Matthew gave up. “I cannot imagine why anyone would listen to him.”
“Oh well,” said Tom. “I like his nonsense.” He looked wistful. “I think Alastair masks his pain with cleverly turned phrases.”
“What absolute bosh,” said Matthew.
Thomas was too nice, that was Thomas’s problem. Really, people would let you get away with being the worst sort of scoundrel if you simply had a secret sorrow or did not rub along terribly well with your father.
It was definitely something to look into.
His papa was the best papa in the world, so Matthew had no opportunity to be cruelly oppressed or sadly neglected. Perhaps Matthew should spend his time brooding over a forbidden passion like James was currently doing.
Matthew decided to give unrequited love a try. He stared out the window with all the pensive force he could muster. He was preparing to pass a hand across his fevered brow and murmur “Alas, my lost love” or some other such rot when he was abruptly rapped upon the head with a book.
Honestly, Jamie was lethal with that thing.
“Are you quite well, Matthew?” Jamie inquired. “Your face suggests you are suffering from an ague.”
Matthew nodded, but he ducked his head down against Jamie’s coat and stayed there for a moment. It had never occurred to Matthew that Alastair might be jealous of James’s father. He could not imagine being jealous of anybody’s papa. Having the best papa in the world, Matthew would be perfectly satisfied with him.
If only he could be certain that Henry was his papa.
Early in the morning, Matthew unstoppered the faerie’s vial and tipped a drop in among the cranberries for his mama’s scones. The scones came out of the oven plump, golden, and smelling delicious.
“You are the best boy in London,” said Cook, giving Matthew a kiss.
“I am entirely selfish,” declared Matthew. “For I love you, Cook. When shall we be married?”
“Get along with you,” said Cook, waving her wooden spoon in a menacing fashion.
When Jamie was a little boy, he had his own beloved special spoon. The family always reminisced about this. It embarrassed Jamie to death, especially when Uncle Gabriel presented him with a spoon at family gatherings. Fathers thought all sorts of sorry jests were a fine idea.
Jamie kept the spoons Uncle Gabriel gave him. When asked why, he said it was because he loved his Uncle Gabriel. James was able to say such things with a sincerity that would shame anyone else.
After James said that, Uncle Will loudly asked what was the point in even having a son, but Uncle Gabriel looked touched. Uncle Gabriel loved Anna and Christopher, but Matthew was not sure he entirely understood his children. James greatly resembled his Aunt Cecily, and tried very hard at being a Shadowhunter, while Christopher might not be aware any of them even were Shadowhunters. Uncle Gabriel was especially fond of James. Of course, who would not be?
Matthew stole the spoon to give to James.
“I suppose that is for some absurd jest,” said Charles Buford when he saw the spoon at breakfast. “I wish you would grow up, Matthew.”
Matthew considered this, then stuck his tongue out at Charles. His puppy was not allowed in the breakfast parlor, because Charles Buford said Oscar was not hygienic.
“If you would simply make an effort to be sensible,” said Charles.
“I shan’t,” said Matthew. “I might sustain a strain from which I would never recover.”
His mother did not smile at his theatrics. She was staring at her teacup, to all appearances lost in thought. His father was watching her.
“Is Mr. Gideon Lightwood coming to conduct you to Idris this morning?” Matthew asked, and pushed the plate of scones toward his mother.
Mama picked up a scone, buttered it liberally, and took a bite.
“Yes,” she said. “I would thank you to be civil to him this time. You can have no idea, Matthew, how much I—”
Mama stopped speaking. Her small hand flew to her mouth. She sprang to her feet as if trying to take action in an emergency, in the manner she always did. Under Matthew’s horrified gaze, tears shimmered in her eyes and abruptly spilled in two long, bright tracks down her face. In the morning light, Matthew discerned a faint tinge of violet in her tears.
Then she collapsed, her hair falling out of its tidy coil, her gray skirts a sudden riot on the floor.
“Charlotte!” cried Father.
Henry Fairchild used all kinds of ingenious contraptions to get about, but at family breakfasts he only had an ordinary chair. Not that it mattered. He simply launched himself from the chair in his haste to get to Charlotte, and fell heavily on the ground. He hardly seemed to notice he had fallen. Instead he crawled on his elbows toward the inert heap that was Mama, dragging his body painfully across the carpet as Matthew watched, frozen in horror.
He reached Mama and clasped her in his arms. She was always so small, but now she looked small as a child. Her face was still and white as the face of the marble busts in mundane tombs.
“Charlotte,” murmured Papa, as if he was praying. “Dearest. Please.”
“Mama,” Matthew whispered. “Papa. Charlie!”
He turned to his brother the way he had when he was small, when he had followed Charlie around everywhere and believed his brother could do anything in the world.
Charles had bolted out of his chair and was shouting for help. He turned back in the doorway, staring at his parents with a wretched expression which was very unlike him. “I knew how it would be, Portaling back and forth from London to Idris so that Matthew could be near his precious parabatai—”
“What?” asked Matthew. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know . . .”
Cook had appeared in the doorway in response to Charles’s shouts. She gasped. “Mrs. Fairchild!”
Matthew’s voice shook. “We need Brother Zachariah—”
Brother Zachariah would know what he had given Mama, and what to do. Matthew began to explain the evil thing he had done, but then there was a noise from Charlotte, and the room went still.
“Oh, yes,” faltered Mama, her voice terrifyingly weak. “Oh, please. Fetch Jem.”
Charles and Cook raced from the room. Matthew did not dare approach his mother and father. Finally, after some long and terrible time, Brother Zachariah came, parchment-colored cloak swirling about him like the robes of a fell presence come to deliver judgment and punishment.
Matthew knew Brother Zachariah’s closed eyes still saw. He could see Matthew, through to his sinful heart.
Brother Zachariah bent and scooped Matthew’s mother up in his arms. He carried her away.
All day Matthew heard the sounds of comings and goings. He saw the carriage from the London Institute rattle up to the door, and Aunt Tessa emerge with a basket of medicine. She had been learning some warlock magic.
Matthew understood that they needed a Silent Brother and a warlock, and they still might not save his mother.
Charles did not return. Matthew had helped his father back to his chair. They sat together in the breakfast parlor as the light turned from the glow of morning to the blaze of day, then faded into the shadows of evening.
Papa’s face looked carved out of old stone. When he spoke at last, he sounded as if he were dying inside. “You should know, Matthew,” he said. “Your mama and I, we were . . .”
Separating. Ending our marriage. She loved another. Matthew braced himself for the horror, but when it came, it was greater than anything he could have imagined.
“We were in anticipation of—of a happy event,” said Papa, his voice catching in his throat.
Matthew stared at him with blank incomprehension. He simply could not understand. It would hurt too much.
“Your mama and I had to wait some time for Charles Buford, and for you, and we thought you were both worth the wait,” said Father, and even in the midst of horror he tried to smile for Matthew. “This time Charlotte was hoping for—for a daughter.”
Matthew choked on his horror. He thought he might never speak another word or eat another bite. He would be choking on horror for years.
We thought. We were in anticipation. It was entirely clear that Father was certain, and had reason to believe, his children were his.