فصل 13

13 SOMETHING DARK

Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived

by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.

—François La Rochefoucauld, Maxims

Tessa woke the next day to Sophie lighting the lamp by her bedside. With a moan Tessa made a move to cover her aching eyes.

“Now, then, miss.” Sophie addressed Tessa with her usual briskness. “You’ve gone and slept the day away. It’s past eight o’clock in the evening, and Charlotte said to wake you.” “Past eight? At night?” Tessa threw back her blankets, only to realize, to her surprise, that she was still wearing Camille’s gown, now crushed and crumpled, not to mention stained. She must have collapsed into bed still entirely dressed. Memories of the night before began to flood into her mind—the white faces of vampires, the fire eating its way up the curtains, Magnus Bane laughing, de Quincey, Nathaniel, and Will. Oh, God, she thought. Will.

She pushed the thought of him from her mind and sat up, looking anxiously at Sophie. “My brother,” she said. “Is he . . .”

Sophie’s smile wavered. “No worse, really, but no better, either.” Seeing Tessa’s stricken expression, she said, “A hot bath and food, miss, that’s what you need. It won’t make your brother any better for you to starve and let yourself get filthy.” Tessa looked down at herself. Camille’s dress was ruined, that was evident—torn and stained with blood and ash in a dozen places. Her silk stockings were ripped, her feet filthy, her hands and arms streaked with grime. She hesitated to think about the state of her hair. “I suppose you’re right.” The bathtub was an oval claw-footed affair hidden behind a Japanese screen in a corner of the room. Sophie had filled it with hot water that was already beginning to cool. Tessa slid behind the screen, undressed, and lowered herself into the bath. The hot water came up to her shoulders, warming her. For a moment she sat motionless, letting the heat soak into her chilled bones. Slowly she began to relax, and closed her eyes— Memories of Will flooded in on her. Will, the attic, the way he had touched her hand. The way he had kissed her, then ordered her away.

She ducked under the surface of the water as if she could hide from the humiliating memory. It didn’t work. Drowning yourself won’t help, she told herself sternly. Now, drowning Will, on the other hand . . . She sat up, reached for the cake of lavender soap on the edge of the bath, and scrubbed her skin and hair with it until the water turned black with ash and dirt. Perhaps it wasn’t actually possible to scrub away your thoughts of someone, but she could try.

Sophie was waiting for Tessa when she emerged from behind the screen. There was a tray of sandwiches and tea at the ready. In front of the mirror, she helped Tessa dress in her yellow gown trimmed with dark braid; it was fussier than Tessa would have preferred, but Jessamine had liked the design very much in the shop and had insisted that Tessa have it made for her. I can’t wear yellow, but it’s ever so suitable for girls with dull brown hair like yours, she’d said.

The feeling of the brush going through her hair was very pleasant; it reminded Tessa of when she had been a small girl and Aunt Harriet had brushed her hair for her. It was soothing enough that when Sophie spoke next, it jolted her slightly.

“Did you manage to get Mr. Herondale to take his medicine last night, miss?”

“Oh, I—” Tessa scrambled to collect herself, but it was too late; scarlet color had flooded up her neck into her face. “He didn’t want to,” she finished lamely. “But I convinced him in the end.” “I see.” Sophie’s expression didn’t change, but the rhythmic strokes of the brush through Tessa’s hair began to come faster. “I know it’s not my place, but—”

“Sophie, you can say anything you want to me, truly.”

“It’s just—Master Will.” Sophie’s words came out in a rush. “He isn’t someone you should care for, Miss Tessa. Not like that. He isn’t to be trusted, or relied on. He—he isn’t what you think he is.” Tessa clasped her hands in her lap. She felt a vague sense of unreality. Had things really gone so far that she needed to be warned off Will? And yet it was good to have someone to talk to about him. She felt a bit like a starving person being offered food. “I don’t know what I think he is, Sophie. He’s like one thing sometimes, and then he can change completely, like the wind changing, and I don’t know why, or what’s happened—” “Nothing. Nothing’s happened. He just doesn’t care about anyone but himself.”

“He cares about Jem,” Tessa said quietly.

The brush went still; Sophie had paused, frozen. There was something she wanted to say, Tessa thought, something she was holding herself back from saying. But what was it?

The brush began to move again. “That’s not enough, though.”

