فصل 11

Chapter 11

WILD UNREST

Your woe hath been my anguish; yea, I quail

And perish in your perishing unblest.

And I have searched the highths and depths, the scope

Of all our universe, with desperate hope

To find some solace for your wild unrest.

—James Thomson, “The City of Dreadful Night”

To my dear Mrs. Branwell—

You may be surprised to receive a letter from me so soon after my departure from London, but despite the sleepiness of the countryside, events here have continued apace, and I thought it best to keep you abreast of developments.

The weather continues fine here, allowing me much time for exploring the countryside, especially the area around Ravenscar Manor, which is indeed a fine old building. The Herondale family appears to live alone there: only the father, Edmund; the mother; and the youngest daughter, Cecily, who is near to fifteen and very like her brother in restlessness, in manner, and in looks. I will arrive at how I know all that in a moment.

Ravenscar itself is near a small village. I set myself up at the local inn, the Black Swan, and posed as a gentleman interested in buying property in the area. The locals have been most forthcoming with information, and when they were not, a persuasion spell or two helped them to see the matter from my point of view.

It seems the Herondales mix very little with local society. Despite—or perhaps because of—this tendency, rumor about them abounds. It seems they do not own Ravenscar Manor but are indeed, by way of its custodians, watching over it for its true owner—Axel Mortmain, of course. Mortmain seems no one to these people but a wealthy industrialist who purchased a country manor he rarely visits; I encountered no rumor about any connection of his to the Shades, whose legacy here seems long forgotten. The Herondales themselves are a matter of curious speculation. It is known that they had a child who died, and that Edmund, whom I knew once, turned to drink and to gambling; eventually he gambled away their home in Wales, whereupon, destitute, they were offered the occupation of this house in Yorkshire by its owner. That was two years ago.

I had all this confirmed for me this afternoon when, watching the manor from a distance, I was startled by the appearance of a girl. I knew who she was immediately. I had seen her go in and out of the house, and her resemblance to her brother Will, as I said, is pronounced. She set into me at once, demanding to know why I was spying on her family. She did not seem angry at first but rather hopeful. “Did my brother send you?” she asked. “Have you any word of my brother?” It was quite heartbreaking, but I know the Law, and could tell her only that her brother was well and wished to know that they were safe. At that she became angry and opined that Will could best ensure his family’s safety by returning to them. She also said that it was not the death of her sister (did you know of this sister?) that had undone her father, but rather Will’s desertion. I shall leave it up to your discretion whether to pass this on to young Master Herondale, as it seems news that would do more harm than good.

When I spoke to her of Mortmain, she chatted easily to me of him—a family friend, she said, who had stepped in to offer them this home when they had nothing. As she spoke, I began to get a sense of how Mortmain thinks. He knows it is against the Law for Nephilim to interfere with Shadowhunters who have chosen to leave the Clave, and that therefore Ravenscar Manor would be avoided; he knows also that the Herondales’ occupancy of it makes the objects in it theirs, and therefore none can be used to track him. And last, he knows that power over the Herondales could translate into power over Will. Does he require power over Will? Not now perhaps, but there may be a time when he desires it, and when he does, it will be to hand. He is a well-prepared man, and men such as that are dangerous.

Were I you, and I am not, I would reassure Master Will that his family is safe and I am watching them; avoid speaking to him of Mortmain until I can gather more information. As far as I can glean from Cecily, the Herondales do not know where Mortmain is. She said that he was in Shanghai, and on occasion they receive correspondence from his company there, all stamped with peculiar stamps. It is my understanding, however, that the Shanghai Institute believes him not to be there.

I told Miss Herondale that her brother missed her; it seemed the least I could do. She appeared gratified. I shall remain in this area a good while longer, I think; I have become myself curious as to how the misfortunes of the Herondales are entwined with Mortmain’s plans. There are still secrets to be unearthed here beneath the peaceful green of the Yorkshire countryside, and I aim to discover them.

—Ragnor Fell

Charlotte read the letter over twice, to commit its details to memory, and then, having folded it small, cast it into the drawing room fire. She stood wearily, leaning against the mantel, watching as the flame ate away the paper in lines of black and gold.

She was not sure if she was surprised, or disturbed, or simply made bone-weary by the contents of the letter. Trying to find Mortmain was like reaching to swat a spider, only to realize that you were helplessly entangled in the sticky strands of its web. And Will—she hated to speak of this with him. She looked into the fire with unseeing eyes. Sometimes she thought Will had been sent to her by the Angel specifically to try her patience. He was bitter, he had a tongue like the lash of a whip, and he met her every attempt to show him love and affection with venom or contempt. And still, when she looked at him, she saw the boy he’d been at twelve, curled in the corner of his bedroom with his hands over his ears as his parents called his name from the steps below, entreating him to come out, to come back to them.

She had knelt beside him after the Herondales had gone away. She remembered him lifting his face to her—small and white and set, with those blue eyes and dark lashes; he’d been as pretty as a girl then, thin and delicate, before he had thrown himself into Shadowhunter training with such single-mindedness that within two years all that delicacy had been gone, covered over by muscle and scars and Marks. She’d taken his hand then, and he’d let it lie in hers like a dead thing. He’d bitten his lower lip, though he didn’t appear to have noticed, and blood covered his chin and dripped onto his shirt. Charlotte, you’ll tell me, won’t you? You’ll tell me if anything happens to them?

Will, I can’t—

I know the Law. I just want to know if they live. His eyes had pleaded with her. Charlotte, please . . .

