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.
Christopher’s face cleared. “Oh! Oh yes, I see. Yes, there is a lady.”
“Christopher!” Matthew exclaimed, delighted. “You sly dog! Do I know her?”
“No, I cannot think so,” said Christopher. “She is a mundane.”
“Christopher, you dark horse,” said Matthew. “What is her name?”
“Mrs.—”
“A married lady!” Matthew said, overwhelmed. “No, no. I beg your pardon. Please go on.”
“Mrs. Marie Curie,” said Christopher. “I believe her to be one of the preeminent scientists of the age. If you read her papers, Matthew, I believe you would be most interest—”
“Have you ever met this lady,” said Matthew in dangerous tones.
“No?” said Christopher, heedless of danger as he often was around irate teachers and naked flames.
Christopher had the audacity to look surprised when Matthew began to belabor him mightily about the head and face.
“Watch the test tubes!” cried Thomas. “There is a hole in the floor at the Academy that Professor Fell calls the Christopher Lightwood Chasm.”
“I suppose I hate some people,” offered James. “Augustus Pounceby. Lavinia Whitelaw. Alastair Carstairs.”
Matthew regarded his very own parabatai with deep approval.
“This is why we are chosen warrior partners, because we share such a perfect bond of sympathy. Come to me, Jamie, that we might share a manly embrace.”
He made incursions upon Jamie’s person. James thwacked him over the head with his book. It was a large book.
“Betrayed,” said Matthew, writhing prone upon the floor. “Is that why you insist on carrying about enormous tomes everywhere you go, that you might visit violence upon innocent persons? Done to death by my best friend—my heart’s brother—my own dear parabatai—”
He snagged James around the waist and brought him crashing to the floor for the second time that day. James hit Matthew with the book again, then subsided, leaning his shoulder against Matthew’s. They were both thoroughly rumpled, but Matthew did not mind being rumpled for a good cause.
Matthew jostled James, very thankful that he had brought up Alastair and provided Matthew an opening to tell his secret.
“Alastair is not so bad,” said Thomas unexpectedly from the sofa.
They all looked at him, and Tom curled up like an earwig under their scrutiny but persisted.
“I know what Alastair did to James was wrong,” Thomas said. “Alastair knows that very well too. That was why he was prickly whenever it was mentioned.”
“How is that different from his usual ghastly demeanor?” Matthew demanded. “Besides him being particularly noxious the day everybody else’s parents came to the Academy.”
He paused to consider how to tell them, but that gave Thomas a chance to speak.
“Yes, exactly. Everybody’s papa came but Alastair’s,” Thomas said quietly. “Alastair was jealous. Mr. Herondale came rushing to Jamie’s defense, and nobody came for Alastair.”
“Can one truly blame the man?” asked Matthew. “Had I such an insufferable toad of a son, and were he blessedly to be sent away to school, I am not sure I could bring myself to blast my sight with his visage until the accursed holidays carried him back to me again.”
Thomas did not look convinced by Matthew’s sound argument. Matthew took a deep breath.
“You do not know what he said to me the day we were expelled.”
Tom shrugged. “Some nonsense, I expect. He always speaks the most shocking nonsense when he is overset. You shouldn’t listen to him.”
James’s shoulder was tense against Matthew’s. James had been the chief object of Alastair’s malice. Thomas clearly intended to defend Alastair stoutly. This line of argument was bound to upset either James or Thomas. Matthew was not about to soothe his own feelings at the expense of Jamie’s or Tom’s.