“It could work,” he said. “If Matthew abides by it. Though I gather you fear he won’t, or we wouldn’t be following him with such urgency.”
Thomas could hardly argue that point; besides, they’d arrived at Matthew’s address. Leaving the carriage, they headed upstairs, where Thomas used his key to let them into Matthew’s room, praying to the Angel as he did so that Matthew had not yet done anything dangerous, self-destructive, or embarrassing.
He was surprised to find Matthew sitting in an armchair by the fire, one hand on Oscar’s head, his legs crossed, reading a letter. He looked mildly over at Thomas and Alastair as they spilled into his flat.
“Thomas,” Matthew said. “I see you’ve come to discover whether I have or have not plunged myself into a hogshead of brandy. And you’ve brought Alastair, noted handler of drunks.”
“Well?” said Thomas, who saw no point bluffing. “Have you been drinking?”
Matthew looked at Alastair. Thomas had known Matthew might see his bringing Alastair here as a betrayal of sorts, and he’d been braced for it. But Matthew looked rather more like a general who had finally met his enemy on the battlefield only to discover that they both agreed the long years of bloodshed had not been worth it.
“Only what Christopher has given me,” Matthew said. “I suppose you will have to take my word for it. Or decide if I seem drunk to you.”
“It isn’t really about seeming drunk, though, is it?” said Alastair, unbuttoning his coat. “My father had to drink, in the end, simply to seem normal.”
“I am not your father,” said Matthew frostily.
“You are much younger. You have been drinking a much shorter time. Your chances are much better,” said Alastair, rolling up his sleeves. Thomas did not have time to ponder how Alastair’s forearms looked as if they belonged on a statue by Donatello, because Alastair was already striding across the room to the shelves where Matthew’s bottles of spirits were kept.
“Thomas says you have given up drinking for good,” Alastair said. “Yet you still have all this booze here, I see.” He selected a bottle of whiskey and uncorked it thoughtfully.
“I haven’t touched it since I came back from Paris,” said Matthew. “But I do still have visitors. For instance, the two of you, although I’m not sure if this is a visit or a rescue mission.”
“Visitors don’t matter,” Alastair said bluntly. “You need to get rid of this stuff. All of it.” Without warning, he strode to the open window and began emptying the bottle out of it. “Free liquor for the mundanes,” he added. “You’ll be popular.”
Matthew rolled his eyes. “Yes, I hear mundanes prefer their drinks poured on their heads from four stories up. What exactly do you think you’re doing? Thomas, make him stop.”
Alastair was shaking his head. “You can’t have this stuff around you all the time. It will just make every moment a battle, where you could have a drink but must, over and over, choose not to.”
“You think I have no willpower at all?” Matthew said. “That I cannot withstand a little temptation?”
“You will withstand it,” said Alastair grimly, “until you don’t.” He went back to the shelf to collect a second bottle. At the window, he turned to look at Matthew. “Having all this here is like asking an addict to live in an opium den,” he said. “You are never going to be able to drink casually. Alcohol will always mean something to you that it does not mean to other people. Getting rid of this stuff will make it easier. Why not have it be easier?”
Matthew hesitated a moment, and Thomas knew him well enough to read the look in his eyes: Because I do not deserve to have it be easy, because the suffering is part of the punishment. But Matthew would not say such things in front of Alastair, and perhaps it was better that he did not.
“Math.” Thomas sat down in the chair opposite Matthew’s. Oscar thumped his tail on the ground. “Look, I understand wanting to flee that foul meeting—after Charles said the things he said, I—”
“I think the Inquisitor is blackmailing Charles,” Matthew said.
Alastair （who had made it through the whiskey and was on to pouring out gin） and Thomas exchanged a look of surprise.
“I just assumed Charles was being his usual lickspittle self today,” Alastair said. “You don’t need to make excuses for him. We all know what he’s like.”
Matthew waved the paper he’d been reading. “The Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. Ari found this in his fireplace. Read it, Tom.”
Thomas took the letter from him. He looked up after a quick skim to find Alastair peering at him. “Well, all right,” Thomas said. “So the Inquisitor is blackmailing someone. But Charles isn’t named.”
“I’ve been trying to figure out who the letter was for,” Matthew said. “Well, Anna and Ari and I. The wording of it has led us to a few possibilities: Augustus, Thoby…” He sighed. “I didn’t want to think it was Charles. But now I’m sure of it.” He looked over at Alastair. “I ought to have gotten up in the middle of the meeting. Denounced him. But—he is my brother.”
“It’s all right,” Thomas said. “If Bridgestock’s blackmailing him into voicing support, that means Charles doesn’t actually believe what he’s saying in the first place. It’s Bridgestock and a few cronies who are trying to lay blame on Uncle Will and Aunt Tessa. Denouncing Charles wouldn’t fix the root of the problem.”
Alastair, standing by the window, said, “I just—”
Thomas looked up. “What is it?”
“Should I assume,” Alastair said, “that Charles is being blackmailed about… me?”
“Not specifically,” Matthew said, and Thomas saw Alastair relax minutely. “But it would be, more generally, because he loves men, rather than women.”
“Bridgestock is foul,” said Thomas furiously. “And Charles—is his shame so all-consuming as that? He couldn’t possibly believe that your parents would care, or that the Enclave who have known him all his life would shun him.”
“He thinks it would ruin his political career,” said Alastair. “He is meant to be the next Consul. I don’t know if you knew that.”
“I, for one, hadn’t heard,” said Matthew dryly.
“It was his dream,” Alastair said, “and I suppose it is hard to give up on one’s dreams.” Thomas sensed that Alastair was doing his best to be fair. “He thinks that without his career, he would be purposeless. He believes he cannot be a family man, cannot have children, that his only legacy will be as Consul. He fears to lose that. I believe a blend of shame and fear drives him.” He sighed. “I’d honestly like to believe Charles was being blackmailed. Rather than that he would turn on his own family for Bridgestock’s approval. He can be an insufferable weasel, but I never believed him a monster.”
“I have to believe he can be reasoned with,” Matthew said. “It is why I came here. To get the letter. To be sure.” He sighed. “I’ll talk to Charles as soon as I can.”