“This is yours.”
The silver cross, clinging to a long, leather cord, glints in the light.
Arthur gives him an expectant look, green eyes considering under his lashes. “Go on, take it then.” The chord hangs limply off his index finger and Matthew is half-convinced that it is a trap.
“That’s not mine.” Matthew forces his tongue to move and he turns away, shies away.
For a brief moment, those eyes are devastated and then Arthur blinks and the pain is gone.
“It was part of a rosary…that broke when you were a child.” Arthur says quietly. “I took it from your hand and it shattered into a thousand little beads and you cried and—”
“Oh, what a pity—”
“And then I fixed it and set it onto a little metal chain.”
Matthew did not move. He wants to run.
He cannot move.
“Don’t you want it back?”