فصل 13

Chapter 13

THE MORTAL SWORD

“Take my share of a fickle heart,

Mine of a paltry love:

Take it or leave it as you will,

I wash my hands thereof.”

—Christina Rosetti, “Maude Clare”

“Oh, my dear merciful heavens!” said Sophie, starting up from her chair as Tessa opened the door to Jessamine’s bedroom. “Miss Tessa, what happened?” “Sophie! Shh!” Tessa waved a warning hand as she shut the door behind her. The room was as she had left it. Her nightgown and dressing gown were folded neatly on a chair, the cracked silver mirror was on the vanity table, and Jessamine—Jessamine was still soundly unconscious, her wrists rope-bound to the posts of the bed. Sophie, seated in a chair by the wardrobe, had clearly been there since Will and Tessa had left; she clutched a hairbrush in one hand (to hit Jessamine with, should she awaken again, Tessa wondered?), and her hazel eyes were huge.

“But miss . . .” Sophie’s voice trailed off as Tessa’s gaze went to her reflection in the looking glass. Tessa could not help but stare. Her hair had come down, of course, in a tangled mess all over her shoulders, Jessamine’s pearl pins gone where Will had flung them; she was shoeless and limping, her white stockings filthy, her gloves gone, and her dress obviously nearly choking her to death. “Was it very dreadful?” Tessa’s mind went suddenly back to the balcony, and Will’s arms around her. Oh, God. She pushed the thought away and glanced over at Jessamine, still sleeping peacefully. “Sophie, we are going to have to wake Charlotte. We have no choice.” Sophie looked at her with round eyes. Tessa could not blame her; she dreaded rousing Charlotte. Tessa had even pleaded with Magnus to come in with her to help break the news, but he had refused, on the grounds that internecine Shadowhunter dramas had nothing to do with him, and he had a novel to get back to besides.

“Miss—,” Sophie protested.

“We must.” As quickly as she could, Tessa told Sophie the gist of what had happened that night, leaving out the part with Will on the balcony. No one needed to know about that. “This is beyond us now. We cannot come in over Charlotte’s head any longer.” Sophie made no more sound of protest. She laid the hairbrush down on the vanity, stood up, smoothed her skirts, and said, “I will fetch Mrs. Branwell, miss.” Tessa sank into the chair by the bed, wincing as Jessamine’s dress pinched her. “I wish you would call me Tessa.” “I know, miss.” Sophie left, closing the door quietly behind her.

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Magnus was lying on the sofa in the drawing room with his boots up when he heard the commotion. He grinned without moving at the sound of Archer protesting, and Will protesting. Footsteps neared the door. Magnus flipped a page in his poetry book as the door swung open and Will stalked in.

He was barely recognizable. His elegant evening clothes were torn and stained with mud, his coat ripped lengthwise, his boots encrusted with mud. His hair stood up wildly, and his face was raked by dozens of scratches, as if he had been attacked by a dozen cats simultaneously.

“I’m sorry, sir,” said Archer despairingly. “He pushed past me.”

“Magnus,” Will said. He was grinning. Magnus had seen him grin before, but there was real joy in it this time. It transformed Will’s face, took it from beautiful but cold to incandescent. “Tell him to let me in.” Magnus waved a hand. “Let him in, Archer.”

The human subjugate’s gray face twisted, and the door slammed behind Will. “Magnus!” He half-staggered, half-stalked over to the fireplace, where he leaned against the mantel. “You won’t believe—” “Shh,” said Magnus, his book still open on his knees. “Listen to this:

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.”

“Swinburne,” said Will, leaning against the mantel. “Sentimental and overrated.” “You don’t know what it is to be immortal.” Magnus tossed the book aside and sat up. “So what is it you want?” Will pulled up his sleeve. Magnus swallowed a sound of surprise. Will’s forearm bore a long, deep, and bloody gash. Blood braceleted his wrist and dripped from his fingers. Embedded in the gash, like a crystal sunk into the wall of a cave, was a single white tooth.

“What the—,” Magnus began.

“Demon tooth,” Will said, his breath a little short. “I chased that blue bastard all around Chiswick, but it got away from me—not before it bit me, though. It left this tooth in me. You can use it, right? To summon the demon?” He took hold of the tooth and yanked it free. Even more blood welled up and spilled down his arm, splattering onto the ground.

“Camille’s carpet,” Magnus protested.

“It’s blood,” said Will. “She ought to be thrilled.”

“Are you all right?” Magnus looked at Will in fascination. “You’re bleeding a great deal. Haven’t you a stele on your person somewhere? A healing rune—” “I don’t care about healing runes. I care about this.” Will dropped the bloody tooth into Magnus’s hand. “Find the demon for me. I know you can do it.” Magnus glanced down with a moue of distaste. “I most likely can, but . . .” The light in Will’s face flickered. “But?”

“But not tonight,” said Magnus. “It may take me a few days. You’ll have to be patient.” Will took a ragged breath. “I can’t be patient. Not after tonight. You don’t understand—” He staggered then, and caught himself by seizing the mantel. Alarmed, Magnus rose from the sofa.

