“Cordelia already only does good and kind things,” Alastair said testily. “Well,” he added, “the last week excluded, I suppose.”
Christopher looked alarmed, an expression Thomas strongly suspected was mirrored on his own face.
“Oh, what?” snapped Alastair. “Are we all supposed to pretend that Cordelia didn’t run off to Paris with Matthew because James made her miserable, always gazing after that vacuous Grace Blackthorn? And now they’re all back, and they all look miserable. What an appalling mess.”
“It’s not James’s fault,” Thomas said hotly. “He and Cordelia had an agreement—she knew—”
“I don’t need to listen to this,” said Alastair ferociously. Thomas had always secretly loved Alastair’s god-damn-you expression, with his dark eyes snapping and that hard twist to his soft mouth. At the moment, though, he wanted to snap back—wanted to defend James—and at the same time, he couldn’t help but understand what Alastair felt. Eugenia might be a toast-eating fiend, but Thomas had to admit he would not think much of any man marrying her and then mooning about over someone else.
But Thomas never got to say any of this, of course, because Alastair had already snatched up a volume from his table and was striding away toward the privacy of the stacks.
Thomas and Christopher looked at each other gloomily. “I suppose he has a point,” Christopher said. “It is a mess.”
“Did you learn anything from talking to James the other night?” Thomas said. “About Grace, or…”
Christopher sat down on the table Alastair had abandoned. “Grace,” he said, in an odd sort of voice. “If James loved her once, he doesn’t now. He loves Cordelia, and I think for him, not being with her is like it would be for me if I had to give up science and learning things.” He looked at Thomas. “What did you find out from Matthew?”
“He also loves Cordelia, unfortunately,” said Thomas. “And he is also miserable, just like James; in part he is miserable because of James. He misses him, and he feels like he has wronged him, and at the same time he feels wronged—he feels like if James had ever told him that he loved Cordelia, he would never have let himself fall in love with her. And now it’s too late.”
“I wonder,” said Christopher. “Do you think Matthew really loves Cordelia?”
“I think for him Cordelia is a sort of absolution,” said Thomas. “If she loved him, he imagines it would fix everything broken in his life.”
“I don’t think love works that way,” said Christopher, with a frown. “I think some people are suited for each other, and others aren’t. Like Grace and James weren’t suited. James and Cordelia are a much better match.” He lifted a heavy Book of Deeds, holding it up so he could examine the faded gilt spine.
Thomas said, “I suppose I never gave much thought to whether James and Grace were well suited. I barely know her at all, to be honest.”
“Well, she was shut up like Rapunzel in a tower by her mother for all those years,” said Christopher. “Yet despite all that, she is possessed of a fine scientific mind.”
“Is she,” Thomas said, arching an eyebrow.
“Oh, yes. We have had some excellent conversations about my work on the fire-messages. And she shares my views on activated moth powder.”
“Christopher,” said Thomas. “How do you know so much about Grace?”
Christopher’s eyes widened. “I am observant,” he said. “I am a scientist. We observe.” He squinted again at the book in his hand. “This will not be useful. I must return it to the shelf from which it was taken.”
With which unusually formal pronouncement, he sprang off the table and disappeared into the shadows at the east end of the library.
Thomas struck off toward the other end of the library, where Alastair had vanished among the shadows between the white-flickering lamps placed at intervals on the tables. The curving stained-glass windows threw diamonds of scarlet and gold at Thomas’s feet as he turned a corner and found Alastair sitting on the floor, his head thrown back against the wall, a book dangling from his hand.
He started when he saw Thomas but made no move to relocate as Thomas sat down beside him. For a long moment they simply sat together, side by side, looking out at the painted angel on the library wall.
“I’m sorry,” Thomas said, after some time had passed. “The business between James and Cordelia—I oughtn’t to have inserted my opinion into it. James has been my friend for a long time, but I’ve never fathomed his interest in Grace. None of us have.”
Alastair turned to look at Thomas. His hair had grown long since he had come to London; it fell over his eyes, soft and dark as a cloud of smoke. The desire to touch Alastair’s hair, to rub the strands between his fingers, was so strong that Thomas clenched his hands into fists. “I’m sure they would say the same about you and me,” Alastair said, “if they knew.”
Thomas could only stammer. “You—and me?”
“Grace is a mystery to the Merry Thieves, it seems,” said Alastair, “but I am a known and disliked quantity. I am only saying they would no doubt find it just as puzzling that you and I had—”
Thomas could stand it no more. He caught hold of Alastair’s collar and drew him in to kiss him. Alastair had clearly not been expecting it; the book he had been holding fell, and he laid an unsure hand on Thomas’s arm, steadying himself.
But he did not pull away. He leaned into the kiss, and Thomas unclenched his hands and let them find their way into Alastair’s hair, which was rough silk against his fingers. He felt an exquisite sense of relief—he had wanted this for so long, and what had happened between them in the Sanctuary had only made it worse—and then the relief melted away into heat, traversing his veins like liquid fire. Alastair was kissing him hard, each kiss opening his mouth a little wider, their tongues touching in a flickering dance. In between kisses, Alastair murmured soft words in Persian. “Ey pesar,” he whispered, “nik ze hadd mibebari kar-e jamal.” His tongue swept Thomas’s lower lip; Thomas shuddered, pressed into him, his breath catching with every kiss, every movement of Alastair’s body. “Ba conin hosn ze to sabr konam?”
And then, just as abruptly as it had started, it was over. Alastair pulled back, his hand still on Thomas’s arm, his face flushed. “Thomas,” he breathed. “This isn’t something I can do.”
Thomas closed his eyes. “Why not?”
“The situation hasn’t changed,” Alastair said, in a voice closer to his usual tone, and Thomas could feel the spell broken, dissipating as though it had never been. “Your friends hate me. And they are right to do so—”
“I told Matthew,” Thomas said.
Alastair’s eyes widened. “You what?”
“I told Matthew,” said Thomas. “About me. And that I—that we—that I cared about you.” He cleared his throat. “He knew about you and Charles already.”
“Well, Charles is his brother,” said Alastair, in an oddly mechanical voice. “And Matthew is himself—different. But your other friends…”