Day 51. Today started in wonder—and ended in terror. We can only hope that what's befallen Denning is an isolated case, but if not… I must keep this to my personal diary for now. I trust Lord Hector, but if he learns the morphs are reverting like this, he may have no choice but to attack.

Mark ignored Gavin's glare as he paced back and forth in front of the infirmary door. Morphs passed by on occasion, pretending not to glance their way, and Mark pretended not to hear their whispers. "I should be in there," he said at last.

Gavin shifted slightly, knocking some dust from the wall he leaned against. "And do what?" he asked.

"Help."

"How?"

The tactician kicked at a clump of dirt. "Somehow."

Gavin shook his head. "All you'd do is get in the way. If they needed you, they would've asked for you."

It galled Mark to admit that Gavin was right. "Can't you go in?" he asked, turning pleading eyes on the morph. "Just see what's going on?"

Gavin's eyes narrowed. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because all I'd do is get in the way, too." His arms tightened across his chest. "We're both useless, human."

The tactician eyed him a moment, then turned away. It had been over an hour since they'd rushed Denning over here, yet Mark still couldn't escape the memory of Denning's rasping words and the fear in the morphs' eyes. Worse, he still felt his blood rushing through his body, still felt his heart pounding, still felt Cassandra's lips on his—

He shook his head, trying to chase the feeling away. "I should be in there," he said again.

A hand gripped his shoulder, and a chill shot up his spine. He hadn't even heard Gavin move. Angry golden eyes went from Mark's face to the ground. "He's my friend too, Mark," Gavin whispered. "I'm just as worried as you. And the fact that there isn't a damn thing I can do about it is—"

He choked on the words, and his eyes filled with tears. Mark stood still as stone for a moment, then placed his own hand on Gavin's shoulder in turn. "I'm sorry," he said.

Gavin looked up, removed his hand, and pushed Mark's away—gently. "We're doing everything we can. Both of us. Remember that."

The door opened, and just as quickly as Gavin had appeared at Mark's side, he was back against the wall. Light spilled out around Grace's diminutive form as she slunk out of the infirmary. The healer seemed reduced somehow—eroded. Her eyes did not leave the ground.

Gavin touched her shoulder as Mark rushed up the steps. "How is he?" they asked in near unison.

"Physically, he's fine," Grace said. Her voice was like sand piling up beneath a sieve. "He's talked himself near hoarse, but with water and rest, he'll recover. Unless he starts in on that thrice-damned Dread Isle message again." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Where the hell is Peleus? He's supposed to be on duty."

Mark hesitated, unsure of what to say. Gavin glanced back at him. "What about his mind?"

Her tiny frame trembled. "I don't know. I don't know a damn thing. Cassandra managed to get him speaking normally again, but without knowing what caused this, or whether it'll happen again—" Her words morphed into a sob, and she turned away.

Mark stepped forward, reaching for her. "Grace, it'll be all—"

She pushed his hand away. "You shouldn't have killed Nergal."

His blood went cold. "What?"

She met his eyes at last, and the gold of her irises was run through with red. "We deserved that chance."

She turned and swept off into the fort, fists clenched at her sides. Eavesdropping morphs scrambled to get out of the way. Mark made to follow her, but Gavin's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "You'll do more harm than good," the morph growled. "Leave her be."

Bile rose in Mark's throat, but he couldn't deny the truth of Gavin's words. The morph turned him toward the door, and gave him a gentle push. "Go on," he said.

Mark took a step forward—then paused, looking back. "You're not coming?"

Gavin looked away. "I'll—visit him later."

Mark studied him for a moment, then turned his back on the morph and climbed the steps. The door was still hanging open; he shut it to keep out the cold. The room was empty except for Denning, reclined on a bed and clutching a flask of water. The morph archer smiled at his approach. "About time," he croaked.

The bedframe creaked under Mark's weight as he sat down. "You'll have to forgive my tardiness."

"Will I?" Denning turned away and coughed. "Never mind. You're forgiven."

Mark's eyes flicked across the empty infirmary. He opened his mouth, but hesitated.

"Cassandra left already," Denning said, motioning to the back door. "She wanted to talk to Ellain about what happened." He glanced at the bed opposite Mark. "She… sends her apologies."

