Chain of Iron

“Does James know?” she whispered.

“No,” Matthew said, forcefully. “Lord, no. I love James, but he’s blind as a bat where it comes to matters of the heart.”

Cordelia gripped the blanket in both hands. “How long? How long have you known, and how—how did you guess?”

“The way you look at him,” Matthew said simply. “I know you did not mean for this marriage to happen, that you did not scheme for it. Indeed, it must be a special sort of torture for you. And I am sorry for it. You deserve to be happy.”

Cordelia looked at him in surprise. She had, she realized, never thought of Matthew as enormously insightful. She had not thought he took things seriously enough for that.

“I know what it’s like to hide what you feel,” he said. “I know what it’s like to be in pain and not be able to explain why. I know why you’re not with James tonight. Because when we are in pain, we are flayed open, and when we are flayed open, we cannot hide our true selves. And you cannot bear for him to know that you love him.”

“How did you learn all this?” Cordelia demanded. “When did you become so wise?”

“I have known unrequited love myself, in the past.”

“Is that why you are so very sad?” Cordelia said.

Matthew was silent. “I did not know,” he said, after a moment, “that I seemed sad, to you.”

Cordelia shivered a little, though it was not cold in the room. “There is something weighing on you, Matthew,” she said gently. “A secret. I know it, as you knew I was in love with James. Will you tell me what it is?”

She saw his hand go to his breast pocket, where he often kept his flask. Then he lowered it stiffly to his side and took a deep breath. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I am asking for the truth. Your truth. You know mine, and I do not even know what makes you so unhappy.”

It was as if he had frozen, sitting there at the end of her bed, a Matthew-statue. Only his fingers moved, tracing the embroidery on a pillow. When he spoke, finally, his voice sounded almost like a stranger’s—not Matthew’s usual bright, water-swift tones, but something much deeper, and more still. “I have told no one this story,” he said. “Not in all my life. Jem knows it. No one else. It is perhaps the very height of foolishness to tell you, and to ask you to keep it from James. I have never told him myself.”

Cordelia hesitated. “I cannot promise to hide it from him.”

“Then I can only leave it to your judgment, and hope you will share my opinion that it would do him no good to know,” Matthew said. “But beware. This story is also about Alastair, though I do not think he knows all of it.”

“James told me some of it, then. The rumors Alastair spread. Perhaps you think I am terrible, still loving him.”

“No. I think you are his saving grace. If you know about the rumors, you know some of it, but not all.”

“I want to know it all,” Cordelia said, and Matthew, staring at the wall next to her bed, said in the same low, toneless voice, “All right, then. We were at school. Too young to know the power of words, perhaps. When Alastair came around, saying things about my mother … saying Henry was not my father, that instead I was Gideon’s bastard …” He shook his head, his entire body tensing. “I thought I would kill Alastair right there. I didn’t, of course, but—” He cast the pillow aside. “The awful thing about it was that once I had the idea planted in my brain, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My father was injured before I was born; I had only ever known him confined to his chair. Nor do I resemble him at all. It began to consume me, the wondering … and one day I gathered my courage and went to the Shadow Market. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but in the end, I bought a bottle of ‘truth potion.’

“The next morning I put some in my mother’s food. I thought I would ask her to tell me who my father was, and that she would either not realize she was under a spell, or she would forgive me and understand that I deserved to know.”

Matthew let his head fall back. He stared at the ceiling as he said, “It wasn’t a truth potion at all, though I suppose you could have guessed that. Whatever it was, it was poison, and … my mother was pregnant. I didn’t know it, of course, but whatever I gave her, it caused her agony, and she—she lost the baby.”

Horror jolted through Cordelia. “Oh, Matthew,” she whispered.

He didn’t pause, his breath catching on his words. “The Silent Brothers were able to save my mother, but not my sister. My mother has not been with child since, though I know my parents have hoped and tried.

“That very day, I learned the truth—that I was without a doubt my father’s son. It had all been a stupid rumor. I was drowning, speechless, shattered. My father assumed I was struggling to make sense of the loss. The truth was that I was horrified by my own actions, disgusted by my lack of faith in those closest to me. I swore to myself that I would never tell anyone, not even James. And I decided that I would never forgive Alastair, though I blamed myself so much more than I ever blamed him.”

At last, he looked at her. “That’s the story, Cordelia. That’s my secret. You hate me now, and I can’t blame you. I can’t even ask you not to tell James. Do whatever you must. I will understand.”

Cordelia pushed her coverlet down. Matthew watched her with some apprehension—perhaps he thought she was going to throw him out of the house. Instead she reached out, nearly toppling over, and put her arms around him.

She heard him inhale sharply. He smelled of snow, of soap and wool. He was stiff as a board, but she held on, determined.

“Cordelia,” he said in a choked voice, at last, and put his head down on her shoulder.

She held him as close as she could, feeling his heartbeat against her chest. She held him the way she wished she could have asked James to hold her, that morning in the stone corridor outside the Ossuarium. She stroked the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “You never meant to harm anyone, though you did cause harm,” she said. “You must forgive yourself, Matthew.”

He made an incoherent noise, muffled against her shoulder. Cordelia couldn’t help thinking of Alastair. He could not have known, of course, what would come of his rumor-spreading—but neither could Matthew have known what the result of his truth potion would be. They were more alike, she thought, than either would want to admit.

“Matthew,” she said gently, “you must tell your mother. She will forgive you, and you will no longer carry this bitter weight alone.”

“I can’t,” Matthew whispered. “Now she grieves for one child. After that she would grieve for another, for she and my father would never forgive me.” He raised his head from her shoulder. “Thank you. For not hating me. I promise you, it makes a difference.”

Cordelia drew back, squeezing his hand.

“Now that you have heard what I have done,” said Matthew, “perhaps you will stop thinking you are not worthy of Cortana. For there is nothing you could have done to deserve such treatment, even from an inanimate object.” He smiled, though it was not Matthew’s usual sunshine smile, but something altogether more tense and strained.