A lady in a shapeless hat caught hold of Matthew’s sleeve.

“May I be of any assistance, madam?” asked Matthew.

“They are committing unspeakable atrocities,” said the lady. “They have children penned up in camps. Think of the children.”

James fastened his hand on Matthew’s sleeve and towed him away, with an apologetic hat tip to the lady. Matthew looked over his shoulder.

“I do hope affairs go right for the children,” he called.

James appeared pensive as they went. Matthew knew James wished Shadowhunters could solve problems like mundane war, though Matthew felt they were rather overstretched as it was with all the demons.

In order to cheer Jamie up, he stole his hat. Jamie burst into startled laughter and pursued Matthew, both of them racing and jumping high enough to amaze the mundanes, under the shadow of St. Stephen’s Tower. Matthew’s puppy lost his head, forgot his training, and dashed under their feet, yapping with the sheer joy of being alive. Their rushing footsteps outpaced the steady tick of the Great Clock, under which was written in James’s beloved Latin, O Lord, keep safe our Queen Victoria the First, and their laughter mingled with the gleeful chime and roar of the bells.

Later Matthew would look back and remember it as his last happy day.

“Do I sleep, do I dream, or are these visions I see?” demanded Matthew. “Why are Aunt Sophie and both of Thomas’s sisters taking tea in the same establishment as our private and exclusive club room?”

“They followed me,” said Thomas in beleaguered tones. “Mama was understanding, or they would have followed us directly into the club room.”

Aunt Sophie was a good sport, but that did not make Matthew feel any less uneasy about the advent of Thomas’s sisters. They were not kindred spirits, and they were liable to consider all the doings of their little brother both their business and very silly.

Matthew loved their club room and would brook no interference. He had chosen the materials for the curtains himself, made certain that James put the works of Oscar Wilde in their extensive book collection, and reinforced the corner that was Christopher’s laboratory with steel sheets on the walls.

Which led Matthew to another grievance. He regarded Christopher with a steely gaze.

“Did you sleep in those clothes, Christopher? I know Aunt Cecily, Uncle Gabriel, and Cousin Anna would never let you inflict these horrors on the populace. What are those peculiar lavender stains upon your shirtfront? Did you set your sleeves on fire?”

Christopher regarded his sleeves as if he had never beheld them before. “A bit,” he said guiltily.

“Ah well,” said Matthew. “At least the purple stains match your eyes.”

Christopher blinked said eyes, the improbable shade of violets in summer, and smiled his slow-blossoming smile. He clearly did not understand Matthew’s objections, but was vaguely pleased they had been overcome.

It was not like with James, who actually presented a very fine appearance to the world. Christopher was incorrigible. He could rumple leather boots.