“You are the best boy in London,” said Cook, giving Matthew a kiss.

“I am entirely selfish,” declared Matthew. “For I love you, Cook. When shall we be married?”

“Get along with you,” said Cook, waving her wooden spoon in a menacing fashion.

When Jamie was a little boy, he had his own beloved special spoon. The family always reminisced about this. It embarrassed Jamie to death, especially when Uncle Gabriel presented him with a spoon at family gatherings. Uncles thought all sorts of sorry jests were a fine idea.

Jamie kept the spoons Uncle Gabriel gave him. When asked why, he said it was because he loved his uncle Gabriel. James was able to say such things with a sincerity that would shame anyone else.

After James said that, Uncle Will loudly asked what was the point in even having a son, but Uncle Gabriel looked touched. Uncle Gabriel loved Anna and Christopher, but Matthew was not sure he entirely understood his children. James greatly resembled his aunt Cecily, and tried very hard at being a Shadowhunter, while Christopher might not be aware any of them even were Shadowhunters. Uncle Gabriel was especially fond of James. Of course, who would not be?

Matthew stole Cook’s spoon to give to James.

“I suppose that is for some absurd jest,” said Charles Buford when he saw the spoon at breakfast. “I wish you would grow up, Matthew.”

Matthew considered this, then stuck his tongue out at Charles. His puppy was not allowed in the breakfast parlor, because Charles Buford said Oscar was not hygienic.

“If you would simply make an effort to be sensible,” said Charles.

“I shan’t,” said Matthew. “I might sustain a strain from which I would never recover.”

His mother did not smile at his theatrics. She was staring at her teacup, to all appearances lost in thought. His father was watching her.

“Is Mr. Gideon Lightwood coming to conduct you to Idris this morning?” Matthew asked, and pushed the plate of scones toward his mother.

Mama picked up a scone, buttered it liberally, and took a bite.

“Yes,” she said. “I would thank you to be civil to him this time. You can have no idea, Matthew, how much I—”

Mama stopped speaking. Her small hand flew to her mouth. She sprang to her feet as if trying to take action in an emergency, in the manner she always did. Under Matthew’s horrified gaze, tears shimmered in her eyes and abruptly spilled in two long, bright tracks down her face. In the morning light, Matthew discerned a faint tinge of violet in her tears.

Then she collapsed, her hair falling out of its tidy coil, her gray skirts a sudden riot on the floor.

“Charlotte!” cried Father.

Henry Fairchild used all kinds of ingenious contraptions to get about, but at family breakfasts he had only an ordinary chair. Not that it mattered. He simply launched himself from the chair in his haste to get to Charlotte, and fell heavily on the ground. He hardly seemed to notice he had fallen. Instead he crawled on his elbows toward the inert heap that was Mama, dragging his body painfully across the carpet as Matthew watched, frozen in horror.