فصل 9

9 THE ENCLAVE

May make my heart as a millstone, set my face as a flint,

Cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes and dust.

—Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Maud”

“Try it again,” Will suggested. “Simply walk from one end of the room to the other. We’ll tell you if you look convincing.”

Tessa sighed. Her head throbbed, as did the backs of her eyes. It was exhausting learning how to pretend to be a vampire.

It had been two days since Lady Belcourt’s visit, and Tessa had spent almost every moment since then attempting to convincingly transform herself into the vampire woman, without enormous success. She still felt as if she were sliding around on the surface of Camille’s mind, unable to reach through and grasp hold of thoughts or personality. It made it difficult to know how to walk, how to talk, and what sort of expressions she ought to be wearing when she met the vampires at de Quincey’s party—whom, no doubt, Camille knew very well, and whom Tessa would be expected to know too.

She was in the library now, and had spent the last few hours since lunch practicing walking with Camille’s odd gliding walk, and speaking with her careful drawling voice. Pinned at her shoulder was a jeweled brooch that one of Camille’s human subjugates, a wrinkled little creature called Archer, had brought over in a trunk. There had been a dress, too, for Tessa to wear to de Quincey’s, but it was much too heavy and elaborate for daytime. Tessa made do with her own new blue and white dress, which was bothersomely too tight in the bosom and too loose in the waist whenever she changed into Camille.

Jem and Will had set up camp on one of the long tables in the back of the library, ostensibly to help and advise her, but more likely, it seemed, to mock and be amused by her consternation. “You point your feet out too much when you walk,” Will went on. He was busy polishing an apple on his shirtfront, and appeared not to notice Tessa glaring at him. “Camille walks delicately. Like a faun in the woods. Not like a duck.” “I do not walk like a duck.”

“I like ducks,” Jem observed diplomatically. “Especially the ones in Hyde Park.” He glanced sideways at Will; both boys were sitting on the edge of the high table, their legs dangling over the side. “Remember when you tried to convince me to feed a poultry pie to the mallards in the park to see if you could breed a race of cannibal ducks?” “They ate it too,” Will reminisced. “Bloodthirsty little beasts. Never trust a duck.”

“Do you mind?” Tessa demanded. “If you’re not going to help me, you might as well both leave. I didn’t let you stay here so that I could listen to you nattering on about ducks.” “Your impatience,” said Will, “is most unladylike.” He grinned at her around the apple. “Perhaps Camille’s vampire nature is asserting itself?”

His tone was playful. It was so odd, Tessa thought. Only a few days ago he had snarled at her about his parents, and later had begged her to help him hide Jem’s bloody coughing, his face burning with intensity as he did so. And now he was teasing her as if she were a friend’s little sister, someone whom he knew casually, perhaps thought of with affection, but for whom he had no complex feelings at all.

Tessa bit her lip—and winced at the unexpected sharp pain. Camille’s vampire teeth—her teeth—were ruled by an instinct she couldn’t understand. They seemed to slide forward without warning or prompting, alerting her to their presence only by sudden bursts of pain as they punctured the fragile skin of her lip. She tasted blood in her mouth—her own blood, salty and hot. She pressed her fingertips to her mouth; when she drew her hand away, her fingers were spotted with red.

“Leave it alone,” said Will, setting down his apple and rising to his feet. “You’ll find you heal very quickly.”

Tessa poked at her left incisor with her tongue. It was flat again, an ordinary tooth. “I don’t understand what makes them come out like that!”

“Hunger,” said Jem. “Were you thinking about blood?”

“No.”

“Were you thinking about eating me?” Will inquired.

“No!”

“No one would blame you,” said Jem. “He’s very annoying.”

Tessa sighed. “Camille is so difficult. I don’t understand the first thing about her, much less being her.”

Jem looked at her closely. “Are you able to touch her thoughts? The way you said you could touch the thoughts of those you transformed into?”

“Not yet. I’ve been trying, but all I get are occasional flashes, images. Her thoughts seem very well protected.”

“Well, hopefully you can break through that protection before tomorrow night,” said Will. “Or I wouldn’t say much about our chances.”