Mark nodded, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment. "What did happen, exactly?" he asked.

Denning merely shrugged. "I suppose I had a relapse of sorts. 'Old habits die hard,' and all that." He smiled weakly. Like his wife, he seemed drained.

Mark took a deep breath. "Denning," he said softly, "this could be serious."

The morph's smile flickered for a moment. "Yes. It could be. I hope it isn't. But it could be."

Mark realized his hands were shaking. He forced them still.

Denning motioned to the back door. "But I have faith in our fearless leader. She freed me of this message once; she can do it again."

Except if she had truly freed you of the message, she wouldn't need to do it again. Mark kept the pessimistic thought to himself, instead asking, "You really think so?"

"Of course," Denning answered, smile turning sly. "She's quite a woman—though I don't need to tell you that."

"She is," Mark demurred. After a moment, he blinked and looked up. "I mean—what?"

Denning was grinning. "Nergal hijacked my tongue, not my eyes," he said. "I saw you and Cassandra pulling your clothes on—and there are few sights in the world that could make Ellain blush like that."

Mark quickly stood up, turning away from the archer. "I don't suppose Grace keeps anything in here I could use to poison myself, does she?"

"Sit down," Denning laughed, before breaking into a fit of coughing. "Oof. Don't make me laugh. My throat still hurts." He shook his head as Mark sat back down. "I know you don't like speaking of sexual matters, but I thought it'd be better when you were the subject of discussion."

"It's not better," Mark replied. "It's worse. It's significantly worse."

"I apologize, then."

The tactician took a breath, looking to the door through which Cassandra had left without a word to him. "Denning, I'm not… I don't even know what this is. Everything happened so quickly, we didn't have a chance to talk about…" He trailed off as the memories took him again. Had Cassandra always smelled that good?

"It seems clear enough to me," Denning said, settling back onto his bed. "Where it's going is another matter entirely, but for now, you two have found something in each other." He smiled. "My only regret is Ellain and I interrupted before you—"

He broke off, coughing once more. Mark leapt to his feet before remembering the flask sitting on Denning's lap. He gripped the morph's hands in his own, carefully guiding the flask to Denning's mouth and helping him drink once the coughing subsided. "I'm sorry," Mark said as the morph gulped down water. "I shouldn't be making you talk this much."

Denning shook his head and wiped off his mouth. "Please. I'd rather be talking about you two than talking about the message from Lord Nergal. 'I await you at the Dread Isle.' This is a—"

His hand went to his mouth as his eyes widened in shock. Mark backed away from the bed, flask hanging forgotten in his fingers. "I'll get Cassandra," he said, turning to go.

"No!" Denning shouted, and Mark felt a tug on his shirt. He turned to find the archer clinging to him, gazing up with terror in his eyes. "No," he whispered. "Please—don't leave me."

No sound but their breaths could be heard, until Mark sat back down on the bed, putting his hands over Denning's. "It's all right," he whispered. "I won't."

Ellain had somehow managed to find the time and materials to decorate her quarters, despite them not being significantly more luxurious than anyone else's. A plush carpet, Sacaen suncatchers in the window, even a few paintings hanging on the wall. Any other day, Cassandra would have been shaking her head at the excess. Now, though, she had more important things to worry about.

"I was on my way to visit Grace," Ellain explained. She placed a kettle over the fire before making her way to her sofa. "I saw Denning talking to Peleus; I asked if he wasn't supposed to be guarding Mark, and he told me how you two had left him behind. He looked like nothing so much as a lost puppy, so I invited him to escort me to the infirmary. We were passing Shel's shop when he stumbled. I thought nothing of it at first, but he kept having trouble walking—his legs couldn't move properly."

Cassandra nodded, scribbling down in her ledger. "So he lost motor control before the message began."

"I wouldn't say 'lost' so much as 'had interrupted.' He came back up after a moment. When I asked him if he was all right, he responded with…" Her eyes flicked down. "Well, you know."

"It may be related," Cassandra mused. "Denning's entire purpose was to deliver that message. It could be tied to his other functions as well."

Ellain shivered. "All these years later, and that man's shadow still looms over us."

The quill pressed harder into the page. "Not if I have anything to say about it."