“Charlotte?”

She looked up from the fire. Jem stood in the doorway of the drawing room. Charlotte, still half-caught in the web of the past, blinked at him. When he had first arrived from Shanghai, his hair and eyes had been as black as ink. Over time they had silvered, like copper oxidizing to verdigris, as the drugs had worked their way through his blood, changing him, killing him slowly.

“James,” she said. “It’s late, isn’t it?”

“Eleven o’clock.” He put his head to the side, studying her. “Are you all right? You look as if your peace of mind has been rather cut up.” “No, I just—” She gestured vaguely. “It is all this business with Mortmain.”

“I have a question,” Jem said, moving farther into the drawing room and lowering his voice. “Not wholly unrelated. Gabriel said something today, during training—” “You were there?”

He shook his head. “Sophie told it to me. She didn’t like to carry tales, but she was troubled, and I can’t blame her. Gabriel asserted that his uncle had committed suicide and that his mother had died of grief because—well, because of your father.” “My father?” Charlotte said blankly.

“Apparently Gabriel’s uncle, Silas, committed some infraction of the Law, and your father discovered it. Your father went to the Clave. The uncle killed himself out of shame, and Mrs. Lightwood died of grief. According to Gabriel, ‘The Fairchilds don’t care about anyone but themselves and the Law.’” “And you are telling me this because . . .?”

“I wondered if it was true,” said Jem. “And if it is, perhaps it might be useful to communicate to the Consul that Benedict’s motive for wanting the Institute is revenge, not selfless desire to see it run better.” “It’s not true. It can’t be.” Charlotte shook her head. “Silas Lightwood did kill himself—because he was in love with his parabatai—but not because my father told the Clave about it. The first the Clave knew of it was from Silas’s suicide note. In fact, Silas’s father asked my father for help in writing Silas’s eulogy. Does that sound like a man who blamed my father for his son’s death?” Jem’s eyes darkened. “That’s interesting.”

“Do you think Gabriel’s simply being nasty, or do you think his father lied to him to—” Charlotte never finished her sentence. Jem doubled up suddenly, as if he had been punched in the stomach, with a fit of coughing so severe that his thin shoulders shook. A spray of red blood spattered the sleeve of his jacket as he raised his arm to cover his face.

“Jem—” Charlotte started forward with her arms out, but he staggered upright and away from her, holding his hand out as if to ward her off.

“I’m all right,” he gasped. “I’m fine.” He wiped blood from his face with the sleeve of his jacket. “Please, Charlotte,” he added in a defeated voice as she moved toward him. “Don’t.” Charlotte stopped herself, her heart aching. “Is there nothing—”

“You know there’s nothing.” He lowered his arm, the blood on his sleeve like an accusation, and gave her the sweetest smile. “Dear Charlotte,” he said. “You have always been like the best sort of older sister I could have hoped for. You do know that, don’t you?” Charlotte just looked at him, openmouthed. It sounded so much like a good-bye, she could not bear to reply. He turned with his usual light tread and made his way out of the room. She watched him go, telling herself it meant nothing, that he was no worse than he had been, that he still had time. She loved Jem, as she loved Will—as she could not help loving them all—and the thought of losing him shattered her heart. Not only for her own loss, but for Will’s. If Jem died, she could not help but feel, he would take all that was still human about Will with him when he went.

Images

It was nearly midnight when Will returned to the Institute. It had begun raining on him when he’d been halfway down Threadneedle Street. He had ducked under the awning of Dean and Son Publishers to button his jacket and pull his scarf tight, but the rain had already gotten into his mouth—great, icy drops that tasted of charcoal and silt. He had hunched his shoulders against the needlelike sting of it as he’d left the shelter of the awning and headed past the Bank, toward the Institute.

Even after years in London, rain made him think of home. He still remembered the way it had rained in the countryside, in Wales, the green fresh taste of it, the way it felt to roll over and over down a damp hillside, getting grass in your hair and clothes. If he shut his eyes, he could hear his sisters’ laughter echo in his ears. Will, you’ll ruin your clothes; Will, Mother will be furious . . .

Will wondered if you could ever really be a Londoner if you had that in your blood—the memory of great open spaces, the wideness of the sky, the clear air. Not these narrow streets choked with people, the London dust that got everywhere—in your clothes, a thin powdering on your hair and down the back of your neck—the smell of the filthy river.

He had reached Fleet Street. Temple Bar was visible through the mist in the distance; the street was slick with rain. A carriage rattled by as he ducked into an alley between two buildings, the wheels splashing dirty water up against the curb.

He could see the spire of the Institute in the distance now. They had certainly already finished supper, Will thought. Everything would be put away. Bridget would be asleep; he could duck into the kitchen and cobble together a meal from bread and cheese and cold pie. He had been missing a great many meals lately, and if he was truthful with himself, there was only one reason for it: He was avoiding Tessa.

He did not want to avoid her—indeed, he had failed miserably at it that afternoon, accompanying her not just to training but also to the drawing room afterward. Sometimes he wondered if he did these things just to test himself. To see if the feelings had gone. But they had not. When he saw her, he wanted to be with her; when he was with her, he ached to touch her; when he touched even her hand, he wanted to embrace her. He wanted to feel her against him the way he had in the attic. He wanted to know the taste of her skin and the smell of her hair. He wanted to make her laugh. He wanted to sit and listen to her talk about books until his ears fell off. But all these were things he could not want, because they were things he could not have, and wanting what you could not have led to misery and madness.