“Will,” Jem chided. “Don’t say that.”

“You’re right,” Will said. “I shouldn’t underestimate my own skills. Should Tessa make a mess of things, I’m sure I’ll be able to fight our way through the slavering vampire masses to freedom.” Jem—as was his habit, Tessa was starting to realize—simply ignored this. “Perhaps,” he said, “you can only touch the thoughts of the dead, Tessa? Perhaps most of the objects given to you by the Dark Sisters were taken from people they had murdered.” “No. I touched Jessamine’s thoughts when I Changed into her. So that can’t be it, thankfully. What a morbid talent that would be.”

Jem was looking at her with thoughtful silver eyes; something about the intensity of his gaze made her feel almost uncomfortable. “How clearly can you see the thoughts of the dead? For instance, if I gave you an item that had once belonged to my father, would you know what he was thinking when he died?” It was Will’s turn to look alarmed. “James, I don’t think—,” he began, but broke off as the door to the library opened and Charlotte entered the room. She wasn’t alone. There were at least a dozen men following her, strangers whom Tessa had never seen before.

“The Enclave,” Will whispered, and gestured for Jem and Tessa to duck behind one of the ten-foot bookcases. They observed from their hiding place as the room filled with Shadowhunters—most of them men. But Tessa saw, as they filed into the room, that among them were two women.

She could not help staring at them, remembering what Will had said about Boadicea, that women could be warriors as well. The taller of the women—and she must have been nearly six feet in height—had powder white hair wound into a crown at the back of her head. She looked as if she were well into her sixties, and her presence was regal. The second of the women was younger, with dark hair, catlike eyes, and a secretive demeanor.

The men were a more mixed group. The eldest was a tall man dressed all in gray. His hair and skin were gray as well, his face bony and aquiline, with a strong, thin nose and a sharp chin. There were hard lines at the corners of his eyes and dark hollows under his cheekbones. His eyes were rimmed with red. Beside him stood the youngest of the group, a boy probably no more than a year older than Jem or Will. He was handsome in an angular sort of way, with sharp but regular features, tousled brown hair, and a watchful expression.

Jem made a noise of surprise and displeasure. “Gabriel Lightwood,” he muttered to Will under his breath. “What’s he doing here? I thought he was in school in Idris.” Will hadn’t moved. He was staring at the brown-haired boy with his eyebrows raised, a faint smile playing about his lips.

“Just don’t get into a fight with him, Will,” Jem added hastily. “Not here. That’s all I ask.”

“Rather a lot to ask, don’t you think?” Will said without looking at Jem. Will had leaned out from behind the bookcase, and was watching Charlotte as she ushered everyone toward the large table at the front of the room. She seemed to be urging everyone to settle themselves into seats around it.

“Frederick Ashdown and George Penhallow, here, if you please,” Charlotte said. “Lilian Highsmith, if you’d sit over there by the map—”

“And where is Henry?” asked the gray-haired man with an air of brusque politeness. “Your husband? As one of the heads of the Institute, he really ought to be here.” Charlotte hesitated for only a fraction of a second before plastering a smile onto her face. “He’s on his way, Mr. Lightwood,” she said, and Tessa realized two things—one, that the gray-haired man was most likely the father of Gabriel Lightwood, and two, that Charlotte was lying.

“He’d better be,” Mr. Lightwood muttered. “An Enclave meeting without the head of the Institute present—most irregular.” He turned then, and though Will moved to duck back behind the tall bookcase, it was too late. The man’s eyes narrowed. “And who’s back there, then? Come out and show yourself!” Will glanced toward Jem, who shrugged eloquently. “No point hiding till they drag us out, is there?”

“Speak for yourself,” Tessa hissed. “I don’t need Charlotte angry at me if we’re not supposed to be in here.”