“You mean that I shouldn’t wring my heart out over some boy who will never care for me—”

“No!” Sophie said. “There are worse things than that. It’s all right to love someone who doesn’t love you back, as long as they’re worth you loving them. As long as they deserve it.” The passion in Sophie’s voice surprised Tessa. She twisted around to look at the other girl. “Sophie, is there someone you care for? Is it Thomas?”

Sophie looked astonished. “Thomas? No. What ever gave you that idea?”

“Well, because I think he cares for you,” Tessa said. “I’ve seen him looking at you. He watches you when you’re in the room. I suppose I thought . . .”

Her voice trailed off at Sophie’s flabbergasted look.

“Thomas?” Sophie said again. “No, that couldn’t be. I’m sure he hasn’t any such thoughts about me.”

Tessa didn’t move to contradict her; clearly, whatever feelings Thomas might have had, Sophie didn’t return them. Which left . . .

“Will?” Tessa said. “Do you mean you cared for Will once?” Which would explain the bitterness and the dislike, she thought, considering how Will treated girls who fancied him.

“Will?” Sophie sounded absolutely horrified—horrified enough to forget to call Will Mr. Herondale. “Are you asking me if I was ever in love with him?”

“Well, I thought—I mean, he’s awfully handsome.” Tessa realized she sounded rather feeble.

“There’s more to someone being lovable than the way they look. My last employer,” Sophie said, her careful accent slipping with her excitement as she spoke, so that “last” sounded more like “larst,” “he was always off on safari in Africa and India, shooting tigers and things. And he told me that the way you can tell if a bug or a snake is poisonous, like, is if it’s got really lovely, bright markings. The more beautiful its skin is, the more deadly it is. That’s what Will’s like. All that pretty face and whatnot just hides how twisted up and rotten he is on the inside.” “Sophie, I don’t know—”

“There’s something dark in him,” Sophie said. “Something black and dark that he’s hiding. He’s got some sort of secret, the kind that eats you up inside.” She set the silver-haired brush down on the vanity, and Tessa saw with surprise that her hand was shaking. “You mark my words.” After Sophie left, Tessa took the clockwork angel from her bedside table and strung it around her neck. As it settled against her chest, she felt immediately reassured. She had missed it while she’d been disguised as Camille. Its presence was a comfort, and—though it was foolish, she knew—she thought perhaps that if she visited Nate while wearing it, he might feel its presence and be reassured as well.

She kept her hand on it as she shut the bedroom door behind her, made her way down the corridor, and knocked on his door softly. When there was no answer, she took hold of the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains in the room were drawn back, the room half-filled with light, and she could see Nate asleep on his back against a mound of pillows. He had one arm flung across his forehead, and his cheeks were bright with fever.

He wasn’t alone, either. In the armchair by the head of the bed sat Jessamine, a book open on her lap. She met Tessa’s surprised look with a cool and level stare.

“I—,” Tessa began, and collected herself. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I would read to your brother for a while,” Jessamine said. “Everyone’s been asleep half the day, and he was being cruelly neglected. Just Sophie checking in on him, and you can’t count on her for decent conversation.” “Nate’s unconscious, Jessamine; he doesn’t want conversation.”

“You can’t be sure,” Jessamine said. “I’ve heard that people can hear what you say to them even if they’re quite unconscious, or even dead.”

“He’s not dead, either.”

“Certainly not.” Jessamine gave him a lingering look. “He’s far too handsome to die. Is he married, Tessa? Or is there a girl back in New York who has a claim on him?”

“On Nate?” Tessa stared. There had always been girls, all sorts of girls, who’d been interested in Nate, but he had the attention span of a butterfly. “Jessamine, he isn’t even conscious. Now is hardly the time—” “He’ll get better,” Jessamine announced. “And when he does, he’ll know I’m the one who nursed him back to health. Men always fall in love with the woman who nurses them back to health. ‘When pain and anguish wring the brow, / A ministering angel thou!’” she finished, with a self-satisfied smirk. Seeing Tessa’s horrified look, she scowled. “What’s wrong? Am I not good enough for your precious brother?” “He doesn’t have any money, Jessie—”

“I have enough money for both of us. I just need someone to take me away from this place. I told you that.”

“In fact, you asked me if I’d be the one to do it.”

