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.

He reached Mama and clasped her in his arms. She was always so small, but now she looked small as a child. Her face was still and white as the face of the marble busts in mundane tombs.

“Charlotte,” murmured Papa, as if he was praying. “Dearest. Please.”

“Mama,” Matthew whispered. “Papa. Charlie!”

He turned to his brother the way he had when he was small, when he had followed Charlie around everywhere and believed his brother could do anything in the world.

Charles had bolted out of his chair and was shouting for help. He turned back in the doorway, staring at his parents with a wretched expression that was very unlike him. “I knew how it would be, Portaling back and forth from London to Idris so that Matthew could be near his precious parabatai—”

“What?” asked Matthew. “I didn’t know. I swear I didn’t know….”

Cook had appeared in the doorway in response to Charles’s shouts. She gasped. “Mrs. Fairchild!”

Matthew’s voice shook. “We need Brother Zachariah—”

Brother Zachariah would know what he had given Mama and what to do. Matthew began to explain the evil thing he had done, but then there was a noise from Charlotte, and the room went still.

“Oh yes,” faltered Mama, her voice terrifyingly weak. “Oh, please. Fetch Jem.”

Charles and Cook raced from the room. Matthew did not dare approach his mother and father. Finally, after some long and terrible time, Brother Zachariah came, parchment-colored cloak swirling about him like the robes of a fell presence come to deliver judgment and punishment.

Matthew knew Brother Zachariah’s always closed eyes still saw. He could see Matthew, through to his sinful heart.

Brother Zachariah bent and scooped Matthew’s mother up in his arms. He carried her away.