He had reached home. The door of the Institute swung open under his touch, opening onto a vestibule full of flickering torchlight. He thought of the blur the drugs had brought to him in the den on Whitechapel High Street. A blissful release from wanting or needing anything. He had dreamed he was lying on a hill in Wales with the sky high and blue overhead, and that Tessa had come walking up the hill to him and had sat down beside him. I love you, he had said to her, and kissed her, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Do you love me?

She had smiled at him. You will always come first in my heart, she had said.

Tell me this is not a dream, he had whispered to her as she’d put her arms around him, and then he’d no longer known what was waking and what was sleeping.

He shrugged out of his coat as he went up the stairs, shaking out his wet hair. Cold water was trickling down the back of his shirt, dampening his spine, making him shiver. The precious packet he had bought from the ifrits was in his trousers pocket. He slipped his hand in, touching his fingers to it, just to be sure.

The corridors burned with low witchlight; he was halfway down the first one when he paused. Tessa’s door was here, he knew, across from Jem’s. And there, in front of her door, stood Jem—though “stood” was perhaps not the right word. He was pacing back and forth, “wearing a path in the carpet,” as Charlotte would have said.

“James,” Will said, more surprised than anything else.

Jem’s head jerked up, and he backed away from Tessa’s door instantly, retreating toward his own. His face went blank. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you wandering the halls at all hours.” “I think we can agree that the reverse is more out of character,” said Will. “Why are you awake? Are you all right?” Jem cast a last glance at Tessa’s door, and then turned to face Will. “I was going to apologize to Tessa,” he said. “I think my violin playing was keeping her awake. Where have you been? Assignation with Six-Fingered Nigel again?” Will grinned, but Jem didn’t return the smile. “I’ve something for you, actually. Come along, let me into your room. I don’t want to spend all night standing about in the hall.” After a moment’s hesitation Jem shrugged and opened his door. He went in, Will following; Will shut and bolted the door behind them as Jem threw himself into an armchair. There was a fire in the grate, but it had burned down to pale red-gold coals. He looked at Will. “What is it, then—,” he began, and bent almost double, convulsed by a hard cough. It passed quickly, before Will could move or speak, but when Jem straightened, and brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, it came away smeared with red. He looked at the blood expressionlessly.

Will felt sick. He approached his parabatai, producing a handkerchief, which Jem took, and then the silver powder he’d bought in Whitechapel. “Here,” he said, feeling awkward. He hadn’t felt awkward around Jem in five years, but there it was. “I went back to Whitechapel, got this for you.” Jem, having cleaned the blood from his hand with Will’s handkerchief, took the packet and stared down at the yin fen. “I have enough of this,” he said. “For at least another month.” He looked up then, a sudden flicker in his eyes. “Or did Tessa tell you—” “Did she tell me what?”

“Nothing. I spilled some of the powder the other day. I managed to retrieve most of it.” Jem set the packet down on the table beside him. “This wasn’t necessary.” Will sat down on the trunk at the foot of Jem’s bed. He hated sitting there—his legs were so long, he always felt like an adult trying to squeeze behind a schoolroom desk—but he wanted to bring his eyes level with Jem’s. “Mortmain’s minions have been buying up the yin fen supply in the East End,” he said. “I confirmed it. If you had run out and he was the only one with a supply . . .” “We would have been put in his power,” said Jem. “Unless you were willing to let me die, of course, which would be the sensible course of action.” “I would not be willing.” Will sounded sharp. “You’re my blood brother. I’ve sworn an oath not to let any harm come to you—” “Leaving aside oaths,” said Jem, “and power plays, did any of this have to do with me?” “I don’t know what you mean—”

“I had begun to wonder if you were capable of the desire to spare anyone suffering.”

Will rocked back slightly, as if Jem had pushed him. “I . . .” He swallowed, looking for the words. It had been so long since he had searched for words that would earn him forgiveness and not hatred, so long since he had sought to present himself in anything but the worst light, that he wondered for a panicked moment if it were even something he was still able to do. “I spoke to Tessa today,” he said finally, not noticing that Jem’s face paled even more markedly. “She made me understand—that what I did last night was unforgivable. Though,” he added hastily, “I do still hope that you will forgive me.” By the Angel, I’m bad at this.

Jem raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“I went to that den because I could not stop thinking about my family, and I wanted—I needed—to stop thinking,” said Will. “It did not cross my mind that it would look to you as if I were making a mockery out of your sickness. I suppose I am asking your forgiveness for my lack of consideration.” His voice dropped. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jem.” “Yes,” said Jem. “You just make more of them than most people.”

“I—”

“You hurt everyone,” said Jem. “Everyone whose life you touch.”

“Not you,” Will whispered. “I hurt everyone but you. I never meant to hurt you.”

