Having locked and double-checked the door, Sylvain turned to watch Oscar prancing happily. To Matthew’s surprise, Sylvain’s normally grim expression had softened.
“Do you like dogs?” Matthew, crouched down on his knees, scratched Oscar behind the ears. Oscar rolled over onto his back, looking beseeching.
Sylvain came forward a little, looking uncharacteristically anxious. “Can I…?”
“Pet him? Of course.” Matthew watched bemusedly as Sylvain sank down gracefully across from him and began rubbing Oscar’s belly. Oscar stuck all his feet into the air, signaling his approval.
“I have a dog at home,” said Sylvain. His voice had softened too. His long dark hair fell into his eyes as he made much of Oscar, his full lips curved into a smile. He looked adorable. “Flambeau. She was a gift from a friend.”
“So was Oscar.” Oscar was now letting his tongue loll out of his mouth, which struck Matthew as undignified. “From James.”
Sylvain’s dark eyes flicked up to meet his. “James Herondale. Yourparabatai.”
Matthew nodded. There was something odd in Sylvain’s tone, or perhaps it was just odd to be known by reputation? To have someone know so much about you, though you’d never met before? To have clearly held opinions about you, even as a stranger?
“There’s plenty of daylight left,” Sylvain said, scratching Oscar under the chin. “We have time to strike.”
“Now?” Matthew supposed he shouldn’t have beensurprised. “What makes you think we won’t run across more insomniac vampires?”
“I’d rather take my chances during the day than at night,” said Sylvain. “You heard the same conversation I did. Bart Morrow was murdered. The Accords have been broken. It is our duty to do something about it.”
“Yes, but it seems to me this was no random attack. This was personal business between Miss Doyle and Mr. Morrow—”
“He was her brother, and he rejected her when she was turned. That is regrettable, but not a reason to kill him.”
“There’s more to it than that. The business where they pretended not to know each other, the legal document—”
“None of that justifies murder.” Sylvain was no longer smiling.
“I’m not saying it does, only that it makes it unlikely she’ll harm anyone else,” said Matthew. “She isn’t on some sort of blood-fueled spree. I suggest we send a fire-message to the Constantinople Institute asking them to have Shadowhunters there when we disembark. There can be an investigation—”
Sylvain said, in a voice cold enough that it brought Oscar up to a sitting position, “I have heard so much aboutthe famous Matthew Fairchild. I never would have guessed I’d discover he was a coward.”
Oscar growled.
Matthew stiffened. He felt the cold flush of anger race up his spine; it was the sort of feeling that once would have sent him in search of a drink to calm himself. Now, he merely said, “I have seen too many sacrifice themselves. Including those who rushed in without thinking, and died to no purpose.”
Sylvain, already quite pale, went a shade paler. Without another word he rose to his feet and walked out the door. As it swung shut behind him, Matthew called out, “Don’t do anything stupid! Sylvain—”
But Sylvain was gone, out of earshot. Oscar cocked his head to the side and gave a mournful, inquiring bark.
“Just because people are attractive doesn’t mean they can’t be idiots,” Matthew told him, and rose to his feet, making his way to the rosewood writing desk. He yanked a piece of paper toward him with more force than necessary, glaring down at the blank page for a moment before picking up his stele and beginning, somewhat ostentatiously, to write. After all, he didn’t need Sylvain Verlac’s approval to send a fire-message, now, did he?
* * *
Matthew passed a restless day, catching up on sleep from the night before in between dreams in which he saw a pale Melody Doyle leaning over the body of a recumbent man, blood dripping down her chin and between her fingers. He told himself repeatedly that Sylvain wasn’t going to do anything stupid like challenging a clan of vampires to a fight, but he was almost relieved when it was time to put on formal eveningwear and make his way to the dining room.
This time he sat far from the captain’s table, surrounded by a group of Persian tourists. His friendship with Cordelia meant that he’d learned a bit of Persian—not as much as James, who was now fluent—and he idly eavesdropped a bit, but it was all very ordinary stuff about fashions and the weather. At least none of the passengers seemed to have noticed anything wrong.
Halfway through dinner, Matthew caught slight of Sylvain, who slipped into the room and quietly took his place at a half-empty table. He looked deliciously elegant in his evening dress, the stark black-and-white of it setting off his dark hair and pale skin. The bandage was back around his left hand, but that was for show—there wascertainly no evidence he had spent the day beheading vampires. Which was more of a relief to Matthew than he had expected.Well, the vampires don’t deserve that, he told himself, and spent the rest of the meal studiously ignoring the French boy.
After dinner, Matthew walked Oscar—uneventfully this time; there were no sudden alarms or dead bodies on deck—before returning to his room, where he found sleep difficult to come by. He lay awake in his pajamas, watching the moonlight from the porthole window track across the bedcovers.
He heard Sylvain’s voice in his head, calling him a coward. The accusation didn’t bother him unduly. Matthew had no illusions that he was a coward; of all the bad qualities he had, that wasn’t one. If anything, like most of his friends, he was too apt to rush into danger. His caution now surprised him, perhaps more than it had even surprised Sylvain. Why did he feel reluctant to act?
Slowly, he drifted off into a half sleep, where Christopher walked ahead of him down a long street in London, always just out of reach. He began to run, determined to catch up with his friend, but when Christopher turned, his face was fleshless, a bony skull. His hand whipped up, fingers wrapping around Matthew’s throat, choking him—
Matthew came awake, flailing and kicking—and still choking. A dark figure hunched over him; strong hands were wrapped around his throat, squeezing. Matthew could hear Oscar barking, loud and sharp. The room was full of a strange scent, pungent, like a burning candle. As his vision began to white out around the edges, Matthew scrabbled at his nightstand, reaching for the unsheathed dagger he kept there—
