“Like the Wicked Queen in ‘Snow White.’？” James said. He put his elbows on his knees; his whole body felt tense. “Did she explain how it functioned? How she was able to spy upon Belial without him realizing it?”
Jesse nodded. “Yes. It’s detailed in her notes.”
“And it’s something we could do?”
“Maybe. It’s something we shouldn’t do—”
But James had already sprung up out of his seat and made for the nearest desk. He needed pen and paper, needed a few pennies for Neddy, needed to think of what to say. Jesse watched him quietly, with the air of someone who has delivered a piece of news he wished he did not know.
Having located a pen, James began to scribble three notes. “Jesse, will you come to the Devil Tavern tomorrow? To discuss all this with the Merry Thieves?”
“Are we really going to discuss it?” Jesse said. “Or are you just going to go ahead and use the mirror?”
James looked at Jesse over his shoulder. “And here you were worried about fitting into the London Enclave.” Despite himself, despite everything, he felt himself smile. “It’s like you’ve known us for years.”
* * *
The day broke sunny and very cold. The fire in Letty’s room had gone out sometime in the night, and she woke to find herself curled into a ball under the thin wool blanket. She shivered, not only with the chill. The evening before, a Silent Brother had arrived, and his presence unnerved her beyond her expectations. The Shadowhunters had told her what to expect, but it wasn’t even the sewn-shut mouth and eyes that had most distressed her; it was a terrible uncanny feeling, like falling, that hung about him.
He had arrived on a blast of cold air, and stood motionless in the chilly foyer while Pangborn explained what had been going on, and that Tatiana Blackthorn was imprisoned in the Sanctuary.
Letty knew that the Shadowhunters could hear the Silent Brothers speak in their minds, but that mundanes could not. She assumed Pangborn could hear Brother Lebahim in his odd, silent way; Pangborn shrugged and pointed the way to the Sanctuary, and the Silent Brother vanished without a sound down the hall.
Letty looked shyly at Mr. Pangborn. “What did he say? In your head, I mean?”
“Nothing,” the old man said. “Nothing at all.” He looked sternly at Letty. “Keep away from this,” he added. “It’s Shadowhunter business.”
Odd, Letty thought. Odd enough that an hour later, she crept down to the Sanctuary and put her ear to the thick oak door. Through it, she could hear muffled noises: it must be the old woman speaking, she thought, rambling on as she had the day before.
But the closer she listened, the stranger the noises were. They didn’t seem like the sounds a human voice would make. They were rough, guttural, and they seemed to pulse—as if every word was the beat of an exposed heart.
Shivering and nauseated, Letty retreated as fast as she could to the safety of her bedroom. Mr. Pangborn was right. Better to keep away from the whole business and let the Shadowhunters do whatever they thought best. Yes. Better to keep away.
* * *
That morning James and Jesse walked from the Institute to the Devil Tavern together, under a sky heavy with the promise of thunder. Mundanes hurried to and fro, hats pulled low over their eyes, shoulders hunched against the gathering storm. Patches of blue sky were just visible between mountainous black clouds, and the air tasted faintly of ozone and soot.
“How is Matthew…？” Jesse asked delicately as they made their way into the tavern. A werewolf sat at the bar looking gloomy, all his hair standing on end thanks to the static electricity in the air. Pickles drifted half-asleep in his vat of gin.
“I haven’t seen him since the night before last—we’ve been trading off looking after him,” James said. Anna, Ariadne, and Lucie had taken shifts at Whitby Mansions too, which was doubtless how Jesse knew about Matthew’s condition. Only Cordelia had not; Matthew had requested, flatly, that she not see him in the state he was in.
“It’s brave of him to address his illness. Many would not,” Jesse said as they reached the scratched old door that guarded the inner sanctum of the Merry Thieves.
James had no opportunity to reply or agree, as the door was already half-ajar; he pushed it open to find Christopher and Thomas sitting on the worn sofa by the fireplace. Matthew sat in one of the threadbare armchairs, which had once been expensive brocade.
He looked up and met James’s eyes. Weary, James thought—Matthew looked weary, something deeper than tired. His clothes were clean and unwrinkled, but plain: gray and black, the tarnished bronze flask protruding from his breast pocket the only color in his outfit.
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.