Jem put his hands up, pressing his palms against his eyes. “Will—”

“You can’t never forgive me,” Will said, hearing the panic tinging his own voice. “I’d be—” “Alone?” Jem lowered his hands, but he was smiling now, crookedly. “And whose fault is that?” He leaned back against the seat, his eyes half-lidded with tiredness. “I would always have forgiven you,” he said. “I would have forgiven you if you hadn’t apologized. In fact, I wasn’t expecting you would. Tessa’s influence, I can only guess.” “I am not here at her request. James, you are all the family I have.” Will’s voice shook. “I would die for you. You know that. I would die without you. If it were not for you, I would be dead a hundred times over these past five years. I owe you everything, and if you cannot believe I have empathy, perhaps you might at least believe I know honor—honor, and debt—” Jem looked actually alarmed now. “Will, your discomposure is greater than my anger warranted. My temper has cooled; you know I have never had much of one.” His tone was soothing, but something in Will could not be soothed. “I went to get you that medicine because I cannot bear the thought of you dying or in pain, certainly not when I could have done something to prevent it. And I did it because I was afraid. If Mortmain came to us and said he was the only one who had the drug that would save your life, you must know I would give him whatever he wanted so that I could get it for you. I have failed my family before, James. I would not fail you—” “Will.” Jem rose to his feet; he came across the room to Will and knelt down, looking up into his friend’s face. “You begin to concern me. Your regret does you admirable credit, but you must know . . .” Will looked down at him. He remembered Jem as he had been when he had just come from Shanghai, and had seemed to be all great dark eyes in a pinched white face. It had not been easy to make him laugh then, but Will had set himself to trying. “Know what?” “That I will die,” Jem said. His eyes were wide, and fever-bright; there was a trace of blood, still, at the corner of his mouth. The shadows under his eyes were nearly blue.

Will dug his fingers into Jem’s wrist, denting the material of his shirt. Jem did not wince.

“You swore to stay with me,” he said. “When we made our oath, as parabatai. Our souls are knit. We are one person, James.” “We are two people,” said Jem. “Two people with a covenant between us.”

Will knew he sounded like a child, but he could not help it. “A covenant that says you must not go where I cannot come with you.” “Until death,” Jem replied gently. “Those are the words of the oath. ‘Until aught but death part thee and me.’ Someday, Will, I will go where none can follow me, and I think it will be sooner rather than later. Have you ever asked yourself why I agreed to be your parabatai?” “No better offers forthcoming?” Will tried for humor, but his voice cracked like glass.

“I thought you needed me,” Jem said. “There is a wall you have built about yourself, Will, and I have never asked you why. But no one should shoulder every burden alone. I thought you would let me inside if I became your parabatai, and then you would have at least someone to lean upon. I did wonder what my death would mean for you. I used to fear it, for your sake. I feared you would be left alone inside that wall. But now . . . something has changed. I do not know why. But I know that it is true.” “That what is true?” Will’s fingers were still digging into Jem’s wrist.

“That the wall is coming down.”

Images

Tessa could not get to sleep. She lay unmoving on her back, staring up at the ceiling. There was a crack across the plaster of it that looked sometimes like a cloud and sometimes like a razor, depending on the shift of the candlelight.

Dinner had been tense. Apparently Gabriel had told Charlotte that he refused to return and partake in the training anymore, so it was going to be only Gideon working with her and Sophie from now on. Gabriel had refused to say why, but it was clear Charlotte blamed Will; Tessa, seeing how exhausted Charlotte looked at the prospect of more conflict with Benedict, had felt heavy with guilt for having brought Will with her to the training, and for having laughed at Gabriel.

It did not help that Jem had not been at dinner. She had wanted so badly to speak to him today. After he had avoided her eyes at breakfast and then been “ill” at dinner, panic had twisted her stomach. Was he horrified by what had happened between them the night before—or worse, sickened? Maybe in his secret heart of hearts, he felt as Will did, that warlocks were beneath him. Or maybe it had nothing to do with what she was. Maybe he was simply repelled by her wantonness; she had welcomed his embraces, not pushed him away, and hadn’t Aunt Harriet always said that men were weak where desire was concerned, and that women were the ones who had to exercise restraint?

She hadn’t exercised much last night. She remembered lying beside Jem, his gentle hands on her. She knew with a painful inner honesty that if things had continued, she would have done whatever he wanted. Even now, thinking about it, her body felt hot and restless; she shifted in bed, punching one of the pillows. If she had destroyed the closeness she shared with Jem by allowing what had happened last night, she would never forgive herself.

She was about to bury her face in the pillow, when she heard the noise. A soft rapping at the door. She froze. It came again, insistently. Jem. Her hands shaking, she leaped from the bed, ran to the door, and threw it open.

On the threshold stood Sophie. She wore her black housemaid’s dress, but her white cap had come askew and her dark curls were tumbling down. Her face was very white and there was a spot of blood on her collar; she looked horrified and almost sick.

“Sophie.” Tessa’s voice betrayed her surprise. “Are you all right?”

Sophie looked around fearfully. “May I come in, miss?”

Tessa nodded and held the door open for her. When they were both safely inside, she bolted it and sat down on the edge of her bed, apprehension like a lead weight in her chest. Sophie remained standing, twisting her hands in front of her.

“Sophie, please, what is it?”

“It’s Miss Jessamine,” Sophie burst out.

“What about Jessamine?”

“She . . . It’s just to say, I’ve seen her . . .” She broke off, looking wretched. “She’s been slipping away in the nights, miss.” “Has she? I saw her last night, in the corridor, dressed as a boy and looking quite furtive. . . .” Sophie looked relieved. She didn’t like Jessamine, Tessa knew that well enough, but she was a well-trained maid, and a well-trained maid did not tattle on her mistress. “Yes,” she said eagerly. “I’ve been noticing it for days now. Her bed sometimes not slept in at all, mud on the rugs in the mornings when it weren’t there the night before. I would’ve told Mrs. Branwell, but she’s had so dreadful much on her mind, I couldn’t bear to.” “So why are you telling me?” Tessa asked. “It sounds as if Jessamine’s found herself a suitor. I can’t say I approve of her behavior, but”—she swallowed, thinking of her own behavior the night before—“neither of us is responsible for it. And perhaps there is some harmless explanation. . . .” “Oh, but, miss.” Sophie plunged her hand into the pocket of her dress and drew it out with a stiff cream-colored card clamped between her fingers. “Tonight I found this. In the pocket of her new velvet jacket. You know, the one with the ecru stripe.” Tessa did not care about the ecru stripe. Her eyes were fixed on the card. Slowly she reached out and took it, turning it over in her hand. It was an invitation to a ball.

