Chapter 1 #2
“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. “More ennui. 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 the Majestic.
I have been lucky enough to catch a few performances of theirs in St. Louis and Toronto.
Their ’Tis Pity She’s a Whore was a revelation. ”
“’Tis pity she’s a what?” 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.” She had 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, I am an 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.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Melody, without batting an eye. “Far beyond the reach of a poor actress like myself.”
“I do not believe you will be always poor,” said Orville. “The world will recognize your talents, Miss Doyle. Of that I am sure.”
Before Melody could reply, a server appeared with a tray of sherry.
For several reasons, Matthew excused himself, citing the need for a walk in the fresh air before the performance.
But as he ducked out of the grand dining room, his thoughts remained with his dinner companions.
Not that unusual a group, given the range of people that one often met while traveling.
And yet two things nagged at him: Why had Bart Morrow been so snappish with Melody Doyle?
And how had Melody Doyle made her way into a theater troupe, given that she was so clearly a vampire?
* * *
It was a beautiful night.
The promenade deck wended its way around the entirety of the Majestic like a necklace of polished wood and brass fittings.
There were few out walking like Matthew, perhaps because it was cool and windy, but Shadowhunters were used to the cold.
Besides, the wind blew the clouds away, exposing a sky so full of stars it looked as if a jeweler had hastily stuffed a drawer with handfuls of loose-cut diamonds.
A year ago, Matthew would not have been able to enjoy the path the moonlight made across the water, or the sky afire with white flame.
He would have been thinking about his last drink, or where he would find his next one.
A frantic circle of pain and shame and longing, one he’d had to trudge invisibly, keeping his secrets from his friends, his family.
Now the weight was off him. He felt light, and sometimes empty.
He no longer despised himself, but he did not know his purpose either.
If, he mused, one had to have a purpose at all.
Was it not enough to be a Shadowhunter—one among many, but each sworn to protect humanity against demons?
To keep peace among mundanes and Downworlders—warlocks, werewolves, the Fair Folk, and vampires?
A year ago, he wasn’t sure he would have so quickly identified Melody as a vampire either.
But then Matthew spent more time with Downworlders than most Shadowhunters did.
Some he was friendly with, but he did not trick himself into thinking that they were not dangerous.
And a vampire hiding out among humans was cause for concern.
He’d noted the way Melody hadn’t eaten, and had drunk sparingly of the wine.
The translucence of her fingernails. Her pallor, even under a layer of makeup.
The veins at her temples—if those were visible, she was hungry.
And there had been the odd behavior of Orville Cole.
The way he’d stared at her worshipfully.
Humans often fell under the spell of vampires, finding them impossible to resist. It was not the same as a thrall relationship, where the vampire fed from the human and in return promised them eternal life, but it was a use of vampire glamour forbidden by the Accords.
Though Melody had seemed, if anything, annoyed by Cole’s attentions. Perhaps she’d enchanted him without meaning to and wished nothing more than to be rid of him. It was hard to say; Matthew did not get the sense she’d been a vampire very long.
At that moment, lost in thought, Matthew collided with something solid.
“Pardonnez-moi—oh. It’s you.” Sylvain Allard had evolved out of the shadows of the night.
He wore a dark summer suit that blended with the night.
His hair was a little long for fashion, but Matthew liked it, liked the suggestion of a loose curl in it where it hung over his eyes.
Both his pale skin and the white bandage on his hand were given an icy glow by the moonlight.
“I thought you were attending Mademoiselle Melody’s play? ”
Matthew confirmed that he was.
“It is in this direction.” Sylvain indicated the opposite direction from the one Matthew had been walking in.
“I think you may have become, as they say, turned around.” He leaned back against the railing and smiled engagingly.
“Or perhaps you are dragging your feet, concerned that it will be as it often is—a friend invites you to observe some artistic creation of theirs and you spend the time wondering how you can formulate a polite response without perjuring yourself.”
Matthew laughed. The Hell Ruelle back in London had hosted many evenings of poetry read aloud; he could not count the number of werewolves he’d had to reassure afterward, untruthfully, that their poems about the moon and raw steak were excellent and moving. He murmured,
“When I see the moon go by
I think that I will surely die.
It is so high up in the sky
And round just like a shepherd’s pie.”
Sylvain raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind. A friend’s poem. Not a close friend,” Matthew added, as he leaned against the railing beside Sylvain.
It was odd, he thought, how quickly one struck up easy conversation while traveling.
It probably had something to do with knowing you wouldn’t see the other person again. “What happened to your hand?”
Sylvain smiled. He had an off-kilter and charming smile, slightly crooked, as if he would only commit partially to the expression. “Bitten by a donkey on Mykonos,” he said. “And how did you like Greece?”
Matthew thought of blue water, white houses, the silver-green of cypress. A series of shaded rooms, strong honey, ripe figs, and swimming in the ocean with Oscar.
“It all begins to blur after a while,” he mused. “Travel, that is.”
Sylvain took a silver box from his jacket pocket and opened it with a dextrous flip to reveal a row of thin cigarillos.
He took one out, lit it, and inhaled. Matthew had never much cared for the habit of smoking, but he had to admit there was a grace to Sylvain’s movements that made the act redolent of glamour.
Only Anna Lightwood smoked with a greater sense of style.
“How long have you been traveling?” he asked, his French accent softening his words.
“Nine months,” he said. “And you?”
Sylvain exhaled a pale puff of clove-scented smoke. “A year since I have been home.”