Christopher straightened his crooked spectacles. “It is possible,” he began, “that this is something the Silent Brothers could assist with—”
“No,” Matthew said flatly.
“I’d drag him to the Silent City myself if I thought it would help,” said James. “But they weren’t able to do anything for Cordelia’s father.”
“I am not—” Matthew broke off, plucking at the eiderdown. James knew what he wanted to say: I am not like Cordelia’s father. Perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t finish the sentence, though; perhaps he was beginning to understand that Elias Carstairs was not his present, but would be his future if things did not change.
“I am a scientist and not a physician,” said Christopher. “But I have read about… dependence.”
He glanced at Thomas, and James could not help but wonder how much Thomas and Christopher had discussed this before, when Matthew and James were not with them. Whether they had thought James, too, needed protection from the truth. “One cannot simply stop drinking all at once. It’s a noble endeavor, but it’s dangerous,” Christopher said. “Your body believes it needs alcohol to survive. That’s why you feel so rotten. Hot and cold and sick.”
Matthew bit his lip. The shadows under his eyes were bluish. “What can I do?”
“This is not just about discomfort or pain,” Christopher said. “The alcohol has made itself necessary to you. Your body will fight for it, and perhaps kill you in the process. You will shake, be sick, your heart will beat too fast. You will be feverish, which is why you feel cold. You could have seizures—”
“Seizures?” echoed James, in alarm.
“Yes, and even heart failure, which is why he should not be alone.” Christopher blinked owlishly. “I cannot emphasize enough, Matthew. You must stop trying to do this on your own. Let us help you.”
In the flickering light of the fire, the hollows of Matthew’s face looked cavernous. “I don’t want that,” he said. “I did this to myself alone. I ought to be able to undo it alone.”
James rose to his feet. He wanted to scream, wanted to shake Matthew, shout at him that he wasn’t just hurting himself, he was hurting all of them, that in risking himself he was risking James, too.
“I’m going to let Oscar out,” he said.
“Don’t,” said Matthew, rubbing at his eyes. “He was whimpering. He doesn’t understand what’s wrong.”
“He wants to help you,” James said, heading to the bedroom door. The moment the door was open, Oscar shot across the room to Matthew; for a moment, James was worried he’d try to jump up and lick his owner’s face, but he only lay down next to Matthew and panted quietly. “See?” James said. “He feels better already.”
“He’s going to take all the blankets,” Matthew complained, but he reached out a free hand to scratch Oscar behind the ears.
“He loves you,” James said, and Matthew looked up at him, his eyes very dark in the sallow pallor of his face. “Animals are innocent. To have their trust is an honor. He will be miserable unless you let him stay with you, help you. You are not saving him from a burden by keeping him away. Only breaking his heart.”
Matthew looked at James for a long moment before turning to Christopher. “All right, Kit,” he said in a subdued tone. “What do you need me to do?”
Kit rummaged in his bag. “When was the last time you had a drink, Matthew?”
“This morning,” Matthew said. “Only some brandy.”
“Where is your flask?”
“I’ve lost my silver one,” Matthew said. “Might have left it in Paris. I’ve been keeping water in this.”
From his pocket, he withdrew a simple tin flask with a cork stopper. He handed it to Christopher, who unscrewed the top, reached into his doctor’s bag, and brought out a bottle. He began to pour the contents of the bottle into Matthew’s flask, frowning as he did so, as if he were measuring amounts in his head.
“What is that?” Thomas asked, staring; the liquid was a pale tea color.
“Water and alcohol, mixed with sedative herbs. The sedatives will prevent seizures, most likely.”
“Most likely?” Matthew muttered. “This is why no one likes scientists, Christopher. Too much accuracy, not enough optimism.”
“Everyone likes scientists,” said Christopher with supreme confidence, and handed the now-full tin flask to Matthew. “Drink.”
Matthew rather gingerly took the flask from Christopher and brought it to his lips. He swallowed, coughed, and made a face. “Awful,” he proclaimed. “Like a mixture of licorice and soap.”
“That’s good,” Christopher said. “It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Think of it as medicine.”
“So how does this work?” said James. “Does he just drink this muck whenever he feels like it?”