July 20, 1878

Mr. BENEDICT LIGHTWOOD

presents his compliments

to MISS JESSAMINE LOVELACE,

and requests the honor of her company

at a masquerade ball given on Tuesday next,

the 27th of July. RSVP.

The invitation went on to give details of the address and the time the ball would begin, but it was what was written on the back of the invitation that froze Tessa’s blood. In a casual hand, as familiar to her as her own, were scrawled the words: My Jessie. My very heart is bursting at the thought of seeing you tomorrow night at the “great affair.” However great it may be, I shall have eyes for nothing and no one but you. Do wear the white dress, darling, as you know how I like it—“in gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,” as the poet said. Yours always, N.G.

“Nate,” Tessa said numbly, staring down at the letter. “Nate wrote this. And quoted Tennyson.” Sophie drew her breath in sharply. “I feared—but I thought it couldn’t be. Not after all he did.” “I know my brother’s handwriting.” Tessa’s voice was grim. “He’s planning to meet her tonight at this—this secret ball. Sophie, where is Jessamine? I must speak to her this instant.” Sophie’s hands began to twist more rapidly. “See, that’s the thing, miss—”

“Oh, God, has she gone already? We’ll have to get Charlotte. I don’t see another way—” “She hasn’t gone. She’s in her room,” Sophie interrupted.

“So she doesn’t know you found this?” Tessa flapped the card.

Sophie swallowed visibly. “I—she found me with it in my hand, miss. I tried to hide it, but she’d already seen it. She had such a menacing look on her face when she came reaching for it, I couldn’t help myself. All the training sessions I’ve done with Master Gideon, they just took over and, well—” “Well, what? Sophie—”

“I hit her on the head with a mirror,” Sophie said hopelessly. “One of those silver-backed ones, so it was quite heavy. She went down just like a stone, miss. So I . . . I tied her to the bed and I came looking for you.” “Let me see if I have this quite correct,” said Tessa after a pause. “Jessamine found you with the invitation in your hand, so you struck her over the head with a mirror and tied her to her bed?” Sophie nodded.

“Good Lord,” said Tessa. “Sophie, we’re going to need to fetch someone. This ball cannot remain a secret, and Jessamine . . .” “Not Mrs. Branwell,” Sophie moaned. “She’ll sack me. She’ll have to.”

“Jem—”

“No!” Sophie’s hand flew to her collar, where the spot of blood was. Jessamine’s blood, Tessa realized with a jolt. “I couldn’t bear if he thought I could do such a thing—he’s so gentle. Please don’t make me tell him, miss.” Of course, Tessa thought. Sophie loved Jem. In all the mess of the past few days, she had nearly forgotten. A wave of shame swamped her as she thought of the night before; she fought it back, and said determinedly, “There is only one person, then, Sophie, whom we can go to. You do understand that?” “Master Will,” said Sophie with loathing, and sighed. “Very well, miss. I suppose I don’t care what he thinks of me.” Tessa rose and reached for her dressing gown, and wrapped it around herself. “Look upon the bright side, Sophie. At least Will won’t be shocked. I doubt Jessamine’s the first unconscious female he’s ever dealt with, or that she’ll be the last either.” Images

Tessa had been wrong about at least one thing: Will was shocked.

“Sophie did this?” he said, not for the first time. They were standing at the foot of Jessamine’s bed. She lay flung upon it, her chest rising and falling slowly like the famous Sleeping Beauty waxwork of Madame du Barry. Her fair hair was scattered on the pillow, and a large, bloody welt ran across her forehead. Each of her wrists was tied to a post of the bed. “Our Sophie?” Tessa glanced over at Sophie, who was sitting in a chair by the door. Her head was down, and she was staring at her hands. She studiously avoided looking at Tessa or Will.

“Yes,” Tessa said, “and do stop repeating it.”

“I think I may be in love with you, Sophie,” said Will. “Marriage could be on the cards.” Sophie whimpered.

“Stop it,” Tessa hissed. “I think you’re frightening the poor girl more than she’s already frightened.” “What’s to be frightened of? Jessamine? It looks like Sophie won that little altercation easily.” Will was having trouble repressing a grin. “Sophie, my dear, there is nothing to worry about. Many’s the time I have wanted to hit Jessamine over the head myself. No one could blame you.” “She’s afraid Charlotte will sack her,” said Tessa.

“For hitting Jessamine?” Will relented. “Tess, if this invitation is what it looks like, and Jessamine is truly meeting your brother in secret, she may have betrayed us all. Not to mention, what is Benedict Lightwood doing, throwing parties that none of us know about? Parties to which Nate is invited? What Sophie did was heroic. Charlotte will thank her.” At that, Sophie lifted her head. “Do you think so?”

