. “Honestly, Matthew.”
“That makes more sense,” Matthew admitted.
A lady in a shapeless hat caught hold of Matthew’s sleeve.
“May I be of any assistance, madam?” asked Matthew.
“They are committing unspeakable atrocities,” said the lady. “They have children penned up in camps. Think of the children.”
James fastened his hand on Matthew’s sleeve and towed him away, with an apologetic hat tip to the lady. Matthew looked over his shoulder.
“I do hope affairs go right for the children,” he called.
James appeared pensive as they went. Matthew knew James wished Shadowhunters could solve problems like mundane war, though Matthew felt they were rather overstretched as it was with all the demons.
In order to cheer Jamie up, he stole his hat. Jamie burst into startled laughter and pursued Matthew, both of them racing and jumping high enough to amaze the mundanes, under the shadow of St. Stephen’s Tower. Matthew’s puppy lost his head, forgot his training, and dashed under their feet, yapping with the sheer joy of being alive. Their rushing footsteps outpaced the steady tick of the Great Clock, under which was written in James’s beloved Latin, O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First, and their laughter mingled with the gleeful chime and roar of the bells.
Later Matthew would look back and remember it as his last happy day.
“Do I sleep, do I dream, or are these visions I see?” demanded Matthew. “Why are Aunt Sophie and both of Thomas’s sisters taking tea in the same establishment as our private and exclusive club room?”
“They followed me,” said Thomas in beleaguered tones. “Mama was understanding, or they would have followed us directly into the club room.”
Aunt Sophie was a good sport, but that did not make Matthew feel any less uneasy about the advent of Thomas’s sisters. They were not kindred spirits, and they were liable to consider all the doings of their little brother both their business and very silly.
Matthew loved their club room and would brook no interference. He had chosen the materials for the curtains himself, made certain that James put the works of Oscar Wilde in their extensive book collection, and reinforced the corner that was Christopher’s laboratory with steel sheets on the walls.
Which led Matthew to another grievance. He regarded Christopher with a steely gaze.
“Did you sleep in those clothes, Christopher? I know Aunt Cecily, Uncle Gabriel, and Cousin Anna would never let you inflict these horrors on the populace. What are those peculiar lavender stains upon your shirtfront? Did you set your sleeves on fire?”
Christopher regarded his sleeves as if he had never beheld them before. “A bit,” he said guiltily.
“Ah well,” said Matthew. “At least the purple stains match your eyes.”
Christopher blinked said eyes, the improbable shade of violets in summer, and smiled his slow-blossoming smile. He clearly did not understand Matthew’s objections, but was vaguely pleased they had been overcome.
It was not like with James, who actually presented a very fine appearance to the world. Christopher was incorrigible. He could rumple leather boots.
He could certainly set fire to anything. Matthew had not meant for Christopher to be asked to leave Shadowhunter Academy, but as it emerged, they did not let you remain in school if you blew up any portion of it. Besides which, Professor Fell had threatened to leave the Academy forever if Christopher remained.
Thomas had stayed out the full year, but found no reason to return with his friends gone and Alastair God-Help-Us Carstairs graduated.
So by luck, the closeness between their families, and an irresponsible attitude to flammable materials, more often than not all Matthew’s closest friends could live close together in London. They trained together at the London Institute and took lessons together in various schoolrooms, and Lavinia Whitelaw had referred to them as “that notorious bunch of hooligan boys.” Matthew and James had called themselves Shadowhooligans for some time after that remark. They had decided it was long past time to have a room of their own, inviolate from parents—however well-meaning—and preserved from siblings; though Cousin Anna and Luce were always welcome, due to being kindred spirits. So they had rented a room from the proprietor of the Devil Tavern, who owed the Herondales some sort of favor. They paid a monthly fee and had it all to themselves.
Matthew regarded their room with deep satisfaction. It looked very well, he thought, and best with all four of them sitting in it. In honor of Ben Jonson’s Apollo Club, which had once held its meetings in this very tavern, a bust of the god hung over the fireplace with words cut into the marble beneath the head and shoulders:
Welcome all, who lead or follow,
To the Oracle of Apollo
All his answers are divine,
Truth itself doth flow in wine.
There was, of course, a window seat for Jamie, and Jamie was already installed with his book upon his lap. Christopher sat in his laboratory, adding an alarming orange liquid to a bubbling purple liquid, his face a picture of contentment. Thomas was seated cross-legged upon the sofa and earnestly practicing his bladework. Thomas was very conscientious and worried about not being a good enough Shadowhunter due to being undersized.
Thomas’s sisters were a good deal taller than he was. So was everybody. Aunt Sophie, Tom’s mama, said that Thomas would shoot up some day. She said she believed one of her grandpapas had been a blacksmith and a giant of a man, small as a pea until he was seventeen.
Aunt Sophie was a kind lady, very beautiful and most interesting with her tales of mundanes. Matthew did not know how Mr. Gideon Lightwood could live with himself.
Matthew turned over the vial of truth potion in his waistcoat.
“Friends, now we are all gathered together, shall we share secrets?”
Jamie fiddled with his shirt cuff again, which he always did upon certain occasions, and pretended not to hear. Matthew suspected he had a secret love. He sometimes wondered whether James would have confided in him if he had been a different sort of person, more serious-minded and dependable.
Matthew laughed. “Come now. Any deadly hatreds you harbor in your bosom? Any ladies of your heart?”
Thomas flushed a deep red, and dropped his knife. “No.”
Oscar bounded over to fetch the knife for Thomas, and Thomas stroked his floppy ears.
Matthew sauntered closer to the laboratory corner, though he knew it was rash.
“Is there anyone who has caught your eye?” he asked Christopher.
Christopher eyed Matthew with alarm. Matthew sighed and prepared himself to explain further.
“Is there a lady you find yourself thinking of more often than other ladies?” asked Matthew. “Or a fellow,” he added tentatively.