His golden hair was mussed, as tangled as Alastair’s, and there was a great deal of blood on his clothes. Charles’s blood, Cordelia knew; it was still unnerving. “Matthew,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

He looked at her once—a peculiar, intense look—before turning back to Alastair. “Look here, Carstairs,” he said. “I can’t say I know what’s going on, or want to, but my brother is in the infirmary, and he’s been asking for you. I’d like you to go see him.”

Alastair frowned. “Charles and I,” he said, “are—no longer on good terms.”

“Stuff good terms,” said Matthew. “Alastair, Cordelia assures me that you have a heart. She says you’re different than you were at school. The boy I knew at school wouldn’t visit my brother, just to spite me. Don’t make your sister a liar; she’s a better person than you are, and if she believes in you, you should try to be someone she can believe in. I know I do.”

Alastair looked staggered—which, for Alastair, consisted of going very still, and blinking slowly for several seconds. “Fine,” he said at last. He ruffled Cordelia’s hair. “Ta didar-e badd,” he said, and walked away, without looking at Matthew again.

Cordelia watched him cross the room to Jem. As the two spoke, Jem glanced over toward her. She could not see his face at this distance, but she heard his voice in her head: Would you join us? I have missed you, Cordelia. There is much for us all to say to each other.

Cordelia felt an ache in her heart. Since Elias’s death she had wanted nothing more than to talk to Jem, to ask him for his recollections of her father, his advice for her family. But he was a Silent Brother—they could read thoughts, guess emotions. If he looked in her head now, he’d learn the truth about Lilith, and she couldn’t bear that.

She shook her head, very slightly. Not now. Go on without me.

He seemed disappointed as he laid a hand on Alastair’s shoulder, and together the two of them left the room, passing Thomas in the doorway. Thomas looked after them with an odd expression—surprise? Anger? Perhaps he was still trying to make sense of Alastair’s behavior the day before.

“Matthew,” she said. “That was—”

“Don’t be angry.” He had taken his hands out of his pockets, and she realized why he’d hidden them in the first place. They were shaking violently. He reached inside his waistcoat and removed his dented flask.

She wanted to close her eyes. Her father’s hands had shaken, sometimes every morning. Less often at night. She understood why now. She understood more than she had ever wanted to understand—about her father, and about Matthew, too.

“I’m not angry,” she said. “I was going to say it was kind.”