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James remembered suddenly a summer night, the windows of this room flung open, the air soft as kitten’s paws, and Matthew laughing, colorful, reaching for the wine: Is that a bottle of cheap spirits I see before me?
It seemed a chasm had opened between that Matthew and Matthew now: James could not bear to think on it, but only turned as Jesse brought out the stack of his mother’s papers and laid them out on the round table in the center of the room. Christopher got up immediately to examine them, and Thomas followed a moment later, pulling out a chair and sitting down. James watched them, but went over to lean against Matthew’s chair. Jesse, for his part, went to the window and glanced out it, as though he wished to put physical distance between himself and the proof of his mother’s actions.
“Time to defeat evil, I see,” Matthew said. “Let us have at it.”
“Matthew,” said Thomas, looking up. “How are you feeling?”
“Well,” Matthew said, “each morning I feel as though I have been put into this flask here, and then shaken vigorously. And then each evening, the same. So overall, I would say things are up and down.”
“He’s better,” Christopher said, not looking up from the papers. “He may not want to admit it, but he’s better.”
Matthew smiled up at James, who restrained the urge to ruffle his hair. It was a thin reflection of the Smile for which he was famous, but it was there. “Do you hear that?” said Matthew, nudging James with his elbow. “A scientist says I’m better.”
“You are,” James said quietly. “Are you coming to the Christmas party tonight?”
He had wondered, and not wanted to ask, and wanted to ask at the same time. A Christmas party meant mulled wine and spiced brandy; it meant people toasting each other’s health. It meant drink. It meant temptation.
A veil came down over Matthew’s expression. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, he had drawn the curtains tightly over his. He turned away from James, saying lightly, “I’ll be fine. I am not so under the command of the cursed bottle that I cannot stand to see a punch bowl without flinging myself into it.”
“Jesse, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so.” Christopher had sat down beside Thomas at the table and was peering at Tatiana’s papers through his spectacles. “But I’m afraid your mother is not a very good person.”
“Of that,” said Jesse, “I am keenly aware.” He looked over at James. “Did you bring them?”
James had worn his most voluminous coat; Oscar used to hide in the pockets when he was a puppy. He drew out the hand mirror they had taken from Chiswick, and then a pair of handcuffs he’d located that morning in the Sanctuary.
“Handcuffs,” Matthew observed as Thomas and Christopher exchanged a look of alarm. “This would seem to portend something very dangerous, or very scandalous. Or both?”
“The handcuffs are to protect me,” James said. “From—”
Christopher frowned. “It says here that Tatiana used the mirror to contact Belial. You’re not—”
“He is.” Matthew sat up straight, his green eyes flashing. “James, you’re going to try to contact Belial?”
James shook his head and shrugged off his coat, tossing it onto the sofa. “No. I’m going to try to spy on Belial.”
“What on earth makes you think that’s going to work?” Thomas asked.
Jesse sighed and crossed the room to lean against the mantel. James had already talked him around the night before, though Jesse had pointed out that he’d had enough of people meddling with Belial in his lifetime.
“My mother did use this mirror to speak with Belial,” Jesse said, and went on to explain that after Belial had instructed her to destroy it, she had kept it instead, using it as a sort of scrying glass to spy on the Prince of Hell.
Thomas looked baffled. “She liked watching him? Just… watching him?”
“My mother is a very strange woman,” said Jesse.
“Catoptromancy,” said Christopher brightly. “The use of mirrors in magic. Dates back to the ancient Greeks.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Mirrors were the way Tatiana used to contact Grace.”
“It’s strange that you know that,” Matthew said.
Christopher busied himself flicking through the papers. Matthew was not incorrect, James thought, but it did not seem the line of questioning they ought to go down just now.
Thomas frowned. “It still seems dangerous. Maybe Tatiana believed that Belial didn’t know she was watching, but we have only her word on that. And she isn’t reliable.”
“You’re not wrong, Tom,” James said. “This is a desperate measure. But these are desperate times.” He looked around the room at the Merry Thieves. At Jesse, who had brought him this information against his own better judgment, against even his own will not to be reminded of his mother’s actions. “I never realized the significance of my connection to Belial before. I was so focused on controlling it, keeping it at a distance. It was only when it was gone that I realized: if it were not for the knowledge I gained through that connection, each of our previous confrontations with him would have ended in ruin. If Belial has severed this bond we had, it must be because it is better for him for it to be cut. Which means that it would be better for us if we could at least see what he was doing.”
Thomas rubbed the back of his neck. “Have you tried turning into a shadow lately?”
“I have,” said James, “but it doesn’t work. I think whatever Belial has done to shut me out also prevents me from going into shadow. There has to be something he doesn’t want me to see—if I can get sight of it, it would be worth the effort.”
