Chapter Text
1898
The first time Matthew had discovered Oscar Wilde, he had been only 12 years old.
The discovery had been an accident, and an odd one at that. His mother had taken him from their Idris home out into London to climb through the shops lining its streets. He always liked going out with Charlotte; those days were so infrequent. She worked so much that time with her slipped through Matthew’s blond locks like rainwater, changing the hue and texture without fundamentally altering its volume.
And he always liked Piccadilly, too, its hustle and bustle bright in the new electric lights that were becoming so popular throughout the city. It seemed a bit of magic, Matthew thought, magic for those who did not believe that it truly existed. His cousin Christopher would probably declare it science, try to study it, but Matthew found that he was happier with the elusive mystery of glowing and flickering golden sparks.
“Do you think that one day they could illuminate signs with the electricity?” Matthew asked Charlotte. So far, they hadn’t done more than install them along the roadside, replacing the gas lamps that had once provided so much dim lighting. But there was talk that electricity might light up the streets more soon, make them as flashy as Matthew wished that he were with his emerald rings and bright waistcoats. “Perhaps they could shine them above the text, or some such thing. Or from within, even! It would be mad. I do hope to see it, this mundane sort of magic.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Matthew,” Charlotte said, and ruffled his hair.
Matthew pouted. He knew that he was, as Charlotte said, ridiculous; Charles Buford told him as much, too. But others had called Henry, his papa, ridiculous in the past as well, and he had invented the portal. Perhaps Matthew’s madness would amount to something one day, too.
If only he were more than a dreamer.
Charlotte stopped in front of Fortnum and Mason, one of the most famous department stores in all of England. Everyone loved Fortnum and Mason; Aunt Sophie had stories of how Uncle Gideon had tried to woo her with a hamper from their shop. It had, of course, worked, though Matthew wondered why those hampers might be so special. Charlotte always said they were too expensive, a waste of money. Matthew thought that she was too sensible for her own good.
“Can I get a hamper?” Matthew asked, because it was good to live in hope.
Charlotte looked irritated. “No, but you can get a pastry.”
“What about a waistcoat?”
“Oh, Matthew, do be serious,” Charlotte told him, which was neither a yes nor a no.
Matthew shrugged; he would take the answer. He selected a small lemon-flavored tea cake with orange icing and browsed the fashion items while Charlotte looked at whatever dull things she was intrigued by.
The hats alone, with their black satin texture and small gold tassels, were magnificent. They would pair nicely with the brocade suit jacket nearby, Matthew thought. The gold and green would contrast magnificently, and perhaps the texture of the tassels would work well with the fringe covering its seams.
Matthew shook his head; he was silly. This, and all that it was, was so silly. But he couldn’t help it; he liked beautiful things, and the temptation was immense.
He walked up to Charlotte. “Mother, might I choose something stylish?” He said, employing what he knew others thought of as the Smile.
She raised an eyebrow at him. “I will get you one thing worth under two crowns.”
That would do, then. Matthew took the hat with its golden tassels and brought it back to Charlotte; she looked as though Matthew were some incomprehensible creature, but bought it for him as promised. He wore it on his head as they left the building, and he looked over toward the shop next door, and…
He saw the small sign first, in the window of Hatchard’s. Beauty is the only thing that time cannot harm, it read, and above it there was a hardbound book with a gold binding that matched his tassels.
“Mother?” Matthew said, looking at Charlotte with baleful eyes. “What is that book?”
“I don’t know, Matthew,” Charlotte told him. If Matthew didn’t know better, he might think her exasperated.
“It looks like… essays?” He squinted at the book. The English Renaissance of Art… Sounded like essays, indeed.
Matthew crossed his arms across his chest. “Essays are educational,” he informed Charlotte, feeling that he might make his point by professing the virtues of things he knew little of. “I do not know much of essays, but I should like to learn.”
“Matthew…”
“I do like to learn things,” he told her.
“Let me guess,” Charlotte said drily, “you want me to get you that essay book.”
“Well, if you’re offering.”
Charlotte looked down at Matthew, her eyes narrow. “Do you promise you’ll actually read it?”
Matthew felt his eyes widen in surprise; he hadn’t expected it to be so easy. “Yes,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound too taken aback. “There’s nothing I would wish for more than to begin tonight.”
“You are quite dramatic,” Charlotte said, placing her hand on his shoulder as they walked into the bookshop. “Did you know that?”
Matthew decided to take that as a compliment.
-
The English Renaissance of Art did not turn out to be an essay at all. It turned out to be a transcription of a lecture, one given by a Mr. Oscar Wilde in America back in 1882. That seemed an unfathomably long time ago to Matthew, who had not yet been born when the words in this book were spoken.
And yet, he loved it. He had never connected with anything more, he thought, than the book’s descriptions of art. The spirit that an artist brought to his work was personal; it was an expression of the self. Matthew thought of his colorful waistcoats, of his rings and hats. An expression of the self, indeed.
Art was useless. Art was only beautiful for its own sake.
The secret of life was in art.
-
Matthew tore through all of Wilde’s works in the Fairchild manor in Idris. Their library was extensive; he doubted that Charlotte and Henry even knew that they had a house filled with the magical stories and plays that he produced. And with each read, his mindset shifted, his thoughts expanded. He was made new.
There was more to life than weaponry and parlays, even if the stark clairvoyance Mark on his hand wanted him to believe otherwise. There was more than a unicolor field of green in Alicante or the dull Wards surrounding the demon towers outside his bedroom window. And there was more than rainy London, and more even than Paris, the city Matthew dreamt of but had not yet visited.
There was beauty.
There was art.
There was color.