“Don’t work yourself into a state. There’s no reason you’d have had any idea about the Enclave meeting, and Charlotte’s perfectly well aware of that,” Will said. “She always knows exactly who to blame.” He grinned. “I’d turn yourself back into yourself, though, if you take my meaning. No need to give too much of a shock to their hoary old constitutions.” “Oh!” For a moment Tessa had nearly forgotten she was still disguised as Camille. Hastily she went to work stripping away the transformation, and by the time the three of them stepped out from behind the bookshelves, she was her own self again.

“Will.” Charlotte sighed on seeing him, and shook her head at Tessa and Jem. “I told you the Enclave would be meeting here at four o’clock.”

“Did you?” Will said. “I must have forgotten that. Dreadful.” His eyes slid sideways, and he grinned. “’Lo there, Gabriel.”

The brown-haired boy returned Will’s look with a furious glare. He had very bright green eyes, and his mouth, as he stared at Will, was hard with disgust.

“William,” he said finally, and with some effort. He turned his gaze on Jem. “And James. Aren’t you both a little young to be lurking around Enclave meetings?” “Aren’t you?” Jem said.

“I turned eighteen in June,” Gabriel said, leaning so far back in his chair that the front legs came off the ground. “I have every right to participate in Enclave activities now.” “How fascinating for you,” said the white-haired woman Tessa had thought looked regal. “So is this her, Lottie? The warlock girl you were telling us about?” The question was directed at Charlotte, but the woman’s gaze rested on Tessa. “She doesn’t look like much.” “Neither did Magnus Bane the first time I saw him,” said Mr. Lightwood, bending a curious eye on Tessa. “Let’s have it then. Show us what you can do.”

“I’m not a warlock,” Tessa protested angrily.

“Well, you’re certainly something, my girl,” said the older woman. “If not a warlock, then what?”

“That will do.” Charlotte drew herself up. “Miss Gray has already proved her bona fides to me and Mr. Branwell. That will have to be good enough for now—at least until the Enclave makes the decision that they wish to utilize her talents.” “Of course they do,” said Will. “We haven’t a hope of succeeding in this plan without her—”

Gabriel brought his chair forward with such force that the front legs slammed into the stone floor with a cracking noise. “Mrs. Branwell,” he said furiously, “is William, or is he not, too young to be participating in an Enclave meeting?” Charlotte’s gaze went from Gabriel’s flushed face to Will’s expressionless one. She sighed. “Yes, he is. Will, Jem, if you’ll please wait outside in the corridor with Tessa.” Will’s expression tightened, but Jem bent a warning look on him, and he remained silent. Gabriel Lightwood looked triumphant. “I will show you out,” he announced, springing to his feet. He ushered the three of them out of the library, then swung out into the corridor after them. “You,” he spat at Will, pitching his voice low so that those in the library couldn’t overhear him. “You disgrace the name of Shadowhunters everywhere.” Will leaned against the corridor wall and regarded Gabriel with cool blue eyes. “I didn’t realize there was much of a name left to disgrace, after your father—” “I will thank you not to speak of my family,” Gabriel snarled, reaching behind himself to pull the library door shut.

“How unfortunate that the prospect of your gratitude is not a tempting one,” Will said.

Gabriel stared at him, his hair disarrayed, his green eyes brilliant with rage. He reminded Tessa of someone in that moment, though she could not have said who. “What?” Gabriel growled.

“He means,” Jem clarified, “that he doesn’t care for your thanks.”

Gabriel’s cheeks darkened to a dull scarlet. “If you weren’t underage, Herondale, it would be monomachia for us. Just you and me, to the death. I’d chop you into bloody carpet rags—” “Stop it, Gabriel,” Jem interrupted, before Will could reply. “Goading Will into single combat—that’s like punishing a dog after you’ve tormented it into biting you. You know how he is.” “Much obliged, James,” Will said, without taking his eyes off Gabriel. “I appreciate the testament to my character.”

Jem shrugged. “It is the truth.”

Gabriel shot Jem a dark glare. “Stay out of this, Carstairs. This doesn’t concern you.”

Jem moved closer to the door, and to Will, who was standing perfectly still, matching Gabriel’s cold stare with one of his own. The hairs on the back of Tessa’s neck had begun to prickle. “If it concerns Will, it concerns me,” Jem said.

