𝗨𝗟𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗔𝗧𝗘 | 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐝

𝟖: 𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐘𝐎𝐔

"𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒎𝒆? 𝑰 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝑰'𝒎 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝑰'𝒎 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒚𝒐𝒖"

♛

Dahlia didn't know what to do. On one hand, she was so blinded by rage that her hands had started shaking, on the other hand she wanted to press Matthew's head against hers and whisper that it would be alright.

But currently, she could neither, as it seemed that her husband was missing.

He had slinked out of the pew when no one was watching and da dreadful feeling was curling in Dahlia's stomach. She glanced at Thomas, then at James. Thomas looked ready to run, and that was all the indication she needed. She rushed out of the pew, raced through the Institute to the foyer. She pushed her way out into the cold, only to see their borrowed carriage already rolling out the Institute gates. Bloody hell.

"MATTHEW!" Dahlia yelled, though it seemed without avail considering the windows were up.

"We could take my parent's carriage but I do honestly think they would mind-" Thomas was saying, startling her. "Oh, Thomas, you scared me."

He blushed a little rosy color, "My apologies-"

"We can take my carriage." Dahlia spun in surprise to see Alastair standing behind them, calmly holding Thomas's coat and Dahlia's shawl. "Don't look at me like that," he said. "Clearly I was going to follow you. There's nothing I can do in there, and Cordelia's already gone."

Thomas took his coat from Alastair and shrugged it on. "I'm going after Matthew," he said, and Alastair gave him a dark look that clearly said, Yes, I knew that. "And you don't like Matthew."

"After what Charles has just done, your Matthew will be desperate for a drink," Alastair said. There was nothing accusing or contemptuous in his tone; it was matter-of-fact. "And I have much more experience looking after drunks than you do. Even talking them out of drinking, sometimes. Shall we go?"

Dahlia began to object but stopped quickly realizing more of her reasoning involved her pregnancy which Thomas had no clue of. The Carstairs carriage had already rolled into the courtyard, the driver swaddled against the cold in a thick blanket. Alastair had hold of Thomas's sleeve and they were marching down the steps; a moment later, they were in the carriage as it began to lurch across the ice-slippery courtyard.

The carriage bounced over a rut in the road; Thomas steadied himself and said, "He's stopped drinking, you know."

Alastair looked out the window. He blinked against the wintery light and said, "He's still a drunk. He'll always be a drunk, even if he never drinks again." He sounded weary.

Thomas stiffened. "If you're going to say that sort of thing to him—"

"My father stopped drinking a dozen times," said Alastair. "He would go weeks, months, without a drink. Then something would happen—a disappointment, a minor setback—and he would begin again. Have you ever wanted something," he said, looking at Thomas with a sudden directness, "something you knew you should not have, but that you could not keep away from? Something that occupied all your waking and dreaming thoughts with reminders of how much you wanted it?"

Thomas turned an odd shade of red. "Matthew needs hope."

"I didn't say there was no hope," Alastair said quietly. "Only that it is a difficult journey. It's best for him to know that, so he can be prepared for it." He rubbed at his eyes with a gesture that made him seem younger than he was. "He needs a plan."