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.
First Matthew had to breeze into the London Institute to collect a parcel known as James Herondale. He had a shrewd idea of where James was likely to be, so he told Oscar to stay and guard a lamppost. Oscar obeyed: he was very well behaved for a puppy, and people said Matthew must have trained him well, but Matthew only loved him. Matthew threw a grappling hook up to the library window, climbed up while being careful of his trousers, and tapped on the glass.
James was in the window seat, his black head bent over--what a surprise!--a book. He looked up at the tap, and smiled.
James had never really needed Matthew. James had been so shy, and Matthew had wanted to take care of him, but now that James was growing into his angular features and accustomed to having the certain company of three good friends, he was far more collected during social gatherings. Even when Jamie was shy, he never seemed to doubt or wish to alter himself. He never looked to Matthew for rescue. There was a quiet, deep certainty to James that Matthew wished he had himself. From the start, there was something between them which was more equal than between him and Thomas, or him and Christopher. Something that made Matthew want to prove himself to James. He was not sure he ever truly had.
James never looked relieved to see Matthew, or expectant. He only looked pleased. He opened the window and Matthew crawled in, upsetting both James and the book from the window seat.
"Hello, Matthew," said James from the floor, in slightly sardonic tones.
"Hello, Matthew!" chimed Lucie from her writing desk.
She was a picture of dainty disarray, clearly in the throes of composition. Her light brown curls were half pulled out of a blue ribbon, one shoe dangling precariously from her stockinged toes. Uncle Will frequently gave dramatic readings from the book he was writing on the demon pox, which were very droll. Lucie did not show her writing around. Matthew had often considered asking her if she might read him
a page, but he could think of no reason why Lucie would make a special exception for him.
"Bless you, my Herondales," said Matthew grandly, scrambling up from the floor and making Lucie his bow. "I come upon an urgent errand. Tell me--be honest!--what do you think of my waistcoat?"
Lucie dimpled. "Devastating."
"What Lucie said," James agreed peacefully.
"Not fantastic?" Matthew asked. "Not positively stunning?"
"I suppose I am stunned," said James. "But am I positively stunned?"
"Refrain from playing cruel word games with your one and only parabatai," Matthew requested. "Attend to your own attire, if you please. Heave that beastly book away. The Misters Lightwood await us. We must hook it."
"Can't I go as I am?" asked James.
He looked up at Matthew with wide gold eyes from his position on the floor. His pitch-black hair was askew, his linen shirt rumpled, and he was not even wearing a waistcoat. Matthew nobly repressed a convulsive shudder.
"Surely you jest," said Matthew. "I know you only say these things to hurt me. Off with you. Brush your hair!"
"The hairbrush mutiny is coming," warned James, making for the door.
"Come back victorious or on the hairbrushes of your soldiers!" Matthew called after him.
When Jamie was flown, Matthew turned to Lucie, who was scribbling intently but who looked up as if sensing his glance and smiled. Matthew wondered how it would be, to be self-sufficient and welcoming with it, like a house with sturdy walls and a beacon light always burning.
"Should I brush my hair?" Lucie teased.
"You are, as always, perfect," said Matthew.
He wished he could fix the ribbon in her hair, but that would be taking a liberty.