Stop, Cordelia thought. She knew Alastair was not always like this—she knew he could be kind, sweet, vulnerable even. She knew her father had broken his son’s heart a dozen different ways, and Alastair was doing the best he could with the pieces. But it didn’t help for Alastair to behave like this, to retreat behind a cold facade as cutting as glass.

The way James retreated behind the Mask.

“We are brothers now, Alastair,” James said, “and you are welcome in our house. I will be civil to you and I hope you will be civil to me, for Cordelia’s sake.”

Alastair looked a little relieved. “Of course.”

“But you had best be good to her,” James said, still in an even, calm tone. “Because my hospitality lasts exactly as long as Cordelia finds your presence pleasing.”

“Of course,” Alastair said again. “I would expect nothing else.” He turned to Thomas, who had been staring fixedly down at his plate. “Tom,” he said carefully. “If I could talk to you for a moment—”

Thomas stood up, almost knocking over the table. Cordelia looked at him in astonishment.

“I told you before that if you spoke to me again, I would throw you into the Thames,” said Thomas. His normally open, friendly face was twisted into an expression of fury. “You might at least have chosen a warmer day to take your plunge.”

“Stop.” Cordelia threw down her napkin. “Alastair is my brother, and I love him. And this is my wedding day. No one will be throwing my family members into the Thames.”

“Honestly, Thomas,” said Lucie, looking at her friend with disappointment. Thomas clenched his fists at his sides.

“Now,” said Cordelia. “Will someone tell me what this is all about?”

There was an awkward silence. Even Alastair didn’t look at her. He made an odd sort of sound, in the back of his throat. “This is—unbearable,” he said. “It is not to be endured.”

“It is what you deserve,” said Matthew, his eyes flashing; James held out a hand toward his parabatai, as if to calm him—just as a loud crash came from the far end of the room.

Without another word, Alastair broke into a run. Knowing what that meant, Cordelia pushed back her chair and dashed after him. Her heavy velvet skirts hampered her, and she reached her parents some moments after Alastair. Her father was on the floor by his chair, clutching his knee and moaning in pain.

Sona was struggling to rise from her chair. “Elias—Elias, are you—”