“My family’s estate is in Hampshire,” he said, in as plummy an accent as he could manage. He had decided that for the purposes of this voyage, he would adopt thepersona of a British upper-class twit of the fox-hunting variety.Hunting poor little helpless foxes all around the grounds of some massive house, he thought. Why not try something actually difficult, like hunting a Feroci demon through the back alleys of London?“I will return there after I visit Constantinople, having completed my travels.”
“And did you enjoy your travels?” asked a young woman with blond hair, who was also seated at the captain’s table. Much to Matthew’s dismay, the name Worthing had proved familiar to the captain, who had taken it upon himself to decide that Matthew was certainly related to a viceroy he had known in India. In honor of that now-departed friend, he had invited Matthew to dine with him each evening in the grand dining room.
Which meant Matthew was going to have to make conversation with mundanes. He had done so frequently on his journey, butevery single nightwas asking rather a lot. He always felt slightly worried that someone would know he was a Shadowhunter (though he recognized how unlikely this was: he was glamoured, and just to be doubly careful, he covered the Voyance rune on his hand with a tinted paste meant to hide scars).
He could discourse easily enough on literature and poetry, and decently on the topic of history, but when itcame to mundane news and politics he often had to pretend he had heard of quite a lot of people, laws, and places that might as well have been fictional for all they mattered in his life.
As if any of you could name the Consul, or tell me which three objects make up the Mortal Instruments, he thought, gazing around at his dinner companions. They were a motley group. There was the blond girl, Melody Doyle, an actress with a theater troupe. Beside her, a young Frenchman with a bandaged hand and a sullen stare, a pop-eyed Canadian man from a place called Cooksville, a deaf old British colonel with an ear trumpet, and a middle-aged American industrialist with a large mustache and a superior air.
“England seems so terribly romantic to me,” sighed Melody. Her accent placed her as American. “Are all the houses castles, and do you all have servants who refer to you as ‘my lord’?”
“What?” barked Colonel Bailey. “What was that about servants, young woman? Hard to keep a good one these days. Girls full of newfangled notions about typewriters.”
Melody looked baffled. Matthew hid a smile and said, “Well, as you might imagine, Miss Doyle, one is never terribly impressed by what one is used to. Oftentimes, all I wish for is a quiet day. Alas for responsibility, however.Usually I awaken under the ancient tapestried canopy of my Elizabethan four-poster to find the maid waving a silver tray of Lapsang souchong in my face before I have even had a chance to emerge from my sybaritic snooze among my pureblood greyhounds. All I wish is for a quiet morning of shooting, but my gamekeeper and I rarely manage to bag more than a pheasant or two before the King arrives, desperate for my advice on what one should wear to a garden party for the International Society for the Suppression of Cake-Forks, or whatever charity she is promoting this week, and then the Master of Foxhounds is upon me dragging me off for the meet, and in the end I’m jolly lucky if I have time to cram down tea and crumpets with a spot of Gentleman’s Relish before sleep claims me again.”
“Oh, my,” Melody breathed. The dark-haired French boy had his head down; he was laughing silently, his shoulders shaking. The others at the table seemed to take Matthew’s statements at face value.
“Well, I can certainly see why you embarked upon a Grand Tour,” said the captain, helping himself to the saltshaker. “It sounds as if this might be your last chance to see the world. Broaden your horizons, so to speak.”
“Responsibility is indeed a heavy weight,” said the American industrialist. Bart Morrow, Matthew recalled;that was his name. “I myself am responsible for the oversight of three separate factories. It’s why they call me the Soap King of Toledo.”
“Very useful, soap,” said Colonel Bailey, while the pop-eyed man looked faintly disgusted by Morrow’s boastful tone. “Now, once, at Fort William—”
“And have you, do you think?” the pop-eyed man asked Matthew. “Broadened your horizons? Because if you’re still bored—”
“I wouldn’t call it boredom,” Matthew said kindly. “Moreennui. A mix of listlessness and inattention. I suspect the world holds no new surprises for me.”
The French boy snorted, and this time Matthew looked at him more closely. His name was Sylvain Allard, if Matthew recalled correctly. He was slim, with a mop of dark hair, pale skin, and jet-black eyes. His bone structure was the sort to make strong men and women weep. His lips were full, with a slight indent in the lower one. The kind of mouth that under other circumstances would make Matthew think about kissing.
But, Matthew reminded himself, he was remaining celibate on this journey. Not for any puritanical reason, but because his love affairs in the past had been entirely disastrous and there was no point in ruining his trip.
“Well, I have the cure for boredom,” said the pop-eyed Canadian. He was very pale, and clutched his cutlery with what struck Matthew as an unseemly enthusiasm; his name, Matthew recalled, was Cole. Orville Cole. “Miss Melody Doyle’s acting troupe, the Palmer’s Theater Company of Toledo, graces us with their presence here on theMajestic. I have been lucky enough to catch a few performances of theirs in St. Louis and Toronto. Their’Tis Pity She’s a Whorewas a revelation.”
“’Tis pity she’s awhat?” Morrow looked deeply offended.
“A classic play, revived during the Restoration era,” Matthew murmured. “Miss Doyle, was your group planning a performance while onboard?”
“Not of that particular play,” boomed the captain. “But indeed, the company will be amusing us with scenes from one of Shakespeare’s comedies later this evening. In the Verandah Room.”
Matthew had a vague memory of passing through the Verandah Room upon boarding the ship. All cane chairs and large potted plants and mirrored walls, made to give the impression of an outdoor garden party. There had been a stage there, its green velvet curtains closed.
“Oh, indeed,” said Melody. “You should all attend.” Shehad hardly eaten any of the beef tournedos à la Victoria, only moved the food around her plate with her fork.
Allard, the Frenchman, must have noticed as well. He smiled at her kindly. “Mademoiselle,” he said, his slightly accented voice musical enough to carry Matthew right back to Paris, to the arch of a bridge over the Seine, sparkling with frost. “Are you quite all right? One is often nervous on one’s first sea voyage.”
“Oh,” said the girl, “no, I’m fine, it’s just—my brother died recently.”
“And yet you aren’t wearing black,” observed Morrow.
Melody raised her limpid eyes. “Well, Iaman actress. The show must go on.”
“I suppose. You are lucky to have had a sibling, even though you must sustain the loss of him. I never had a sister or brother with whom I could share my hopes and dreams.”
Melody flushed. Feeling a bit sorry for her, Matthew said, “That’s a lovely necklace you’re wearing, Miss Doyle.”
It was lovely, if perhaps a bit showy: a diamond medallion set in white gold against a backdrop of marcasite filigree, exquisitely carved.
“It’s paste, I imagine,” said Morrow, rather nastily, Matthew thought. “A fake. It would be enough to keep you in a life of luxury if it were real.”
