Chain of Gold (The Last Hours #1) - Cassandra Clare Page 0,223

he were made of daggers beneath the skin. “Do not think you are our friend now, or welcome among us, regardless of all that has happened.”

Thomas frowned. “Matthew,” he said, his usually gentle voice remonstrative, “that was the past. It is time for us to be adults and forget childish slights.”

“Thomas, you are kind,” said Matthew. “Too kind, and you wish to forget. But I am not kind, and I cannot help but remember.”

The light had gone from Alastair’s eyes. Yet he did not, to Lucie’s surprise, look angry. He looked almost resigned. “Let him say what he wants to say, Thomas.”

“You have no right to talk to Thomas in that familiar way,” said Matthew. “I never told this to you, Thomas. I couldn’t bear to. But better that you know the truth than that you allow this snake to befriend you.”

“Matthew—” Thomas began impatiently.

“Do you know what he used to say at school?” Matthew said. “That my mother and your father were lovers. That I was your father’s bastard. He told me that Henry was only half a man and couldn’t father children, and therefore Gideon had stepped into the breach. He said that your mother was so hideously ugly because of her scarred face that no one could blame your father for looking elsewhere. And that you were a sickly, ugly little thing because you had inherited her weakness of constitution—because she had been a mundane, but not just a mundane. A servant and a whore.”

Matthew stopped on a sort of gasp, as if even he could not quite believe what he had just said. Thomas stood stock-still, the color draining from his face. Alastair had not moved either. It was Lucie who said, to her own surprise, “He was the source of that awful rumor? Alastair?”

“Not—not the source,” Alastair said, his voice sounding as if he were forcing it through a tight throat. “And I did not say all of those things to Matthew—”

“But you did say them to others,” Matthew said icily. “I have heard all about it in the years since.”

“Yes,” Alastair admitted flatly. “I did spread the story. I repeated—those words. I did do that.” He turned to Thomas. “I am—”

“Don’t say you are sorry.” Thomas’s lips were gray. “You think I have not heard that tale? Of course I have, though Matthew may have tried to protect me. I have heard my mother weep over it, my father incoherent with rage and sorrow, my sisters crushed with shame over lies—” He broke off, breathless. “You repeated those words without knowing or caring if they were true. How could you?”

“They were just words,” said Alastair. “I did not think—”

“You are not who I thought you were,” Thomas said, each word cold and sharp. “Matthew is right. This is your sister’s engagement party, and for Cordelia’s sake, we will mind our manners toward you, Carstairs. But if you come near me or speak to me at any point after this, I will knock you into the Thames.”

Lucie had never in her life heard Thomas speak so icily. Alastair backed away, his expression stunned. Then he turned on his heel and darted into the crowd.

Lucie heard Matthew murmur something to Thomas, but she did not stay to hear what: she was already racing after Alastair. He ran like there were wings on his feet, and she bolted after him: through the ballroom doors, down the stone steps, finally catching up to him in the entryway. “Alastair, wait!” she cried.

He spun around to look at her and she realized to her shock that he had been crying. In a strange way, she was reminded of the first time she had ever seen a man cry: the day her father had found out his parents were dead.

Alastair dashed the tears furiously from his eyes. “What do you want?”

Lucie was almost relieved to hear him sound so much himself. “You can’t leave.”

“What?” he sneered. “Don’t you hate me too?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. This is Cordelia’s engagement party. You are her brother. It will break her heart if you vanish, and so I say you will not go.”

He swallowed hard. “Tell Layla—tell Cordelia that I have a bad headache and am resting in our carriage. There is no need for her to rush or spoil her evening.”

“Alastair—”

But he was gone, out into the night. Lucie turned back toward the stairs, dispirited. At least Alastair wasn’t leaving the Institute, but she would have preferred—

She jumped. Standing in a niche