“Is that what’s putting you out of countenance?” Jessamine asked. “Really, Tessa, we can still be the best of friends once we’re sisters-in-law, but a man is always better than a woman for this sort of thing, don’t you think?” Tessa could think of nothing to say in reply.

Jessamine shrugged. “Charlotte wishes to see you, by the way. In the drawing room. She wanted me to tell you. You don’t need to worry about Nathaniel. I’ve been checking his temperature every quarter hour and putting cold compresses on his forehead besides.” Tessa wasn’t sure she believed any of this, but as Jessamine was patently uninterested in giving up her place by Nathaniel’s side, and it hardly seemed worth a battle, she turned with a disgusted sigh and left the room.

The door to the drawing room, when she reached it, was slightly ajar; she could hear raised voices from the other side. She hesitated, her hand half-lifted to knock—then she heard the sound of her own name and she froze.

“This isn’t the London Hospital. Tessa’s brother shouldn’t be here!” It was Will’s voice, raised to a shout. “He’s not a Downworlder, just a stupid, venal mundane who found himself mixed up in something he couldn’t manage—” Charlotte replied, “He can’t be treated by mundane doctors. Not for what’s wrong with him. Be reasonable, Will.”

“He already knows about Downworld.” The voice was Jem’s: calm, logical. “In fact, he may know quite a bit of important information that we don’t know. Mortmain claimed Nathaniel was working for de Quincey; he might have information about de Quincey’s plans, the automatons, the whole Magister business—all of it. De Quincey wanted him dead, after all. Perhaps it was because he knew something he shouldn’t.” There was a long silence. Then, “We can call in the Silent Brothers again, then,” said Will. “They can claw through his mind, see what they find. We needn’t wait for him to wake up.” “You know that sort of process is delicate with mundanes,” protested Charlotte. “Brother Enoch has already said that the fever has driven Mr. Gray into hallucinations. It’s impossible for him to sort through what in the boy’s mind is the truth and what is feverish delirium. Not without damaging his mind, possibly permanently.” “I doubt it was that much of a mind to begin with.” Tessa heard Will’s tone of disgust even through the door and felt her stomach tighten with rage.

“You know nothing about the man.” Jem spoke more coldly than Tessa had ever heard him speak before. “I can’t imagine what’s driving this mood of yours, Will, but it does you no credit.” “I know what it is,” Charlotte said.

“You do?” Will sounded appalled.

“You’re as upset as I am about how last night went. We had only two fatalities, true, but de Quincey’s escape doesn’t reflect well on us. It was my

plan. I pushed it on the Enclave, and now they will blame me for anything that went wrong. Not to mention that Camille has had to go into hiding since we’ve no idea where de Quincey is, and by now he probably has a blood price on her head. And Magnus Bane, of course, is furious with us that Camille has vanished. So our best informant and our best warlock are lost to us at the moment.” “But we did stop de Quincey from murdering Tessa’s brother and who knows how many more mundanes,” Jem said. “That should count for something. Benedict Lightwood didn’t want to believe in de Quincey’s betrayal at first; now he has no choice. He knows you were right.” “That,” said Charlotte, “is likely only going to make him angrier.”

“Perhaps,” said Will. “And perhaps if you hadn’t insisted on tying the success of my plan to the functionality of one of Henry’s ridiculous inventions, we wouldn’t be having this conversation now. You can dance around it all you like, but the reason everything went wrong last night is because the Phosphor didn’t work. Nothing Henry invents ever works. If you’d just admit your husband’s a useless fool, we’d all be a lot better off.” “Will.” Jem’s voice held cold fury.

“No. James, don’t.” Charlotte’s voice shook; there was a sort of thump, as if she’d sat herself down very suddenly in a chair. “Will,” she said, “Henry is a good, kind man and he loves you.” “Don’t be maudlin, Charlotte.” Will’s voice held only scorn.

“He’s known you since you were a boy. He cares for you like you were his own younger brother. As do I. All I’ve ever done is love you, Will—”

“Yes,” said Will, “and I wish you wouldn’t.”

