“You must know Gideon quite well,” Matthew remarked, his quicksilver mind flashing onto another topic.

I do, said Brother Zachariah. He is the best of good fellows.

Matthew shrugged. “If you say so. I like my uncle Gabriel better. Not as much as Uncle Will, of course.”

Will has always been my favorite too, Jem agreed solemnly.

Matthew chewed on his lower lip, clearly considering something. “Would you care to accept a wager, Uncle Jem, that I can clear that fire with a foot to spare?”

I would not, said Brother Zachariah with conviction. Matthew, wait—

Matthew charged at the flames sparkling with jade light, and leaped. He twisted in midair, slim black-clad body like a dagger thrown by an expert hand, and landed on his feet in the shadow of the church spire. After a moment, several members of the Shadow Market began to clap. Matthew mimed taking off an imaginary hat and bowed with a flourish.

His hair was gold even by strange flames, his face bright even in shadow. Brother Zachariah watched him laugh, and foreboding crept into his heart. He experienced sudden fear for Matthew, for all the shining, beloved children belonging to his dear friends. By the time he was Matthew’s age, he and Will had been through fire and burning silver. His generation had suffered so they could bring the next one forth into a better world, but now it occurred to Jem that those children, taught to expect love and walk fearless through shadows, would be shocked and betrayed by disaster. Some of them might be broken.

Pray disaster never came.

Fairchild Residence, London, 1901

Matthew was still thinking about his visit to the Shadow Market the next day. In some ways it had been rotten luck, coming upon Uncle Jem like that, though he had been glad for the chance to become better acquainted. Perhaps Uncle Jem would think Jamie had not made a bad choice in his parabatai.

He rose early to help Cook with the baking. Cook had arthritis, and Matthew’s mama had asked if she was not getting along in years and wishing to retire, but Cook did not wish to retire and nobody had to know if Matthew lent a hand in the early morning. Besides, Matthew liked to see his papa and mama and even Charles eating breakfast he had prepared. His mother always worked too hard, lines of worry etched between her brows and around her mouth that never disappeared even if Matthew managed to make her laugh. She liked scones with cranberries baked in, so he tried to make them for her whenever he might. Matthew could not do anything else for her. He was not a strong support for her like Charles.

“Charles Buford is so serious-minded and reliable,” one of his mother’s friends had said when they were taking tea together in Idris. She had bit into one of Mother’s special scones. “And Matthew, well, he is … charming.”