Before Matthew left, he ran up to his bedroom mirror to adjust his hair and cuffs and smooth his new green waistcoat. He stared at his face in the glass, framed in gold. A pretty face, but not a clever one like everyone else’s in his family. He remembered the faerie woman saying, Some would say only a shallow river could flash so bright.

He tilted his head as he looked into the glass. Many people thought his eyes were dark like his mama’s, but they were not. They were such a dark green that they fooled people, except when light struck the dark a certain way and the depths flashed emerald. Like the rest of him, his eyes were a trick.

He drew the vial of truth potion from his sleeve. Uncle Jem had not seen him buy it. Even if he suspected Matthew had it, Uncle Jem would not peach on him. When Uncle Jem said something, you believed it: he was that kind of person.

Matthew had refrained from ever mentioning his thoughts about Gideon to James, because Matthew was the soul of discretion and Jamie had an awful temper on him sometimes. Last summer a perfectly amiable Shadowhunter named Augustus Pounceby had come to the London Institute on his tour abroad, and Matthew had left Pounceby in James’s sole company for less than half an hour. When Matthew returned, he found Jamie had thrown Pounceby into the Thames. All James would say was that Pounceby had insulted him. It was quite a feat, since Pounceby was a Shadowhunter fully grown and Jamie was fourteen at the time. Still, however impressive, it could not be considered good manners.

Neither James nor Uncle Jem would buy potions like a sneak, or consider administering them. Only, what harm would it do to finally learn the truth? Matthew had considered adding a drop from the vial to breakfast this morning; then Father and Mother would have to tell them all what was happening. Now that Mr. Gideon Lightwood had started popping in of a morning, he wished he had.

Matthew shook his head at his reflection and determined to banish melancholy and dull care.

“Do I look dapper?” he asked Mr. Oscar Wilde. “Do I look dashing and debonair?”

Mr. Oscar Wilde gave him a lick on the nose, because Mr. Oscar Wilde was a puppy Jamie had given Matthew on his birthday. Matthew took this as approval.

He pointed to his reflection.

“You may be a waste of space in a waistcoat,” he told Matthew Fairchild, “but at least your waistcoat is fantastic.”

He checked his pocket watch, then tucked the pocket watch and vial into his waistcoat. Matthew could not linger. He had an important appointment at a most exclusive club.