Charlotte made a pained noise, like a kicked puppy. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“I mean everything I say,” said Will. “Especially when I tell you that we’re better off sifting through Nathaniel Gray’s mind now rather than later. If you’re too sentimental to do it—” Charlotte began to interrupt, but it didn’t matter. This was too much for Tessa. She hurled the door open and stalked inside. The inside of the room was lit by a roaring fire, in contrast to the squares of dark gray glass that let in what there was of the cloudy twilight. Charlotte sat behind the large desk, Jem in a chair beside her. Will, on the other hand, was leaning against the fireplace mantel; he was flushed with obvious anger, his eyes blazing, his shirt collar askew. His eyes met Tessa’s for a moment of pure astonishment. Any hope she had entertained that he might have magically forgotten what had happened in the attic the night before vanished. He flushed at the sight of her, his fathomless blue eyes darkening—and looked away, as if he couldn’t stand to hold her gaze.

“I suppose you’ve been eavesdropping, then?” he asked. “And now you’re here to give me a piece of your mind about your precious brother?”

“At least I have a mind to give you a piece of, which Nathaniel won’t, if you have your way.” Tessa turned to Charlotte. “I won’t let Brother Enoch go

pawing through Nate’s mind. He’s sick enough already; it would probably kill him.”

Charlotte shook her head. She looked exhausted, her face gray, her eyelids drooping. Tessa wondered if she’d slept at all. “Most assuredly, we will allow him to heal before we think about questioning him.” “What if he’s ill for weeks? Or months?” Will said. “We might not have that much time.”

“Why not? What’s so urgent you want to risk my brother’s life on it?” Tessa snapped.

Will’s eyes were slivers of blue glass. “All you’ve ever cared about is finding your brother. And now you’ve found him. Good for you. But that was never our goal. You do realize that, don’t you? We don’t usually go quite this far out of our way for the sake of one delinquent mundane.” “What Will is trying to say,” Jem interjected, “though failing at civility, is—” He broke off, and sighed. “De Quincey said that your brother was someone he had trusted. And now de Quincey is gone, and we have no idea where he’s hiding. The notes we found in his office hint that de Quincey believed there would soon be a war between Downworlders and Shadowhunters, a war those clockwork creatures he was working on doubtless figured into prominently. You can see why we want to know where he is, and what else your brother might know.” “Maybe you want to know those things,” Tessa said, “but it’s not my fight. I’m not a Shadowhunter.”

“Indeed,” said Will. “Don’t think we don’t know that.”

“Be quiet, Will.” Charlotte’s tone held more than its usual asperity. She turned from him to Tessa, her brown eyes beseeching. “We trust you, Tessa. You need to trust us, too.” “No,” Tessa said. “No, I don’t.” She could feel Will’s gaze on her and was suddenly filled with a startling rage. How dare he be cold to her, angry at her? What had she done to deserve it? She’d let him kiss her. That was all. Somehow, it was as if that alone had erased everything else she had done that evening—as if now that she’d kissed Will, it no longer mattered that she had also been brave. “You wanted to use me—just like the Dark Sisters did—and the moment you had a chance to, the moment Lady Belcourt came along and you needed what I could do, you wanted me to do it. Never mind how dangerous it was! You behave as if I have some responsibility to your world, your laws and your Accords, but it’s your world, and you’re the ones meant to govern it. It’s not my fault if you’re doing a rotten job!” Tessa saw Charlotte whiten and sit back. She felt a sharp twinge in her chest. It wasn’t Charlotte she had meant to hurt. Still, she went on. She couldn’t help herself, the words coming out in a flood, “All your talk about Downworlders and how you don’t hate them. That’s all nothing, isn’t it? Just words. You don’t mean them. And as for mundanes, have you ever thought maybe you’d be better at protecting them if you didn’t despise them all so much?” She looked at Will. He was pale, his eyes blazing. He looked—she wasn’t sure she could describe his expression. Horrified, she thought, but not at her; the horror ran deeper than that.

“Tessa,” Charlotte protested, but Tessa was already fumbling for the door. She turned at the last moment, on the threshold, to see them all staring at her.

“Stay away from my brother,” she snapped. “And don’t follow me.”

Anger, Tessa thought, was satisfying in its own way, when you gave in to it. There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out.

Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you’d told everyone you hated them and not to come after you, where exactly did you go? If she went back to her own room, it was as much as saying she was just having a tantrum that would wear off. She couldn’t go to Nate and bring her black mood into his sickroom, and lurking anywhere else meant risking being found sulking by Sophie or Agatha.