“I know it,” said Will. For a moment he and Sophie looked at each other steadily across the room. Sophie looked away first, but if Tessa was not mistaken, there had been—for the first time—no dislike in her eyes when she’d gazed at Will.

From his belt Will drew his stele. He sat down on the bed beside Jessamine and gently brushed aside her hair. Tessa bit her lip, restraining the impulse to ask him what he was doing.

He laid his stele against Jessamine’s throat and quickly sketched two runes. “An iratze,” he said, without Tessa’s having to ask. “That is, a healing rune, and a Sleep Now rune. This should keep her quiet at least until morning. Your skill with a hand mirror is to be admired, Sophie, but your knot making could be improved.” Sophie muttered something under her breath in response. The suspension of her dislike of Will appeared to be over.

“The question,” said Will, “is what to do now.”

“We must tell Charlotte—”

“No,” Will said firmly. “We must not.”

Tessa looked at him in astonishment. “Why not?”

“Two reasons,” said Will. “First, she would be duty-bound to tell the Clave, and if Benedict Lightwood is hosting this ball, I would make a fair guess that some of his followers will be there. But they might not all be. If the Clave is warned, they may be able to get word to him before anyone can arrive to observe what is truly going on. Second, the ball began an hour ago. We do not know when Nate will arrive, seeking Jessamine, and if he does not see her, he may well depart. He is the best connection to Mortmain we have. We do not have any time to lose or waste, and waking Charlotte to tell her of this will do both.” “Jem, then?”

Something flickered in Will’s eyes. “No. Not tonight. Jem is not well enough, but he will say he is. After last night I owe it to him to leave him out of this.” Tessa looked at him hard. “Then what do you propose to do?”

Will’s mouth quirked up at both corners. “Miss Gray,” he said, “would you be amenable to attending a ball with me?” “Do you remember the last party we went to?” Tessa inquired.

Will’s smile remained. He had that look of heightened intensity that he wore when he was strategizing a plan. “Don’t tell me that you weren’t thinking the same thing I was, Tessa.” Tessa sighed. “Yes,” she said. “I shall Change into Jessamine and go in her place. It is the only plan that makes sense.” She turned to Sophie. “Do you know the dress Nate spoke of? A white dress of Jessamine’s?” Sophie nodded.

“Get it brushed and ready to be worn,” said Tessa. “You will have to do my hair as well, Sophie. Are you calm enough?” “Yes, miss.” Sophie got to her feet and scurried across the room to the wardrobe, which she threw open. Will was still looking at Tessa; his smile widened.

Tessa lowered her voice. “Will, has it crossed your mind that Mortmain might be there?” The smile vanished from Will’s face. “You will go nowhere near him if he is.”

“You cannot tell me what to do.”

Will frowned. He was not reacting at all in the way Tessa felt he should. When Capitola in The Hidden Hand dressed up as a boy and took on the marauding Black Donald to prove her bravery, no one snapped at her.

“Your power is impressive, Tessa, but you are in no position to capture a powerful adult magic user like Mortmain. You will leave that to me,” he said.

She scowled at him. “And how do you plan not to be recognized at this ball? Benedict knows your face, as do—” Will seized the invitation out of her hand and waved it at her. “It’s a masked ball.”

“And I suppose you just happen to have a mask.”

“As a matter of fact I do,” said Will. “Our last Christmas party was themed along the lines of the Venetian Carnevale.” He smirked. “Tell her, Sophie.” Sophie, who was busy with what looked like a concoction of spiderwebs and moonbeams on the brushing tray, sighed. “It’s true, miss. And you let him deal with Mortmain, you hear? It’s too dangerous otherwise. And you’ll be all the way in Chiswick!” Will looked at Tessa with triumph. “If even Sophie agrees with me, you can’t very well say no.” “I could,” Tessa said mutinously, “but I won’t. Very well. But you must stay out of Nate’s way while I speak with him. He isn’t an idiot; if he sees us together, he’s quite capable of putting two and two together. I get no sense from his note that he expects Jessamine to be accompanied.” “I get no sense from his note at all,” said Will, bounding to his feet, “except that he can quote Tennyson’s lesser poetry. Sophie, how quickly can you have Tessa ready?” “Half an hour,” said Sophie, not looking up from the dress.

“Meet me in the courtyard in half an hour, then,” said Will. “I’ll wake Cyril. And be prepared to swoon at my finery.” Images

The night was a cool one, and Tessa shivered as she passed through the doors of the Institute and stood at the head of the steps outside. This was where she had sat, she thought, that night she and Jem had walked to Blackfriars Bridge together, the night the clockwork creatures had attacked them. It was a clearer night tonight, despite the day of rain; the moon chased stray wisps of cloud across an otherwise unmarked black sky.

The carriage was there, at the foot of the steps, Will waiting in front of it. He glanced up as the doors of the Institute closed behind her. For a moment they simply stood and looked at each other. Tessa knew what he was seeing—she had seen it herself, in the mirror in Jessamine’s room. She was Jessamine down to the last inch, clothed in a delicate ivory silk dress. It was low-cut, revealing a great deal of Jessamine’s white bosom, with a silk ribbon at the collar to emphasize the shape of her throat. The sleeves were short, leaving her arms vulnerable to the night air. Even if the neckline hadn’t been so low, Tessa would have felt naked without her angel, but she couldn’t wear it: Nate would have been sure to notice it. The skirt, with a waterfall train, belled out behind her from a laced, slender waist; her hair was dressed high, with a length of pearls held in place by pearl pins, and she wore a gold domino half mask that set off Jessamine’s pale, fair hair to perfection. I look so delicate, she had thought with detachment, staring at the mirror’s silvered surface as Sophie had fussed about her. Like a faerie princess. It was easy to think such thoughts when the reflection was not truly your own.