Gabriel shook his head. “You’re a decent Shadowhunter, James,” he said, “and a gentleman. You have your—disability, but no one blames you for that. But this—” He curled his lip, jabbing a finger in Will’s direction. “This filth will only drag you down. Find someone else to be your parabatai. No one expects Will Herondale to live past nineteen, and no one will be sorry to see him go, either—” That was too much for Tessa. Without thinking about it she burst out indignantly, “What a thing to say!”

Gabriel, interrupted midrant, looked as shocked as if one of the tapestries had suddenly started talking. “Pardon me?”

“You heard me. Telling someone you wouldn’t be sorry if they died! It’s inexcusable!” She took hold of Will by the sleeve. “Come along, Will. This—this person—obviously isn’t worth wasting your time on.” Will looked hugely entertained. “So true.”

“You—you—” Gabriel, stammering slightly, looked at Tessa in an alarmed sort of way. “You haven’t the slightest idea of the things he’s done—”

“And I don’t care, either. You’re all Nephilim, aren’t you? Well, aren’t you? You’re supposed to be on the same side.” Tessa frowned at Gabriel. “I think you owe Will an apology.” “I,” said Gabriel, “would rather have my entrails yanked out and tied in a knot in front of my own eyes than apologize to such a worm.”

“Gracious,” said Jem mildly. “You can’t mean that. Not the Will being a worm part, of course. The bit about the entrails. That sounds dreadful.”

“I do mean it,” said Gabriel, warming to his subject. “I would rather be dropped into a vat of Malphas venom and left to dissolve slowly until only my bones were left.” “Really,” said Will. “Because I happen to know a chap who could sell us a vat of—”

The door of the library opened. Mr. Lightwood stood on the threshold. “Gabriel,” he said in a freezing tone. “Do you plan to attend the meeting—your first Enclave meeting, if I must remind you—or would you rather play out here in the corridor with the rest of the children?” No one looked particularly pleased by that comment, especially Gabriel, who swallowed hard, nodded, shot one last glare at Will, and followed his father back into the library, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Well,” said Jem after the door had closed behind Gabriel. “That was about as bad as I had expected it would be. Is this the first time you’ve seen him since last year’s Christmas party?” he asked, addressing the question to Will.

“Yes,” said Will. “Do you think I should have told him I missed him?”

“No,” said Jem.

“Is he always like that?” Tessa asked. “So awful?”

“You should see his older brother,” said Jem. “Makes Gabriel look sweeter than gingerbread. Hates Will even more than Gabriel, too, if that’s possible.”

Will grinned at that, then turned and began making his way down the corridor, whistling as he went. After a moment’s hesitation, Jem went after him, gesturing for Tessa to follow.

“Why would Gabriel Lightwood hate you, Will?” Tessa asked as they went. “What did you do to him?”

“It wasn’t anything I did to him,” Will said, stalking along at a rapid pace. “It was something I did to his sister.”

Tessa looked sideways at Jem, who shrugged. “Where there’s our Will, there’s a half-dozen angry girls claiming he’s compromised their virtue.”

“Did you?” Tessa asked, hurrying to keep up with the boys. There was simply only so fast you could walk in heavy skirts that swished around your ankles as you went. The delivery of dresses from Bond Street had come the day before, and she was only just beginning to get used to wearing such expensive stuff. She remembered the light dresses she’d worn as a little girl, when she’d been able to run up to her brother, kick him in the ankle, and dart away without him being able to catch her. She wondered briefly what would happen if she tried to do that to Will. She doubted it would work out to her advantage, though the thought had a certain appeal. “Compromise her virtue, I mean.” “You have a lot of questions,” Will said, veering sharply to the left and up a set of narrow stairs. “Don’t you?”

“I do,” Tessa said, the heels of her boots clicking loudly on the stone steps as she followed Will upward. “What’s parabatai? And what did you mean about Gabriel’s father being a disgrace to Shadowhunters?” “Parabatai in Greek is just a term for a soldier paired with a chariot driver,” said Jem, “but when Nephilim say it, we mean a matched team of warriors—two men who swear to protect each other and guard each other’s backs.” “Men?” said Tessa. “There couldn’t be a team of women, or a woman and a man?”

