Chain of Thorns (The Last Hours, #3)

Thomas glanced at Matthew. “It’s not the temperature. He’s… not well. He won’t eat—I tried to get some beef tea into him but it didn’t stay down. He drank a bit of water, at least.”


There was a scuffling noise, which James realized after a moment must be Oscar, shut into Matthew’s bedroom. As if he knew James was looking in his direction, the dog whined sadly from behind the closed door. “Why is Oscar in there?” James demanded.

Thomas sighed and rubbed his hand across his forehead. “Matthew asked me to shut him in. I don’t know why. Perhaps he’s worried about Oscar making noise and bothering the other tenants.”

James doubted Matthew was concerned about the other tenants, but he said nothing. Instead he got up, kicked off his shoes, and crawled onto the blanket with Matthew.

“Don’t wake him up,” Thomas warned, but James could see the thin crescent of green visible beneath Matthew’s eyelids.

“I think he’s awake,” James said, knowing Matthew was awake, but wishing to let him keep pretending if he liked. “And I was thinking—sometimes an iratze can be good for a hangover. It might be worth trying here. Since I’m his parabatai…”

Matthew thrust his arm out from the blanket pile. His sleeves were already unbuttoned at the cuffs, and the loose material flapped dramatically around his wrist. “Have at it,” he said. His voice was raspy, although considering how hot and dry it was in the flat, that wasn’t surprising.

James nodded. Thomas poked at the fire, watching curiously as James drew Matthew’s arm across his lap. He took his stele from his jacket, and carefully applied the healing rune to the blue-veined skin of Matthew’s forearm.

When he was done, Matthew exhaled and flexed his fingers. “Does it help?” said James.

“My head pounds with slightly less intensity,” Matthew said. He pushed himself up on his elbows. “Look—I didn’t ask Cordelia to dispatch you here. I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not a burden,” James said. “You can be an ass, but you’re not a burden.”

There was a scuffling sound at the doors. Christopher had arrived, carrying a black doctor’s bag and wearing a determined expression. “Oh, good,” he said without preamble. “You’re all here.”

“Well, where else would I be?” Matthew said. His fair hair was stuck to his forehead and cheeks with sweat. He stayed propped up on his elbows as Christopher came and knelt on the eiderdown near James. He set his black bag down and began rummaging through it.

“Why is the fire built up so high?” Christopher asked.

“I was cold,” Matthew said. He looked on the verge of pushing his bottom lip out, like a defiant child.

Christopher straightened his crooked spectacles. “It is possible,” he began, “that this is something the Silent Brothers could assist with—”

“No,” Matthew said flatly.

“I’d drag him to the Silent City myself if I thought it would help,” said James. “But they weren’t able to do anything for Cordelia’s father.”

“I am not—” Matthew broke off, plucking at the eiderdown. James knew what he wanted to say: I am not like Cordelia’s father. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t finish the sentence, though; perhaps he was beginning to understand that Elias Carstairs was not his present, but would be his future if things did not change.

“I am a scientist and not a physician,” said Christopher. “But I have read about… dependence.”

He glanced at Thomas, and James could not help but wonder how much Thomas and Christopher had discussed this before, when Matthew and James were not with them. Whether they had thought James, too, needed protection from the truth. “One cannot simply stop drinking all at once. It’s a noble endeavor, but it’s dangerous,” Christopher said. “Your body believes it needs alcohol to survive. That’s why you feel so rotten. Hot and cold and sick.”

Matthew bit his lip. The shadows under his eyes were bluish. “What can I do?”

“This is not just about discomfort or pain,” Christopher said. “The alcohol has made itself necessary to you. Your body will fight for it, and perhaps kill you in the process. You will shake, be sick, your heart will beat too fast. You will be feverish, which is why you feel cold. You could have seizures—”

“Seizures?” echoed James, in alarm.

“Yes, and even heart failure, which is why he should not be alone.” Christopher blinked owlishly. “I cannot emphasize enough, Matthew. You must stop trying to do this on your own. Let us help you.”

In the flickering light of the fire, the hollows of Matthew’s face looked cavernous. “I don’t want that,” he said. “I did this to myself alone. I ought to be able to undo it alone.”

James rose to his feet. He wanted to scream, wanted to shake Matthew, shout at him that he wasn’t just hurting himself, he was hurting all of them, that in risking himself he was risking James, too.

“I’m going to let Oscar out,” he said.

“Don’t,” said Matthew, rubbing at his eyes. “He was whimpering. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong.”

“He wants to help you,” James said, heading to the bedroom door. The moment the door was open, Oscar shot across the room to Matthew; for a moment, James was worried he’d try to jump up and lick his owner’s face, but he only lay down next to Matthew and panted quietly. “See?” James said. “He feels better already.”

“He’s going to take all the blankets,” Matthew complained, but he reached out a free hand to scratch Oscar behind the ears.

“He loves you,” James said, and Matthew looked up at him, his eyes very dark in the sallow pallor of his face. “Animals are innocent. To have their trust is an honor. He will be miserable unless you let him stay with you, help you. You are not saving him from a burden by keeping him away. Only breaking his heart.”

Matthew looked at James for a long moment before turning to Christopher. “All right, Kit,” he said in a subdued tone. “What do you need me to do?”

Kit rummaged in his bag. “When was the last time you had a drink, Matthew?”

“This morning,” Matthew said. “Only some brandy.”

“Where is your flask?”

“I’ve lost my silver one,” Matthew said. “Might have left it in Paris. I’ve been keeping water in this.”

From his pocket, he withdrew a simple tin flask with a cork stopper. He handed it to Christopher, who unscrewed the top, reached into his doctor’s bag, and brought out a bottle. He began to pour the contents of the bottle into Matthew’s flask, frowning as he did so, as if he were measuring amounts in his head.

“What is that?” Thomas asked, staring; the liquid was a pale tea color.

“Water and alcohol, mixed with sedative herbs. The sedatives will prevent seizures, most likely.”

“Most likely?” Matthew muttered. “This is why no one likes scientists, Christopher. Too much accuracy, not enough optimism.”