But Will—Will. He had said she should be ready to swoon at his finery, and she had rolled her eyes, but in his black and white evening dress, he looked more beautiful than she had imagined. The stark and simple colors brought out the angular perfection of his features. His dark hair tumbled over a black half mask that emphasized the blueness of the eyes behind it. She felt her heart contract, and hated herself instantly for it. She looked away from him, at Cyril, in the driver’s seat of the carriage. His eyes narrowed in confusion as he saw her; he looked from her to Will, and back again, and shrugged. Tessa wondered what on earth Will had told him they were doing to explain the fact that he was taking Jessamine to Chiswick in the middle of the night. It must have been quite a story.

“Ah,” was all Will said as she descended the steps and drew her wrap around herself. She hoped he would put down to the cold the involuntary shiver that went over her as he took her hand. “I see now why your brother quoted that execrable poetry. You are meant to be Maud, aren’t you? ‘Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls’?” “You know,” Tessa said as he helped her up into the carriage, “I don’t care for that poem either.” He swung himself up after her and slammed the carriage door shut. “Jessamine adores it.” The carriage began to rumble across the cobblestones, and through the open doors of the gate. Tessa found that her heart was beating very fast. Fear of being caught by Charlotte and Henry, she told herself. Nothing to do with being alone with Will in the carriage. “I am not Jessamine.” He looked at her levelly. There was something in his eyes, a sort of quizzical admiration; she wondered if it was simply admiration of Jessamine’s looks. “No,” he said. “No, even though you are the perfect picture of Jessamine, I can see Tessa through it somehow—as if, if I were to scrape away a layer of paint, there would be my Tessa underneath.” “I am not your Tessa either.”

The light sparkling in his eyes dimmed. “Fair enough,” he said. “I suppose you are not. What is it like, being Jessamine, then? Can you sense her thoughts? Read what she feels?” Tessa swallowed, and touched the velvet curtain of the carriage with a gloved hand. Outside she could see the gaslights going by in a yellow blur; two children were slumped in a doorway, leaning against each other, asleep. Temple Bar flew by overhead. She said, “I tried. Upstairs in her bedroom. But there’s something wrong. I—I couldn’t feel anything from her.” “Well, I suppose it’s hard to meddle in someone’s brains if they’ve got no brains to start with.” Tessa made a face. “Be flippant about it if you like, but there is something wrong with Jessamine. Trying to touch her mind is like trying to touch—a nest of snakes, or a poisonous cloud. I can feel a little of her emotions. A great deal of rage, and longing, and bitterness. But I cannot pick out the individual thoughts among them. It is like trying to hold water.” “That’s curious. Have you ever come across anything like it before?”

Tessa shook her head. “It concerns me. I am afraid Nate will expect me to know something and I will not know it or have the right answer.” Will leaned forward. On wet days, which was nearly every day, his normally straight dark hair would begin to curl. There was something about the vulnerable curling of his damp hair against his temples that made her heart ache. “You are a good actress, and you know your brother,” he said. “I have every confidence in you.” She looked at him in surprise. “You do?”

“And,” he went on without answering her question, “in the event that something goes awry, I will be there. Even if you don’t see me, Tess, I’ll be there. Remember that.” “All right.” She cocked her head to the side. “Will?”

“Yes?”

“There was a third reason you didn’t want to wake up Charlotte and tell her what we were doing, wasn’t there?” He narrowed his blue eyes at her. “And what’s that?”

“Because you do not yet know if this is simply a foolish flirtation on Jessamine’s part, or something deeper and darker. A true connection to my brother and to Mortmain. And you know that if it is the second, it will break Charlotte’s heart.” A muscle jumped at the corner of his mouth. “And what do I care if it does? If she is foolish enough to attach herself to Jessamine—” “You care,” said Tessa. “You are no inhuman block of ice, Will. I have seen you with Jem—I saw you when you looked at Cecily. And you had another sister, didn’t you?” He looked at her sharply. “What makes you think I had—I have—more than one sister?”

“Jem said he thought your sister was dead,” she said. “And you said, ‘My sister is dead.’ But Cecily is clearly very much alive. Which made me think you had a sister who had died. One that wasn’t Cecily.” Will let out a long, slow breath. “You’re clever.”

“But am I clever and right, or clever and wrong?”

Will looked as if he were glad for the mask that hid his expression. “Ella,” he said. “Two years older than I. And Cecily, three years younger. My sisters.” “And Ella . . .”

Will looked away, but not before she saw the pain in his eyes. So Ella was dead.

“What was she like?” Tessa asked, remembering how grateful she had been when Jem had asked that of her, about Nate. “Ella? And Cecily, what kind of girl is she?” “Ella was protective,” said Will. “Like a mother. She would have done anything for me. And Cecily was a little mad creature. She was only nine when I left. I can’t say if she’s still the same, but she was—like Cathy in Wuthering Heights. She was afraid of nothing and demanded everything. She could fight like a devil and swear like a Billingsgate fishwife.” There was amusement in his voice, and admiration, and . . . love. She had never heard him talk about anyone that way, except perhaps Jem.

“If I might ask—,” she began.

Will sighed. “You know you’ll ask whether I say it’s all right or not.”

