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Matthew was still wearing his clothes from the night before, even the red velvet waistcoat that matched Cordelia’s dress, but the clothes were crumpled and stained now. Behind him, the bedroom was a disaster. His trunk had been turned over, spilling out clothes, and empty plates and bottles lay scattered about like the bits of glass and crockery that washed up on the banks of the Thames.
Matthew’s eyes were red-rimmed, his hair a mass of tangled curls. “I,” he said, “was asleep.”
His voice was flat.
James counted to ten silently. “Math,” he said. “We have to go back to London.”
Matthew leaned against the doorway. “Ah. You and Cordelia are returning to London? Safe travels to you, then, or should I say, bon voyage? You do work quickly, James, but then, I suppose I rather ceded the battlefield to you, didn’t I?” He scrubbed at his eyes with a lace-cuffed sleeve, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “I will not fight you for her,” he said. “It would be undignified.”
This, James thought, was the point at which Christopher or Thomas or Anna would have walked away. When Matthew was in a rare quarrelsome mood, it was generally best to let him settle on his own. But James never walked away, no matter how sharp Matthew’s words became.
He could see, even now, the faint tremble in Matthew’s hands, the hurt at the back of his eyes. More than anything he wanted to put his arms around Matthew, hug him tightly, tell him he was loved.
But what could he really say to comfort him now? Cordelia loves you? Three words that felt like spikes driven into his own heart. Three words whose truth he could not be sure of. He did not know what Cordelia felt.
He rubbed his temple, which had begun to throb. “It’s not like that, Math,” he said. “There is no battlefield. If I had had any idea before last week that you had feelings for Cordelia—”
“What?” Matthew broke in, his voice harsh. “You would have what? Not married her? Married Grace? Because Jamie, that’s what I don’t understand. You’ve loved Grace for years—loved her when you thought it was hopeless. Loved her—what does Dickens say? ‘Against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be.’”
“I never loved her,” James said. “I only thought I did.”
Matthew slumped in the doorway. “I wish I could believe that,” he said. “Because what it looks like is that the moment Cordelia left you, you decided you couldn’t bear being left. I suppose no one ever has, have they? Everyone’s always loved you.” He said it with a flat matter-of-factness that was startling. “Except perhaps Grace. Perhaps that’s why you wanted her in the first place. I don’t think she’s capable of loving anyone.”
“Matthew—” James could feel the weight of the silver bracelet as though it circled his wrist still, though he knew perfectly well it was broken and back at Curzon Street. He wanted to protest, to explain his own innocence, but how could he do so when he hadn’t yet told Cordelia? Surely she was owed the truth first. And the thought of telling her, of garnering her pity, was still unbearable. Better to be hated than pitied—by Daisy, by Matthew, though the thought of being hated by his parabatai made him sick—
Something crashed loudly in the room behind him, as if a lamp had fallen and smashed. James turned around, in time to see a Portal open in the wall of the living room.
Magnus stepped through into the suite. He, of course, was perfectly dressed in a striped suit, and as he took James and Matthew in, he brushed a speck of dust off his immaculate shirtfront.
On the other side of the suite, the door flew open, and Cordelia appeared, already fully dressed in traveling clothes. She stared at Magnus in astonishment. “Magnus,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting—I mean, how on earth did you know where we were staying?”
“Because he sent me through the Portal last night,” said James. “I know where Matthew likes to stay when he’s in Paris.”
Matthew shrugged. “I am nothing if not predictable.”
“And the night manager here is a warlock,” Magnus noted. “I mean, who else could have picked out those curtains?” When no one replied, he gazed from James to Cordelia, both of them, James imagined, clearly strained with tension, and then at Matthew, rumpled and wine-stained.
“Ah,” Magnus said, rather glumly. “I see there are some interpersonal dramatics taking place here.” He held up a hand. “I do not know what they are, nor do I wish to know. James, you arrived last night, did you not?”
James nodded.
“And have you already told Cordelia and Matthew about Lucie—and about Jesse?”
James sighed. “Just that they were all right. The chance to elaborate did not present itself.”
Both Cordelia and Matthew began to ask about Lucie; Magnus raised his hand again, as if he were the conductor of a wayward orchestra. “You’ll hear the whole story back in London,” he said. “It’s imperative that we return now—”
“My mother.” Cordelia braced herself against the doorway. “Is she all right? Is the baby—”
“Your mother is well,” Magnus said, not ungently, but his expression was grim. “But the situation in London is serious, and likely to grow more so.”
“Is there another Prince of Hell with tentacles threatening the Institute, then?” Matthew asked wearily. “Because I have to say, if so, my instinct is to sit this one out.”
Magnus gave him a stern look. “The Inquisitor has returned, and the news he has brought is bleak. Tatiana Blackthorn has escaped from the Adamant Citadel and joined forces with Belial. You must return with me to London posthaste; there is much to be discussed.”
9 IF GOLD RUST
If gold rust, what then can iron do?
