“Ah, yes,” said Grace, a light, mocking tone to her voice, “you feel his pain, don’t you? If his heart shatters, does yours shatter? Does he feel what you feel? Because I can see how that might be awkward.”

“Grace,” James said. “Enough.”

She looked startled; he supposed it was rare enough that he’d spoken to her harshly. “I have never meant to hurt you, James.”

“I know,” James said quietly, and saw Matthew shake his head, his cheeks flushed with anger.

“Ten minutes,” Grace murmured, slipping away; she crossed the room, returning to Charles.

Matthew was still glowering. He was splendidly dressed in a morning coat over a stunning brocade waistcoat of Magnus Bane levels of magnificence, embroidered with a spectacular battle scene. He had a gleaming silk ascot at his throat that looked to be woven of pure gold. But the effect was somewhat spoiled by his tousled hair and look of fury. “What did she want with you?”

“Congratulations on your wedding day to you, too,” James said. He sighed. “Sorry. I know why you’re concerned. She said she needed to speak with me before the ceremony, that’s all.”

“Don’t,” said Matthew. “Whatever she has to say will only hurt you. It’s all she ever does.”

“Math,” said James gently, “she is hurting too. This is not her fault. It is my fault, if it’s anyone’s.”

“To feel hurt, she’d have to have feelings,” Matthew began; seeing James’s expression, he visibly bit down on the words.

“Perhaps if you got to know her better—” James started.

Matthew looked fleetingly, genuinely puzzled. “I do not believe I have spoken to her alone,” he admitted. “Or if I have, I do not recall it.” He sighed. “Very well. As your suggenes, it is my job to help you. I will withhold my judgment. Whatever you may need, I can see it is not that.”

“Thank you.” James laid his palm against Matthew’s chest and found it surprisingly hard and metallic. He tapped Matthew’s lapel with his fingers; with a sideways smile, Matthew reached into his jacket and James glimpsed his silver flask.

“Dutch courage,” Matthew said.

“I’m the one who ought to need that, aren’t I?” James said lightly. He hoped Matthew wouldn’t drink too much before the ceremony, but he knew better than to say that. Sometimes he felt foolish for worrying—Anna was famous for her absinthe parties, and they all drank at the Devil Tavern. And yet.

But mentioning alcohol to Matthew would only earn a glib remark, and a blank stare if James persisted. Instead he smiled and withdrew his hand. “Well, then, as my suggenes, try to draw Inquisitor Bridgestock into conversation, will you? I think he’s yearning to impart some manly advice to me, and I’m not sure I can keep a straight face.”