Ellain's eyes followed the scribbling quill. "Cassandra," she whispered, "I'm so sorry. For this to happen now, of all times…"

"It had to be now," Cassandra murmured. "I was starting to feel…" She paused in her notes. "Happy."

Despite everything, Ellain smiled at her. "I must admit, if it weren't for our current situation, I'd be grinning my ears off. You and Mark—"

"Shh!" Cassandra surged forward, finger on her lips. "Not so loud! You want the entire fort to know?!"

The temptress blinked. "Well… yes. I think everyone would be delighted to know you've found someone who makes you happy." She eyed Cassandra a moment. "Did you wish to keep it secret?"

"Of course." Though even as she said it, she couldn't quite explain why.

Ellain pursed her lips. "Because I may have mentioned it to a few people."

Cassandra felt herself stiffen. "Who?"

"Just a few. Quite a few. Many." She smiled. "Sorry."

Cassandra groaned, letting the quill slide from her fingers. "Ellain, this isn't—I don't even know where things are going with him," she mumbled.

"It seemed pretty clear to me."

"Ellain—"

"They were going to the bed."

"Ellain!"

"What?" She shrugged. "You're the one who had him half-naked on your floor. I'm just sorry I interrupted before things got further."

Cassandra stood up and marched to the fireplace. That way, she could at least blame her red cheeks on the heat.

A moment later, she felt Ellain's hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry," the temptress said in a surprisingly genuine tone. "I don't mean to tease. I'm happy for you—truly."

Cassandra watched the flames dancing. Like children in the summertime—children she thought she'd be able to see someday. "How did you know," she whispered, "that Denning and Grace's feelings for each other were real?"

The crackle of the flames filled the space until Ellain's reply. "Do you mean real as in 'not artificial?' Or real as in 'not fake?'"

Cassandra glanced back at her. "What's the difference?"

Ellain was watching the fire as well. "We are artificial, dear," she whispered. "So all our feelings must be, too. But does that mean they don't exist?"

Cassandra ran her hand along the opposite arm as she turned back to the flames. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do." Ellain chuckled. "Denning once told me that he could no more ignore his feelings for Grace than he could the air he breathes. Does that sound real to you?"

The kettle began to whistle, and Ellain made to grab it off the hook. "I don't really have time for tea," Cassandra said.

"Make time." Ellain swept over to the table and filled a pot with the boiling water. "You can't take care of Denning if you don't take care of yourself."

A protest rose in Cassandra's throat, but died before reaching her mouth. She went to the table, crossing paths with Ellain, who returned the kettle to the hearth. She began counting in her head to give the tea enough time to steep. "You're not… well…" She risked a glance at the temptress. "Jealous?"

Ellain paused, hand still on the kettle's handle, staring at Cassandra before bursting out in a peal of laughter. "Jealous? Of—you? And Mark?" She shook her head, wiping a tear from her eye. "Dear Cassandra, did you think I truly had any designs on him?"

Cassandra pursed her lips, turning back to the pot. "You certainly seemed to when you first met."

The laughter subsided. "Yes, but that's just how I am, dear. When I see a human man, my old habits resurface. I certainly never would have actually taken him to bed." She returned to the sofa, shaking her head. "You should have seen me on our supply runs. Sometimes I'd barely make it out of town before someone tried to drag me into a tavern—or worse."

Cassandra's mental count reached what she hoped was enough time. She began pouring the tea. "It's lucky for them they didn't get the chance," she muttered.

Ellain nodded, brushing the topic aside with a flick of her hair. "And as I said, I couldn't be happier for you. You've always stood alone, bearing the burden of our survival on your shoulders. But over the last few weeks, you've started sharing that burden with Mark." She accepted the cup Cassandra offered her and raised it to her lips, hiding her smirk behind a sip of tea. "And now it seems you're ready to share… other things with him, as well."

Cassandra refused to allow Ellain to embarrass her further—whatever her burning cheeks might indicate.

She took the chair opposite Ellain, and they sipped their tea in silence for a minute. It was a surprisingly good blend, the smoothness of white with the strength of green. "May I tell you something?" Ellain asked.

Cassandra lowered her cup, nodding. "Of course."

Ellain set her cup down, folding her hands in her lap. She looked down at them as if her satin gloves were covered in blood. "After you freed me," she murmured, "I pledged never again to take a man to my bed."

