Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Christopher and Thomas pretended to play cards until Matthew returned to the room. At least Thomas was pretending. He wasn’t quite sure what Christopher was doing; he might have invented his own game without mentioning it to Thomas, and be contentedly playing along with its rules.

Alastair continued steadfastly reading his book, at least until Matthew stalked back into the room. Thomas’s heart sank—he guessed the conversation with James had not gone well. Matthew looked feverish: there was a high color in his cheeks, and his eyes were bright. “No more cards for me,” he announced. “I’m going to go confront Charles about being blackmailed.”

Alastair dropped his book with a thump. “I had a feeling you were going to do something like that.”

“So you didn’t just come in here to read a book about”—Matthew stared—“sixteenth-century warlock burnings? Ugh.”

“I did not,” said Alastair. “I chose it randomly from the shelves. What a pity so many books are filled with terrible things.”

“Why did you think I intended to confront my brother?”

Alastair began ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Because Charles is here, because he’s shut himself up in the main office, because the other adults are gone, and because he can’t do a bolt since he’s supposed to look after the Institute.”

“Well, you are entirely—correct,” said Matthew, rather grudgingly. “You have outlined why it is an excellent plan.”

“Math,” said Thomas. “I’m not so sure it is—”

“I have outlined the positives,” interrupted Alastair. “There are also negatives. We are all stuck in this building with Charles, and he can make life unpleasant for us if you upset him, which you will.”

Matthew looked at all three of them in turn. It was a direct look, and also very sober, in both senses of the word. Not just serious—Thomas had seen Matthew serious many times, but there was something different about him now. As if he knew he were shouldering a burden of risk; as if he no longer believed consequences were something that happened to other people: not him, not his friends.

It jolted Thomas a little to realize that this Matthew, this newly considering person, was a different Matthew from the one he’d known for the past three years. Who have you been, he thought, and who are you becoming now?

“My brother is miserable,” Matthew said, “and when he is miserable, he makes life awful for other people. I want to tell him that I know, not only so that he’ll stop doing it, but also to take some of the burden away. For all our sakes.”

After a moment, Alastair nodded. “All right. I won’t stand in your way.”

“Well, thank goodness, as I was waiting desperately for your approval,” said Matthew, but there was no real malice in it.

In the end, it was decided Matthew would go, and Thomas would accompany him to keep the whole thing from descending into a family squabble. Charles had to understand that this was a serious matter, that not only Matthew knew about it, and that it could not be swept under the rug.

Thomas followed Matthew upstairs, dreading the awkwardness to come. Without knocking, Matthew burst open the double doors of Will’s office, where Charles appeared to be deep into a pile of ledger books on the desk.

He looked up blandly when they came in. “Thomas,” Charles said. “Matthew. Is anything the matter?”

“Charles,” Matthew said, with no further preamble, “you are being blackmailed to ensure your support of Bridgestock, and it must stop. You cannot fear Bridgestock so much that you are willing to sell out everyone who has ever cared for you. Even you cannot be so low.”

Charles sat back slowly in his chair. “I suppose I ought to expect this sort of fanciful accusation from you, Matthew,” he said. “But I’m surprised he got you to go along with it, Thomas.”

Thomas felt suddenly weary. Sick of the whole thing. He said, “He has proof, Charles.”

Something flickered in Charles’s eyes. “What sort of proof?”

“A letter Bridgestock wrote,” said Matthew.

“As usual,” Charles sighed, “you have jumped to a conclusion based on nothing but conjecture. May I ask how you came across such a note? Assuming you do have it, and it is from the Inquisitor—which is quite a wild accusation, by the way.”

“It is here,” Matthew said, drawing the letter from his inside jacket pocket and holding it up. “As to how we got hold of it, Ari found it. That is why she left home. The letter is clearly meant for you. There is absolutely no doubt as to what is going on.”

Charles’s face had gone sallow. “Then why did you not speak to me about this before?”

“The letter did not make it clear what he wanted you to do,” said Thomas. “After your performance at the meeting yesterday, we know. You spoke out against Will and Tessa, against your own family, because he threatened you, and you were too afraid to tell him no.”

Charles said, with a ghastly sort of smile, “And what do you think you can do to fix it?”

“Stiffen your spine,” said Matthew. “So Bridgestock plans to tell everyone you love men. So what? Some will understand; those who don’t are not worth your knowing.”

“You don’t understand.” Charles put his head in his hands. “If I want to do good in this world, if I want to rise to a position of authority in the Clave… I cannot—” He hesitated. “I cannot be like you, Matthew. You’ve no ambition, and so you can be whomever you want. You can dance with anyone you wish, man, woman, or other, at your salons and your clubs and your orgies.”

“You attend orgies?” Thomas said to Matthew.

“Don’t I wish,” murmured Matthew. “Charles, you’re a pillock, but you’ve always been a decent pillock. Don’t throw that away because of bloody Maurice Bridgestock.”

“And how, exactly,” said Charles, “are you proposing to help? If I reverse my opinion on the Herondales, it will only mean I am condemned with them.”

“We will vouch for you,” Thomas said. “We will testify that you are being blackmailed and that you were coerced into supporting Bridgestock.”

“There is no way to do that,” said Charles, “without revealing the blackmail letter and its contents. You understand he is not just threatening to tell people I love men, but that I love—that I loved Alastair. It is Alastair, too, whom I am protecting.”

The door burst open. Alastair stalked inside, his black eyes snapping. He looked furious, and also rather—in Thomas’s view—glorious. Proud and strong as the Persian kings of old. “Then stop,” he said to Charles. “I don’t need your protection, not where this is concerned. I’d rather everyone know than that you let a dozen good people be dragged down by lies, just because you fear Bridgestock.”

Charles’s face appeared to crumple. “None of you can possibly understand what it is like to hold on to this kind of secret—”

“We all understand,” Thomas said forcefully. “Myself as well. I’m like you, you idiot. I always have been. And Charles, you’re right, it isn’t as easy as it is for Matthew, who has never cared what anyone thought. Most of us do care. And the secret is your own business, and it is disgusting of Bridgestock to have used it against you like this. But neither can Will and Tessa, and all our parents, pay such a terrible price for his criminality.”

“They will be vindicated by the Mortal Sword,” Charles said hoarsely. “Then this will all be over.”

“Charles,” said Alastair. “Don’t you know how blackmail works? It’s never over. It’ll never be enough for Bridgestock. He’ll hold your secret over you for as long as he’s able. You think he won’t want other things in the future? That he’ll simply give up his leverage? He will bleed you dry.”

Charles looked back and forth between Alastair and Matthew, his expression anguished. Thomas felt for him; Charles was being a coward, but he knew well how difficult bravery could be in such a situation. “If we seek to bring down Bridgestock,” Thomas said, “will you help? Even if you cannot disclose the… the contents of the blackmail?”

Charles looked at them helplessly. “It would depend on what was being done, and what its consequences might be—” he began.

Matthew shook his head, his fair hair flying. “Charles, you are being a milksop and a blockhead. Let the record show that I tried. I tried, despite how little you deserve it.”

With that, he stalked out of the room.

Charles looked at Alastair, as if there was no one else in the room. No one else in the world. “Alastair, I… you know I can’t.”

“You can, Charles,” Alastair said tiredly. “And there are people in the world like us who don’t have what you do. A family that will never abandon you. Money. Safety. People who could lose their lives for confessing such a thing. All you will lose is prestige. And still you will not do the right thing.”