“I thought you said women didn’t have bloodlust,” Will said without turning around. “And as for Gabriel’s father, let’s say that he has something of a reputation for liking demons and Downworlders more than he should. I would be surprised if some of the elder Lightwood’s nocturnal visits to certain houses in Shadwell haven’t left him with a nasty case of demon pox.” “Demon pox?” Tessa was horrified and fascinated at the same time.

“He’s made that up,” Jem hastily reassured her. “Really, Will. How many times do we have to tell you there’s no such thing as demon pox?”

Will had stopped in front of a narrow door at a bend in the staircase. “I think this is it,” he said, half to himself, and jiggled the knob. When nothing happened, he took his stele out of his jacket and scrawled a black Mark on the door. It swung open, with a puff of dust. “This ought to be a storeroom.” Jem followed him inside, and after a moment so did Tessa. She found herself in a small room whose only illumination was from an arched window set high in the wall above. Watery light poured through, showing a square space filled with trunks and boxes. It could have been any spare storage room anywhere, if it hadn’t been for what looked like piles of old weapons stacked in the corners—heavy rusty-looking iron things with broad blades and chains connected to spiked chunks of metal.

Will took hold of one of the trunks and moved it sideways to create a clear square of space on the floor. More dust puffed up. Jem coughed and shot him a reproachful look. “One would think you brought us here to murder us,” he said, “if it weren’t that your motivations for doing so seem cloudy at best.” “Not murder,” Will said. “Hold on. I need to move one more trunk.”

As he pushed the heavy thing toward the wall, Tessa cast a sidelong look at Jem. “What did Gabriel mean,” she asked, pitching her voice too low for Will to hear, “’your disability’?” Jem’s silvery eyes widened fractionally, before he said, “My ill health. That’s all.”

He was lying, Tessa knew. He had the same sort of look Nate did when he lied—a little too clear-eyed a gaze to be a truthful one. But before she could say anything else, Will straightened up and announced, “There we are. Come sit down.” He then proceeded to seat himself on the dusty stained floor; Jem went to sit beside him, but Tessa hung back for a moment, hesitant. Will, who had his stele out, looked up at her with a crooked smile. “Not going to join us, Tessa? I suppose you don’t want to ruin the pretty dress Jessamine bought you.” It was the truth, actually. Tessa had no desire to wreck the nicest item of clothing she had ever owned. But Will’s mocking tone was more annoying than the thought of destroying the dress. Setting her jaw, she went and sat down opposite the boys, so that they formed a triangle between them.

Will placed the tip of the stele against the dirty floor, and began to move it. Broad dark lines flowed from the tip, and Tessa watched in fascination. There was something particular and beautiful about the way the stele scrawled—not like ink flowing from a pen, but more as if the lines had always been there, and Will was uncovering them.

He was halfway through when Jem made a noise of realization, clearly recognizing the Mark that his friend was drawing. “What do you—,” he began, but Will held up the hand he wasn’t drawing with, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” Will said. “If I make a mess of this, we could well fall through the floor.”

Jem rolled his eyes, but it didn’t seem to matter: Will was already finished, and was lifting the stele away from the design he had drawn. Tessa gave a little cry as the warped floorboards between them seemed to shimmer—and then became as transparent as a window. Scooting forward, forgetting entirely about her dress, she found herself staring through it as if through a pane of glass.

She was looking down into what she realized was the library. She could see the large round table and the Enclave seated at it, Charlotte between Benedict Lightwood and the elegant white-haired woman. Charlotte was easily recognizable, even from above, by the neat knotting of her brown hair and the quick movements of her small hands as she spoke.

“Why up here?” Jem asked Will in a low voice. “Why not the weapons room? It’s next to the library.”

“Sound radiates,” said Will. “Just as easy to listen from up here. Besides which, who’s to say one of them wouldn’t decide to pay a visit to the weapons room halfway through the meeting to see what we’ve in stock? It’s happened before.” Tessa, staring down in fascination, realized that indeed she could hear the murmur of voices. “Can they hear us?”