Cassandra was glad she'd set her own cup down already. "You—what?"

"Or to let one take me to bed. Or a woman, for that matter. I just—" She closed her eyes, taking a calming breath. "Nergal made me solely to seduce and manipulate. We were all simply tools to him, yet I was less even than that. When you freed me—when I realized what that freedom meant, I—" She cut off again, and Cassandra saw a tear glinting in the firelight as it rolled down her face. "Forgive me," the temptress—the woman—whispered.

Cassandra was at her side in a heartbeat, handing her a handkerchief. "There is nothing to forgive," she whispered back.

She returned to her own seat as Ellain dabbed her eyes. She waited for the other woman to regain her composure before asking, "Does Gavin know all this?"

Ellain grimaced. "Not all of it, no. He knows that whatever happens between us, it will never lead to consummation."

"Yet he pursues you still."

"He stands by me still. There's a difference." She shook her head. "I know not whether he holds out hope of bedding me one day, or if he's accepted that things will remain chaste between us. Either way, he never makes me feel pressured or obligated." She slowly lowered the cup, gaze shifting to the window. "Perhaps that's why I still allow him to be near me. Spending time with a man who likes me, yet expects nothing… it's nice, in its own way."

Cassandra followed her gaze. The stars were beginning to emerge as the daylight faded. The morning had brought a sense of joy and renewed purpose to the fort. Now, with Denning in the infirmary, all was uncertainty. She closed her eyes.

"Do you think," Ellain began softly, picking up her cup once more, "this could happen again?"

Cassandra's eyes blinked open, focusing on the other woman. "You mean what's happening to Denning."

"It only takes a brief meeting with a man for me to start manipulating him," Ellain said, eyes reflecting the stars. "The things Nergal put in me are still there. What if they take control?" She turned back to her leader, tears welling once more. "I can't go back to how I was, Cassandra. If I do, I'll…"

Despite the friction between them—or, perhaps, because of it—Cassandra had always looked to Ellain for strength. Now, seeing her with eyes turned down, body closed off, hands clutching her teacup as though it were her last hope at life, she saw the other woman's vulnerabilities. She saw all their vulnerabilities.

She picked up her cup, rose from her seat, rounded the table, and slid onto the sofa next to Ellain. "I'll stop it," she said firmly. "We'll stop it."

Somehow.

Ellain looked at her for a moment, teacup trembling in her hand. She set it down and leaned over, resting her head on Cassandra's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.

As with Grace, something seemed to have been drained from Gavin when he emerged from the infirmary after speaking to Denning. He hadn't even thought twice about leaving Mark alone outside. Mark tried not to be obvious in his glances as Gavin escorted him back to his room, but he was sure the morph noticed. "He'll be all right, Gavin," he offered at last, weakly. "I'm sure he will."

Gavin paused in the middle of the way. He looked up at the clouds, nostrils flaring in the evening air. "What makes you so sure?"

"Cassandra will find a way."

"She found a way before." The morph shook his head. "Yet here we are."

He continued on, motioning for Mark to follow. The tactician obeyed, weighed down by the notion that he should say something—anything—to make it better. But there was nothing to be said, and he knew it.

Still, he was now trailing after Gavin, where before, the morph would have insisted on keeping him in front. That wasn't nothing.

Gavin slowed in his steps. "Mark?"

"Yes?"

"Did Cassandra force you?"

"Force me?"

Gavin glanced over his shoulder at him; his expression looked like he was walking on caltrops. "Ellain told me about you two."

"Oh." Mark faltered as a blush reached his cheeks. "Oh. I, uh, don't really like to talk about—"

"You think I do?" Gavin snorted. His face softened. "But she is your captor."

Mark's hands balled into fists. "And that means she shouldn't be fraternizing with her hostage?"

He expected a scowl, but none came. "It means you may have felt unable to turn her down."

Mark tilted his head. "Are you worried about her?" he asked slowly. "Or me?"

Gavin turned away.

Mark took a breath, willing his hackles down. "She sought my consent, and I granted it."

"But—"

"If I'd said 'no,' she'd have let me walk away. I'm certain of that."

"You can't know for sure."

"No," Mark admitted. "But you know Cassandra. What do you think?"

Gavin said nothing. But the tension seemed to slip from his stride.

