Matthew nodded, but he ducked his head down against Jamie’s coat and stayed there for a moment. It had never occurred to Matthew that Alastair might be jealous of James’s father. He could not imagine being jealous of anybody’s papa. Having the best papa in the world, Matthew would be perfectly satisfied with him.

If only he could be certain that Henry was his papa.

Early in the morning, Matthew unstoppered the faerie’s vial and tipped a drop in among the cranberries for his mama’s scones. The scones came out of the oven plump, golden, and smelling delicious.

“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—”