Will shook his head. “The enchantment is strictly one-way.” He frowned, leaning forward. “What are they talking about?”

The three of them fell silent, and in the quiet the sound of Benedict Lightwood’s voice rose clearly to their ears. “I don’t know about this, Charlotte,” he said. “This whole plan seems very risky.” “But we cannot simply let de Quincey go on as he has,” Charlotte argued. “He’s the head vampire of the London clans. The rest of the Night Children look to him for guidance. If we allow him to cavalierly break the Law, what message does that send to Downworld? That the Nephilim have grown lax in their guardianship?” “Just so I understand,” Lightwood said, “you’re willing to take Lady Belcourt’s word that de Quincey, a longtime ally of the Clave, is actually murdering mundanes in his own house?” “I don’t know why you’re surprised, Benedict.” There was an edge to Charlotte’s voice. “Is it your suggestion that we ignore her report, despite the fact that she has given us nothing but reliable information in the past? And despite the fact that if she is once again telling the truth, the blood of everyone that de Quincey murders from this point onward will be on our hands?” “And despite the fact that we are bound by the Law to investigate any report of the Covenant being broken,” said a slender dark-haired man at the far end of the table. “You know that as well as the rest of us, Benedict; you’re simply being stubborn.” Charlotte exhaled as Lightwood’s face darkened. “Thank you, George. I appreciate that,” she said.

The tall woman who had earlier called Charlotte Lottie gave a low, rumbling laugh. “Don’t be so dramatic, Charlotte,” she said. “You must admit, the whole business is bizarre. A shape-changing girl who may or may not be a warlock, brothels full of dead bodies, and an informant who swears he sold de Quincey some machine tools—a fact that you seem to regard as a piece of the most consummate evidence, despite refusing to tell us your informant’s name.” “I swore I wouldn’t involve him,” Charlotte protested. “He fears de Quincey.”

“Is he a Shadowhunter?” Lightwood demanded. “Because if not, he isn’t reliable.”

“Really, Benedict, your views are most antiquated,” said the woman with the catlike eyes. “One might believe, talking to you, that the Accords had never happened.” “Lilian is correct; you’re being ridiculous, Benedict,” said George Penhallow. “Looking for an entirely reliable informant is like looking for a chaste mistress. If they were virtuous, they would be little use to you in the first place. An informant merely provides information; it is our job to verify that information, which is what Charlotte is suggesting that we do.” “I would simply hate to see the powers of the Enclave misused in this instance,” Lightwood said in a silky tone. It was very odd, Tessa thought, hearing this group of elegant adults addressing one another without honorifics, simply by their first names. But it seemed to be Shadowhunter custom. “If, for instance, there were a vampire who had a grudge against the head of her clan, and perhaps wanted to see him removed from power, what better way than to get the Clave to do her dirty work for her?” “Hell,” Will muttered, exchanging a glance with Jem. “How does he know about that?”

Jem shook his head, as if to say I don’t know.

“Know about what?” Tessa whispered, but her voice was drowned out by Charlotte and the white-haired woman both talking at once.

“Camille would never do that!” Charlotte protested. “She isn’t a fool, for one thing. She knows what the punishment for lying to us would be!”

“Benedict has a point,” said the older woman. “It would be better if a Shadowhunter had seen de Quincey breaking the Law—”

“But that’s the point of this whole enterprise,” Charlotte said. There was a tinge to her voice—of nervousness, a strained desire to prove herself. Tessa felt a flicker of sympathy for her. “To observe de Quincey breaking the Law, Aunt Callida.” Tessa made a startled noise.

Jem looked up. “Yes, she’s Charlotte’s aunt,” he said. “It was her brother—Charlotte’s father—who used to run the Institute. She likes to tell people what to do. Although, of course she always does whatever she wants.” “She does at that,” Will agreed. “Did you know she propositioned me once?”

Jem did not look as if he believed this even slightly. “She did not.”

“She did,” Will insisted. “It was all very scandalous. I might have acceded to her demands too, if she didn’t frighten me so much.”