They rounded a corner, and Gavin suddenly halted, Mark nearly tripping over him. The tactician looked over the morph's shoulder and suppressed a gasp. Cassandra stood there, eyeing the two of them, fingers dancing over the hilt of her sword. "Good evening," she muttered.

"Good evening," Gavin replied. Good thing, too; Mark couldn't find his tongue.

She nodded, eyeing them. Mark had never seen her looking this uncertain, not even when she'd faced down an army. "Gavin," she began, "I'd like to—"

"I'll go," he said softly. Before she could respond, he had melted into the shadows.

The autumn air suddenly seemed to grow much warmer.

Cassandra was still a moment before motioning to him. He stepped forward, and she fell in beside him. Her eyes remained steadfast on the road, yet he couldn't stop stealing glances at her. Morphs went about their business all around them—the ebullient atmosphere of this morning had faded, but there was still work to be done. Still, conversations ended and gazes lingered whenever Mark and Cassandra approached. Most didn't even have the courtesy to be subtle about it.

Mark took a breath, letting the cool air flow into his lungs. "I know we haven't had a chance to—"

"I love you."

Mark almost lost his footing. "I—what?"

"I know," Cassandra said, running her hands through her hair. "I know it sounds insane. I'm a morph. You're my hostage. I've known you for less than two months. But—" She stopped in her tracks, turning to face him. "But we've spent almost every day of that time together, and you've gone from being my hostage to being my helper and—last week, you said I could be your friend. And there was the dinner, and you helped Denning, and you just made the cutest expression every time I embarrassed you, and—"

She broke off, turning to face him. Every morph in the street was watching; it felt like the entire fort was leaning in. "When we were in my room today, I couldn't pretend any more. I knew I had to kiss you, or I'd regret it for the rest of my life. It's not fair to you, but—"

He placed a hand on her back; she flinched away, but then pulled closer. "Cassandra," he whispered, "I love you, too."

Her eyes seemed to glow golden in the night as they lifted to meet his. "You do?"

"I do. And maybe you're right, maybe that's insane. But it's how I feel, and I can't pretend otherwise."

She wrung her hands. "You can't ignore it," she whispered, "any more than you can ignore the air you breathe."

He smiled. "That's lovely. And exactly right."

"It's Denning's." She lowered her eyes, screwing them shut. "But," she said, "I need to deal with this now."

He felt a coldness in his throat. "What?"

"Denning. What's wrong with him, I—" She began to tremble; the listening morphs all seemed to be holding their breath. "I couldn't fix it, Mark. Not totally. Maybe I can, but it'll take time. And if it's happening to him, it could be happening to others, and if that happens—"

"It won't," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"You don't know that," she muttered.

He winced. "You're right. I'm sorry, I just wanted to—"

"I know. And I appreciate it. But it's not doing me or Denning any good." She leaned forward, resting her head against his chest. He could feel her trembling. "I can't afford to be distracted, Mark. Not right now." Her shoulders slumped. "I'm… sorry."

He let his hands slowly rise, wrapping one around her shoulders and one around her waist. "I understand," he whispered.

Her trembling subsided. "You do?"

"I do." He gave her a gentle squeeze. "Whether you need me there, or need me not there—I'll do whatever I can to help."

She remained in his arms for a good minute before pulling away. Starlight danced in her eyes as she gazed up at him, and then pulled herself up. The kiss was far briefer and less fiery than their last one—but it was no less intoxicating. Around them, Mark could hear a few surprised gasps, a few polite coughs, and more than a few delighted squeals.

When she pulled away, she slid a hand down his chest, leaning in close to him. "When I do fix this, you and I are picking up where we left off this morning. Understood?"

He wasn't sure why she bothered whispering; from the way his face went red, every morph there would be able to tell what she was saying. "Understood," he replied.

She nodded, struggling to control her smile. "All right," she said. "Let's see where Gavin wandered off to. We both have work to do."

"Matthew?"

The spy hissed out a curse before turning slowly to smile at Serra. "Yes, milady?"

She frowned, rubbing sleep from her eyes. The candle she held cast shadows dancing down the hall. "Milady? You never call me that. What's going on? Why are you skulking about out here at night?"

