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“Honestly, we do care what happens to Alastair.” “We do?” Christopher sighed. “I feel as if I can never quite keep up.
“I cut myself and James brought me back here for a healing rune. So silly of me. Who knew toys had sharp edges?”
I could have sworn I saw a copy of the Red Scrolls of Magic.”
“Sometimes,” she said, “it is not enough for others to love you. I do not think Matthew loves himself very well.”
Will Herondale was a man who, though not directly related to Thomas by blood, was essentially his family—his uncle, someone who could be trusted, kind and funny. As Thomas had gotten older, he’d begun to understand that behind that kind exterior was a smart and strategic thinker. He wondered how Will was going to play this particular situation. Will looked him straight in the eye. “Did you murder Lilian Highsmith?”
“Have you seen that fellow murder any Shadowhunters? Alastair, I mean. He commit any murders to your knowledge? Amos Gladstone, maybe?” “Excuse me,” said Alastair, looking horrified. “No,” said Thomas. “I’ve never seen Alastair commit murder. And,” he added, somewhat to his own surprise, “I don’t think he would do such a thing.”
Will gave Thomas a hard look and, after a moment, said intently, “Is Gideon aware that he still owes me twenty pounds?” “Yes,” said Thomas, without being able to stop himself, “but he is pretending not to remember.” “I knew it!” cried Will. He turned to the Inquisitor with a triumphant look. “I believe we’re done here.”
“Go—Matthew, you’ll hate yourself if you don’t.” With a stiff nod, Matthew drew away and fell to his knees beside James. He laid his hand, long and slender, glittering with his signet ring, on his brother’s cheek. “Charles,” he said breathlessly. “Hang on, Charlie. We’ll get you help. We’ll—”
No. I suppose it was a reminder, though—I don’t like Charles, but I love him. I can’t help it. Odd how that works, isn’t it?”
“And yet,” said Will, “you continue to accrue radiance.”
“And I love him,” said Matthew. “But I have always loved him and understood him. Now I love him but do not understand him at all.
“All right,” she said, still looking straight at Matthew. “Let’s go to Paris. On one condition.” Matthew’s expression blossomed with shock and pleasure; he clearly had not thought this was how the conversation would go. “Anything,” he said. “No drinking,”
“If she had red hair, then no, she’s not his cousin,” said James, weighing the possibility that Matthew and Anna had departed suddenly for Paris, and discarding it. Anna would never have needed to borrow a coat. “That’s my wife.”
