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“You heard about the Inquisitor, I assume? What happened to him when he went after Tatiana?”
“I am fully informed,” said Christopher. “It seems Belial may soon make his next sally, and without Cordelia, or her sword…”
“Lilith also hates Belial,” said James. “She would not prevent Cordelia from wielding Cortana against him, if it came to that. Still, Cordelia does not want to act while Lilith holds the reins, and I do not blame her.”
“No,” Christopher agreed. “At least Belial does not have a body to possess, as he did with Jesse Blackthorn.”
“You know about Lucie and Jesse, I assume…?”
“Oh, yes,” said Christopher. “I met him at the family meeting last night. He seems a nice enough chap, though he won’t let me run experiments on him, which is unfortunate.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“Maybe when things calm down, he’ll reconsider.”
“Maybe,” said James, who doubted it. “In the meantime, we must have a meeting—those of us who know about Cordelia and Lilith—and discuss what can be done.”
Christopher frowned. “Does Jesse know about Cordelia and Lilith? Because Lucie will want him to come to any meeting we have.”
“And he should,” said James. “He knows Belial in a way none of the rest of us do. Even me.” He rubbed at his eyes. He felt exhausted, as if he had traveled back from Paris via train instead of Portal. “I’ll tell him.”
“And I shall send a bevy of my new fire-messages to everyone coming to the meeting,” Christopher said, excited.
“No!” James protested, and then, as Christopher blinked worriedly, he said, “We can just send runners.”
“And fire-messages,” said Christopher.
James sighed. “All right. I shall notify the runners. And the fire brigade.”
Thomas had no trouble finding Matthew’s flat. He had been there before, but even if he had not, anyone who knew Matthew, had they been asked to guess which building in Marylebone he would have chosen to live in, would have picked the Baroque pink monstrosity on the corner of Wimpole Street.
The porter let Thomas in and told him that Mr. Fairchild was indeed at home, but he didn’t like to disturb him. Thomas revealed his spare key and was duly sent up the gilded birdcage of a lift to Matthew’s flat. He knocked at the door a few times and, not receiving any answer, let himself in.
It was cold in the room, cold enough to send goose bumps flooding across Thomas’s skin. There were lamps lit but only a few, and those quite dim—Thomas almost fell over Matthew’s trunk as he made his way into the parlor.
It took him a moment to spot Matthew, who was sitting on the floor in front of the fireplace, hatless and shoeless, his back against the sofa. He was gazing at the cold grate, where the ashes were piled in soft gray drifts.
Matthew held a wine bottle in one hand, cradled against his chest; Oscar lay next to him, whining and licking Matthew’s other hand, as if he could tell something was terribly wrong.
Thomas crossed the room; he took a few logs from their holder, opened the fireplace grate, and began to build a blaze up. Once it was roaring, he turned to look down at Matthew. In the firelight, he could see that Matthew’s clothes were crumpled; his scarlet velvet waistcoat was unbuttoned over a shirt that bore what Thomas at first thought were bloodstains, before realizing they were splashes of wine.
Matthew’s eyes were rimmed with red, the green of his irises almost black. Another wine bottle, this one empty, was shoved between the sofa cushions behind him. He was clearly quite drunk.
“So,” Thomas said after a long moment. “How was Paris?”
Matthew remained silent.
“I’ve always liked Paris myself,” Thomas went on, in a conversational tone. “Lovely old city. I had a meal at Au Chien Qui Fume I’ll not soon forget. Best duck I’ve ever had.”
Without looking away from the fire, Matthew said slowly, “I don’t want to talk about bloody ducks.” He closed his eyes. “But next time you’re there, if you like duck—eating them, I mean—you must go to La Tour d’Argent. Even better, I think. They give you a card commemorating the particular duck you have devoured. It is deliciously morbid.” He opened his eyes again. “Let me guess,” he said. “Christopher was assigned to James, and you assigned to me.”
“Not at all,” Thomas protested. Matthew raised an eyebrow. “All right, yes.” He sat next to Matthew on the floor. “We drew straws.”
“You lost, I suppose.” Matthew took a long, deep breath. “Did Lucie talk to you?”
Thomas said, “She let us know you had returned. And she may have spoken a few words of concern related to your well-being, but the idea to speak to you both was our own.”
Matthew tossed back his head and took a swallow from the bottle in his hand. It was half-empty. Thomas could smell the vinegary tang of the wine.