Clearly not skulking well enough, if you could hear me. "Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd take a look around the castle, make sure everything's all right." He moved toward her, footsteps echoing loudly down the corridor, interrupting the still of the night. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"Obviously not." She drew back a little, clutching her nightrobe close. "So, is everything all right?"

"It is indeed," he replied, still keeping that smile plastered on his face. "Why don't you go back to bed?"

"Why not," she murmured. She took a step back, still peering at him in the dark.

She trusted me, once.

Matthew shook off the thought. "Mila—Sister Serra. You know Lucius will be all right."

She stiffened, holding the candle higher. "Don't presume to know my mind, Matthew."

"It's not hard when you wear your heart on your sleeve." He cursed himself for getting his hackles up.

"As opposed to you, who lacks a heart altogether?" She snorted. "When's the last time you ever felt anything for anyone, Matthew?"

I felt for you.

"You're trying to save Mark," she went on, saving him from answering, "simply because you're the one who lost him in the first place. Or, if you really expect me to believe it's not a matter of personal pride, then you're trying to recover an asset to Ostia. You don't care about him. You haven't cared about anyone since—"

Thank the gods, she stopped before speaking the name. Color crept out of her face, already pale in the candlelight. "Oh, Matthew," she breathed. "I didn't mean—"

"It's all right." His voice felt hollow in his own mouth.

"But I—"

"Go to sleep, Serra. I'm sorry I disturbed you."

He turned and resumed his walk down the hall, praying she wouldn't follow. Chastisement or apology—he couldn't take either from her, not now. He'd chosen his duty. She'd chosen Lucius.

And she was right about him. She was right about everything.

Leila…

"Quite a woman you got there, Matt."

Matthew held up a hand to the shadow that had spoken, glancing back over his shoulder. There was no sign of Serra, neither flickering candlelight nor pink-haired silhouette. "She's spoken for," he whispered back.

"Pity." A figure melted out of the shadow, taking on the form of a tall man in a red cloak. "When you meet the right one, you can't let her slip away. I learned that lesson almost too late."

"Your report, Gorlois."

The man sighed dramatically, though he still could barely be heard. He was actually a little older than Matthew, but ever since Hector had caught Gorlois looting the castle years before, he'd answered faithfully to the spymaster, working across Elibe in the name of Ostian interests. Rather, of Lycian interests—though the two were, theoretically, the same. Gorlois fingered his dagger as he spoke "Your messages were all delivered," he began. "Bern, Ilia, Sacae—they all got them, and our men are safely back at their posts."

Matthew arched an eyebrow. "What about Nabata?"

Gorlois gave him a steely look. "What about Nabata?"

Were it anyone else, Matthew would have done something about the insubordination. "Good enough," he muttered, still feeling empty. It was exactly what he'd wanted—exactly what was needed. "Given that the deliveries were to occur on the thirteenth…"

"The recipients could be arriving any day now," Gorlois finished. "Assuming they're feeling charitable enough to come."

"Then it's time to move things forward."

Matthew turned, then stopped at the feeling of a hand on his shoulder. Gorlois took a slow breath before he spoke. "You remember I swore allegiance to Hector, right?"

The hidden meaning was clear to Matthew. "We're doing this for Hector."

"Without telling him about it."

Matthew shrugged. "That's why I'm spymaster. I make decisions so he doesn't have to."

Who are you trying to convince, Matthew? Gorlois, or yourself?

Either way, Gorlois released him. Matthew stepped back, regarding the man. "Did any of your men read the messages?" he asked.

The corner of Gorlois's mouth quirked up. "Of course not. That would be dishonest."

"A couple of thieves are the last people who should be talking about honesty."

"I'm reformed. And you were just pretending to be a thief. That's doubly dishonest."

Matthew almost laughed. The need for quiet and the gravity of the situation ensured he didn't. "Good night, Gorlois."

The other man raised an eyebrow. "You're really not going to tell me what this is about?"

Matthew paused. Gorlois was a good man—or as close to a good man as you could find in this business. But nobody outside of their army from five years ago knew about Nergal, his morphs, or how close they'd come to crushing Elibe. They'd kept it a secret all this time, and Matthew wasn't going to risk changing that now.

"You'll know soon enough." Or he wouldn't. In the end, it didn't matter.

All that mattered was what Hector did—now that Matthew had forced his hand.