Jem simply shook his head and turned his attention back to the scene unfolding in the library. “There is also the matter of de Quincey’s seal,” Charlotte was saying, “which we found inside the body of the clockwork girl. There is simply too much evidence linking him to these events, too much evidence not to investigate.” “I agree,” said Lilian. “I for one am concerned about this matter of the clockwork creatures. Making clockwork girls is one thing, but what if he’s making a clockwork army?” “That’s pure speculation, Lilian,” said Frederick Ashdown.

Lilian dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “An automaton is neither seraph nor demon in its alliance; it is not one of the children of God or of the Devil. Would it be vulnerable to our weapons?” “I think you’re imagining a problem that does not exist,” said Benedict Lightwood. “There have been automatons for years now; mundanes are fascinated with the creatures. None has posed a threat to us.” “None has been made using magic before,” said Charlotte.

“That you know of.” Lightwood looked impatient.

Charlotte straightened her back; only Tessa and the others, looking down upon her, could see that her hands were knotted tightly together in her lap. “Your concern, Benedict, seems to be that we will unfairly punish de Quincey for a crime he has not committed, and in doing so jeopardize the relationship between the Night Children and the Nephilim. Am I correct?” Benedict Lightwood nodded.

“But all that Will’s plan calls for is for us to observe de Quincey. If we do not see him breaking the Law, we will not act against him, and the relationship will not be threatened. If we do see him breaking the Law, then the relationship is a lie. We cannot allow abuse of Covenant Law, however . . . convenient it might be for us to ignore.” “I agree with Charlotte,” said Gabriel Lightwood, speaking up for the first time, and much to Tessa’s surprise. “I think her plan is a sound one. Except

in one part—sending the shape-shifter girl in there with Will Herondale. He isn’t even old enough to be at this meeting. How can he be trusted with a mission of this gravity?” “Smarmy little prig,” Will snarled, leaning farther forward, as if he longed to reach through the magical portal and strangle Gabriel. “When I get him alone . . .” “I ought to go in with her instead,” Gabriel went on. “I can look out for her a bit more. Instead of simply looking out for myself.”

“Hanging’s too good for him,” agreed Jem, who looked as if he were trying not to laugh.

“Tessa knows Will,” protested Charlotte. “She trusts Will.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” muttered Tessa.

“Besides,” Charlotte said, “it’s Will who devised this plan, Will who de Quincey will recognize from the Pandemonium Club. It’s Will who knows what to search for inside de Quincey’s town house to tie him to the clockwork creatures and the murdered mundanes. Will’s an excellent investigator, Gabriel, and a good Shadowhunter. You have to give him that.” Gabriel sat back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t have to give him anything.”

“So Will and your warlock girl enter the house, endure de Quincey’s party until they observe some contravention of the Law, and then signal to the rest of us—how?” inquired Lilian.

“With Henry’s invention,” Charlotte said. There was a slight—only very slight—tremble to her voice as she said it. “The Phosphor. It will send up a flare of extremely bright witchlight, illuminating all the windows in de Quincey’s house, just for a moment. That will be the signal.” “Oh, good Lord, not one of Henry’s inventions again,” said George.

“There were some complications with the Phosphor at first, but Henry demonstrated it for me last night,” Charlotte protested. “It works perfectly.”

Frederick snorted. “Remember the last time Henry offered us the use of one of his inventions? We were all cleaning fish guts off our gear for days.”

“But it wasn’t supposed to be used near water—,” Charlotte began, still in the same quavering voice, but the others had already begun talking over her, chattering excitedly about Henry’s failed inventions and the dreadful consequences thereof, while Charlotte lapsed into silence. Poor Charlotte, Tessa thought. Charlotte, whose sense of her own authority was so important, and so dearly bought.

“Bastards, talking over her like that,” muttered Will. Tessa looked at him in astonishment. He was staring intently down at the scene before him, his fists tight at his sides. So he was fond of Charlotte, she thought, and she was surprised how pleased she was to realize it. Perhaps it meant Will actually did have feelings after all.