“Are you all right?”

The color was coming and going in Will’s face. His collar was dark with sweat. “I don’t know—,” he gasped. “The tooth. It might have been poisonous . . .” His voice trailed off. He slid forward, his eyes rolling up. With an epithet of surprise Magnus caught Will before he could hit the bloody carpet and, hoisting the boy in his arms, carried him carefully over to the sofa.

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Tessa, seated in the chair beside Jessamine’s bed, massaged her aching ribs and sighed. The corset was still biting into her, and she had no idea when she’d get a chance to remove it; her feet ached, and she hurt down deep in her soul. Seeing Nate had been like having a knife twisted in a fresh wound. He had danced with “Jessamine”—flirted with her—and had casually discussed the fate of Tessa, his sister, as if it meant nothing to him at all.

She supposed it should not surprise her, that she should be beyond surprise where Nate was concerned. But it hurt just the same.

And Will—those few moments out on the balcony with Will had been the most confusing of her life. After the way Will had spoken to her on the roof, she had sworn never to entertain romantic thoughts of him again. He was no dark, brooding Heathcliff nursing a secret passion, she had told herself, merely a boy who thought himself too good for her. But the way he had looked at her on the terrace, the way he had smoothed her hair back from her face, even the faint tremble in his hands when he’d touched her—surely those things could not be the product of falsehood.

But then, she had touched him back the same way. In that moment she had wanted nothing but Will. Had felt nothing but Will. Yet just the night before she had touched and kissed Jem; she had felt that she loved him; she had let him see her as no one had ever seen her before. And when she thought of him now, thought of his silence this morning, his absence from dinner, she missed him again, with a physical pain that could not be a lie.

Could you really love two different people at once? Could you split your heart in half? Or was it just that the time with Will on the balcony had been a madness induced by warlock drugs? Would it have been the same with anyone? The thought haunted her like a ghost.

“Tessa.”

Tessa nearly leaped out of her seat. The voice was almost a whisper. It was Jessamine. Her eyes were half-open, the reflected firelight flickering in their brown depths.

Tessa sat up straight. “Jessamine. Are you . . .”

“What happened?” Jessamine’s head rolled fretfully from side to side. “I don’t remember.” She tried to sit up and gasped, finding her hands bound. “Tessa! Why on earth—” “It’s for your own good, Jessamine.” Tessa’s voice shook. “Charlotte—she has questions she has to ask you. It would be so much better if you were willing to answer them—” “The party.” Jessamine’s eyes flicked back and forth, as if she were watching something Tessa couldn’t see. “Sophie, that little monkey, was going through my things. I found her with the invitation in her hands—” “Yes, the party,” said Tessa. “At Benedict Lightwood’s. Where you were meeting Nate.” “You read his note?” Jessamine’s head whipped to the side. “Don’t you know how rude and improper it is to read another person’s private correspondence?” She tried to sit up again, and fell back once more against the pillows. “Anyway, he didn’t sign it. You can’t prove—” “Jessamine, there is little advantage in falsehood now. I can prove it, for I went to the party, and I spoke with my brother there.” Jessamine’s mouth opened in a pink O. For the first time she seemed to note what Tessa was wearing. “My dress,” she breathed. “You disguised yourself as me?” Tessa nodded.

Jessamine’s eyes darkened. “Unnatural,” she breathed. “Disgusting creature! What did you do to Nate? What did you say to him?” “He made it very clear you have been spying for Mortmain,” said Tessa, wishing that Sophie and Charlotte would return. What on earth was taking them so long? “That you have betrayed us, reporting on all our activities, carrying out Mortmain’s commands—” “Us?” Jessamine screamed, struggling upright as much as the ropes would allow her. “You are not a Shadowhunter! You owe them no loyalty! They do not care about you, any more than they care about me. Only Nate cares for me—” “My brother,” Tessa said in a barely controlled voice, “is a lying murderer, incapable of feeling. He may have married you, Jessamine, but he does not love you. The Shadowhunters have helped and protected me, as they have done for you. And yet you turn on them like a dog the moment my brother snaps his fingers. He will abandon you, if he does not kill you first.” “Liar!” Jessamine screamed. “You don’t understand him. You never did! His soul is pure and fine—” “Pure as ditch water,” Tessa said. “I understand him better than you do; you are blinded by his charm. He cares nothing for you.” “Liar—”

“I saw it in his eyes. I saw the way he looks at you.”

Jessamine gasped. “How can you be so cruel?”

Tessa shook her head. “You can’t see it, can you?” she said wonderingly. “For you it is all play, like those dolls in your dollhouse—moving them about, making them kiss and marry. You wanted a mundane husband, and Nate was good enough. You cannot see what your traitorous behavior has cost those who have always cared for you.” Jessamine bared her teeth; in that moment she looked enough like a trapped, cornered animal that Tessa almost shrank back. “I love Nate,” she said. “And he loves me. You are the one who does not understand love. ‘Oh, I cannot decide between Will and Jem. Whatever shall I do?’” she said in a high-pitched voice, and Tessa flushed hotly. “So what if Mortmain wants to destroy the Shadowhunters of Britain. I say let them burn.” Tessa gaped at her, just as the door behind her was flung open, and Charlotte marched in. She looked drawn and hollow with exhaustion, in a gray dress that matched the shadows beneath her eyes, but her carriage was erect, her eyes clear. Behind her came Sophie, scuttling as if frightened—and a moment later Tessa saw why, for bringing up the rear of the party was an apparition in parchment-colored robes, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hood, and a deadly bright blade in his hand. It was Brother Enoch, of the Silent Brothers, carrying the Mortal Sword.