In the end she took the narrow, winding stairs that led down through the Institute. She made her way through the witch-lit nave and came out onto the broad front steps of the church, where she sank down on the top stair and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the unexpectedly cold breeze. It must have rained sometime during the day, for the steps were damp, and the black stone of the courtyard shone like a mirror. The moon was out, darting in between racing scuds of cloud, and the huge iron gate gleamed blackly in the fitful light. We are dust and shadows.

“I know what you’re thinking.” The voice that came from the doorway behind Tessa was soft enough that it could almost have been part of the wind that rattled the leaves on the tree branches.

Tessa turned. Jem stood in the arch of the doorway, the white witchlight behind him lighting his hair so that it shone like metal. His face, though, was hidden in shadow. He held his cane in his right hand; the dragon’s eyes gleamed watchfully at Tessa.

“I don’t think you do.”

“You’re thinking, If they call this damp nastiness summer, what must winter be like? You’d be surprised. Winter’s actually much the same.” He moved away from the door and sat down on the step beside Tessa, though not too close. “It’s spring that’s really lovely.” “Is it?” Tessa said, without much real interest.

“No. It’s actually quite foggy and wet as well.” He looked sideways at her. “I know you said not to follow you. But I was rather hoping you just meant Will.”

“I did.” Tessa twisted round to look up at him. “I shouldn’t have shouted like that.”

“No, you were quite right to say what you did,” said Jem. “We Shadowhunters have been what we are for so long, and are so insular, that we often forget to look at any situation from someone else’s point of view. It is only ever about whether something is good for the Nephilim or bad for the Nephilim. Sometimes I think we forget to ask whether it is good or bad for the world.” “I never meant to hurt Charlotte.”

“Charlotte is very sensitive about the way the Institute is run. As a woman, she must fight to be heard, and even then her decisions are second-guessed. You heard Benedict Lightwood at the Enclave meeting. She feels she has no freedom to make a mistake.” “Do any of us? Do any of you? Everything is life and death to you.” Tessa took a long breath of the foggy air. It tasted of city, metal and ashes and horses and river water. “I just—I feel sometimes as if I can’t bear it. Any of it. I wish I’d never learned what I was. I wish Nate had stayed home and none of this had ever happened!” “Sometimes,” Jem said, “our lives can change so fast that the change outpaces our minds and hearts. It’s those times, I think, when our lives have altered but we still long for the time before everything was altered—that is when we feel the greatest pain. I can tell you, though, from experience, you grow accustomed to it. You learn to live your new life, and you can’t imagine, or even really remember, how things were before.” “You’re saying I’ll get used to being a warlock, or whatever it is that I am.”

“You’ve always been what you are. That’s not new. What you’ll get used to is knowing it.”

Tessa took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “I didn’t mean what I said upstairs,” she said. “I don’t think the Nephilim are as dreadful as all that.”

“I know you didn’t mean it. If you had, you wouldn’t be here. You’d be at your brother’s side, guarding him against our dire intentions.”

“Will didn’t really mean what he said, either, did he,” Tessa said after a moment. “He wouldn’t hurt Nate.”

“Ah.” Jem looked out toward the gate, his gray eyes thoughtful. “You’re correct. But I’m surprised you know it. I know it. But I have had years to understand Will. To know when he means what he says and when he doesn’t.” “So you don’t ever get angry at him?”

Jem laughed out loud. “I would hardly say that. Sometimes I want to strangle him.”

“How on earth do you prevent yourself?”

“I go to my favorite place in London,” said Jem, “and I stand and look at the water, and I think about the continuity of life, and how the river rolls on, oblivious of the petty upsets in our lives.” Tessa was fascinated. “Does that work?”

“Not really, but after that I think about how I could kill him while he slept if I really wanted to, and then I feel better.”

Tessa giggled. “So where is it, then? This favorite place of yours?”

For a moment Jem looked pensive. Then he bounded to his feet, and held out the hand that did not clasp the cane. “Come along, and I’ll show you.”

“Is it far?”

“Not at all.” He smiled. He had a lovely smile, Tessa thought—and a contagious one. She couldn’t help smiling back, for what felt like the first time in ages.

Tessa let herself be pulled to her feet. Jem’s hand was warm and strong, surprisingly reassuring. She glanced back at the Institute once, hesitated, and let him draw her through the iron gate and out into the shadows of the city.