Not that it had anything to do with her, whether he did or not, of course. She looked hastily away from Will, at Jem, who seemed equally out of

countenance. He was biting his lip. “Where is Henry? Shouldn’t he have arrived by now?”

As if in answer, the door to the storage room banged open with a crash, and the three of them spun around to see Henry standing wild-eyed and wild-haired in the doorway. He was clutching something in his hand—the copper tube with the black button on the side that had nearly caused Will to break his arm falling off the sideboard in the dining room.

Will eyed it fearfully. “Get that blasted object away from me.”

Henry, who was red-faced and sweating, stared at them all in horror. “Hell,” he said. “I was looking for the library. The Enclave—”

“Is meeting,” said Jem. “Yes, we know. It’s a flight down from here, Henry. Third door on the right. And you’d better go. Charlotte’s waiting for you.”

“I know,” Henry wailed. “Blast, blast, blast. I was just trying to get the Phosphor right, is all.”

“Henry,” Jem said, “Charlotte needs you.”

“Right.” Henry turned as if to dart out of the room, then swung around and stared at them, a look of confusion passing over his freckled face, as if he had only now had cause to wonder why Will, Tessa, and Jem might be crouching together in a mostly disused storage room. “What are you three doing in here, anyway?” Will tilted his head to the side and smiled at Henry. “Charades,” he said. “Massive game.”

“Ah. Right, then,” said Henry, and dashed out the door, letting it swing shut behind him.

“Charades.” Jem snorted in disgust, then leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, as Callida’s voice drifted up from below. “Honestly, Charlotte,” she was saying, “when will you admit that Henry hasn’t anything to do with running this place, and that you’re doing it all by yourself? Perhaps with help from James Carstairs and Will Herondale, but neither of them is any older than seventeen. How much help can they be?” Charlotte made a murmured noise of deprecation.

“It’s too much for one person, especially someone your age,” said Benedict. “You’re only twenty-three years old. If you’d like to step down—”

Only twenty-three! Tessa was astonished. She’d thought Charlotte was much older, probably because she exuded such an air of competence.

“Consul Wayland assigned the running of the Institute to me and my husband five years ago,” Charlotte replied sharply, apparently having found her voice again. “If you have some issue with his choice, you should take it up with him. In the meantime I shall direct the Institute as I see fit.” “I hope that means that plans such as the one you’re suggesting are still up for a vote?” said Benedict Lightwood. “Or are you governing by fiat now?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Lightwood, of course it’s up for a vote,” said Lilian crossly, without giving Charlotte a chance to answer. “All in favor of moving on de Quincey, say aye.” To Tessa’s surprise, there was a chorus of ayes, and not a single nay. The discussion had been contentious enough that she’d been certain at least one of the Shadowhunters would try to back out. Jem caught her startled look and smiled. “They’re always like this,” he murmured. “They like to jockey for power, but none of them would vote no on an issue like this. They’d be branded a coward for doing so.” “Very well,” said Benedict. “Tomorrow night it is, then. Is everyone sufficiently prepared? Are there—”

The door to the library banged open, and Henry charged in—looking, if possible, even more wild-eyed and wild-haired than before. “I’m here!” he announced. “Not too late, am I?” Charlotte covered her face with her hands.

“Henry,” said Benedict Lightwood dryly. “How pleasant to see you. Your wife was just briefing us on your newest invention. The Phosphor, is it?”

“Yes!” Henry held the Phosphor up proudly. “This is it. And I can promise it works as advertised. See?”

“Now, there’s no need for a demonstration,” Benedict began hastily, but it was too late. Henry had already pressed the button. There was a bright flash, and the lights in the library winked out suddenly, leaving Tessa staring at an unlit black square in the floor. Gasps rose up from below. There was a shriek, and something crashed to the ground and shattered. Rising above it all was the sound of Benedict Lightwood, swearing fluently.

Will looked up and grinned. “Bit awkward for Henry, of course,” he remarked cheerfully, “and yet, somehow quite satisfying, don’t you think?”

Tessa couldn’t help but agree, on both counts.