“You have a younger sister of your own,” she said. “So what exactly did you do to Gabriel’s sister to make him hate you so?” He straightened. “Are you serious?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am forced to spend a great deal of time with the Lightwoods, and Gabriel clearly despises you. And you did break his arm. It would ease my mind if I knew why.” Shaking his head, Will raked his fingers through his hair. “Dear God,” he said. “Their sister—her name is Tatiana, by the way; she was named after her mother’s dear friend, who was Russian—was twelve years old, I think.” “Twelve?” Tessa was horrified.

Will exhaled. “I see you have already decided for yourself what happened,” he said. “Would it ease your mind further to know that I myself was twelve? Tatiana, she . . . fancied herself in love with me. In that way that little girls do. She would follow me around and giggle and duck behind pillars to stare at me.” “One does silly things when one is twelve.”

“It was the first Christmas party at the Institute that I attended,” he said. “The Lightwoods were there in all their finery. Tatiana in silver hair ribbons. She had a little book she carried around with her everywhere. She must have dropped it that night. I found it shoved down the back of one of the chaise longues. It was her diary. Filled with poems about me—the color of my eyes, the wedding we would have. She had written ‘Tatiana Herondale’ all over it.” “That sounds rather adorable.”

“I had been in the drawing room, but I came back into the ballroom with the diary. Elise Penhallow had just finished playing the spinet. I got up beside her and commenced reading from Tatiana’s diary.” “Oh, Will—you didn’t!”

“I did,” he said. “She had rhymed ‘William’ with ‘million,’ as in ‘You will never know, sweet William / How many are the million / ways in which I love you.’ It had to be stopped.” “What happened?”

“Oh, Tatiana ran out of the room in tears, and Gabriel leaped onto the stage and attempted to strangle me. Gideon simply stood there with his arms crossed. You’ll notice that’s all he ever does.” “I suppose Gabriel didn’t succeed,” said Tessa. “In strangling you, I mean.”

“Not before I broke his arm,” said Will with relish. “So there you are. That’s why he hates me. I humiliated his sister in public, and what he won’t mention is that I humiliated him, too. He thought he could best me easily. I’d had little formal training, and I’d heard him call me ‘very nearly a mundane’ behind my back. Instead I beat him hollow—snapped his arm, in fact. It was certainly a more pleasant sound than Elise banging away on the spinet.” Tessa rubbed her gloved hands together to warm them, and sighed. She wasn’t sure what to think. It was hardly the story of seduction and betrayal she had expected, but neither did it show Will in an admirable light.

“Sophie says she’s married now,” she said. “Tatiana. She’s just getting back from traveling the Continent with her new husband.” “I am sure she is as dull and stupid now as she was then.” Will sounded as if he might fall asleep. He thumbed the curtain closed, and they were in darkness. Tessa could hear his breath, feel the warmth of him sitting across from her. She could see why a proper young lady would never ride in a carriage with a gentleman not related to her. There was something oddly intimate about it. Of course, she had broken the rules for proper young ladies what felt like long ago, now.

“Will,” she said again.

“The lady has another question. I can hear it in her tone. Will you never have done asking questions, Tess?” “Not until I get all the answers I want,” she said. “Will, if warlocks are made by having one demon parent and one human parent, what happens if one of those parents is a Shadowhunter?” “A Shadowhunter would never allow that to happen,” said Will flatly.

“But in the Codex it says that most warlocks are the result of—of a violation,” Tessa said, her voice hitching on the ugly word, “or shape-changer demons taking on the form of a loved one and completing the seduction by a trick. Jem told me Shadowhunter blood is always dominant. The Codex says the off-spring of Shadowhunters and werewolves, or faeries, are always Shadowhunters. So could not the angel blood in a Shadow-hunter cancel out that which was demonic, and produce—” “What it produces is nothing.” Will tugged at the window curtain. “The child would be born dead. They always are. Stillborn, I mean. The offspring of a demon and a Shadowhunter parent is death.” In the little light he looked at her. “Why do you want to know these things?” “I want to know what I am,” she said. “I believe I am some . . . combination that has not been seen before. Part faerie, or part—” “Have you ever thought of transforming yourself into one of your parents?” Will asked. “Your mother, or father? It would give you access to their memories, wouldn’t it?” “I have thought of it. Of course I have. But I have nothing of my father’s or mother’s. Everything that was packed in my trunks for the voyage here was discarded by the Dark Sisters.” “What about your angel necklace?” Will asked. “Wasn’t that your mother’s?”

Tessa shook her head. “I tried. I—I could reach nothing of her in it. It has been mine so long, I think, that what made it hers has evaporated, like water.” Will’s eyes gleamed in the shadows. “Perhaps you are a clockwork girl. Perhaps Mortmain’s warlock father built you, and now Mortmain seeks the secret of how to create such a perfect facsimile of life when all he can build are hideous monstrosities. Perhaps all that beats beneath your chest is a heart made of metal.” Tessa drew in a breath, feeling momentarily dizzy. His soft voice was so convincing, and yet—“No,” she said sharply. “You forget, I remember my childhood. Mechanical creatures do not change or grow. Nor would that explain my ability.” “I know,” said Will with a grin that flashed white in the darkness. “I only wanted to see if I could convince you.” Tessa looked at him steadily. “I am not the one who has no heart.”

It was too dark in the carriage for her to tell, but she sensed that he flushed, darkly. Before he could say anything in response, the wheels came to a jerking halt. They had arrived.