“Let us burn? Is that what you said, Jessamine?” said Charlotte in a bright, hard voice so unlike her that Tessa stared.

Jessamine gasped. Her eyes were fixed on the blade in Brother Enoch’s hand. Its great hilt was carved in the shape of an angel with outspread wings.

Brother Enoch flicked the Sword toward Jessamine, who flinched back, and the ropes binding her wrists to the bedposts unraveled. Her hands fell limply into her lap. She stared at them, and then at Charlotte. “Charlotte, Tessa’s a liar. She’s a lying Downworlder—” Charlotte paused at the side of the bed and looked down at Jessamine dispassionately. “That has not been my experience of her, Jessamine. And what of Sophie? She has always been a most honest servant.” “She struck me! With a mirror!” Jessamine’s face was red.

“Because she found this.” Charlotte drew the invitation, which Tessa had given over to Sophie, from her pocket. “Can you explain this, Jessamine?” “There’s nothing against the Law about going to a party.” Jessamine sounded equal parts sulky and frightened. “Benedict Lightwood is a Shadowhunter—” “This is Nathaniel Gray’s writing.” Charlotte’s voice never seemed to lose its even edge, Tessa thought. There was something about that fact that made it seem even more inexorable. “He is a spy, wanted by the Clave, and you have been meeting with him in secret. Why is that?” Jessamine’s mouth opened slightly. Tessa waited for excuses—It’s all lies, Sophie invented the invitation, I was only meeting Nate to gain his confidence—but instead tears came. “I love him,” she said. “And he loves me.” “So you betrayed us to him,” said Charlotte.

“I didn’t!” Jessamine’s voice rose. “Whatever Tessa says, it isn’t true! She’s lying. She’s always been jealous of me, and she’s lying!” Charlotte gave Tessa a measured look. “Is she, now. And Sophie?”

“Sophie hates me,” Jessamine sobbed. This at least was true. “She ought to be put out on the street—without references—” “Do cease turning on the taps, Jessamine. It accomplishes nothing.” Charlotte’s voice cut through Jessamine’s sobs like a blade. She turned to Enoch. “The true story will be easy enough to get. The Mortal Sword, please, Brother Enoch.” The Silent Brother stepped forward, the Mortal Sword leveled at Jessamine. Tessa stared in horror. Was he going to torture Jessamine in her own bed, in front of them all?

Jessamine cried out. “No! No! Get him away from me! Charlotte!” Her voice rose to a terrible wailing scream that seemed to go on and on, splitting Tessa’s ears, her head.

“Put out your hands, Jessamine,” said Charlotte coldly.

Jessamine shook her head wildly, her fair hair flying.

“Charlotte, no,” Tessa said. “Don’t hurt her.”

“Don’t interfere in what you don’t understand, Tessa,” said Charlotte in a clipped voice. “Put your hands out, Jessamine, or it will go very badly for you.” With tears running down her face, Jessamine thrust her hands forward, palms up. Tessa tensed all over. She felt suddenly sick and sorry she had had anything to do with this plan. If Jessamine had been fooled by Nate, then so had she. Jessie did not deserve this— “It’s all right,” said a soft voice at her shoulder. It was Sophie. “He won’t hurt her with it. The Mortal Sword makes Nephilim tell the truth.” Brother Enoch laid the blade of the Mortal Sword flat across Jessamine’s palms. He did it without either force or gentleness, as if he were hardly aware of her as a person at all. He let the blade go and stepped back; even Jessamine’s eyes rounded in surprise; the blade seemed to balance perfectly across her hands, utterly immobile.

“It is not a torture device, Jessamine,” said Charlotte, her hands folded in front of her. “We must employ it only because you cannot be trusted to tell the truth otherwise.” She held up the invitation. “This is yours, is it not?” Jessamine did not answer. She was looking at Brother Enoch, her eyes wide and black with terror, her chest rising and falling fast. “I cannot think, not with that monster in the room—” Her voice trembled.

Charlotte’s mouth thinned, but she turned to Enoch and spoke a few words. He nodded, then glided silently from the room. As the door shut behind him, Charlotte said, “There. He is waiting in the corridor. Do not think he will not catch you should you try to run, Jessamine.” Jessamine nodded. She seemed to droop, broken like a toy doll.

Charlotte fluttered the invitation in her hand. “This is yours, yes? And it was sent to you by Nathaniel Gray. This writing is his.” “Y-yes.” The word seemed pulled from Jessamine against her will.

“How long have you been meeting him in secret?”

Jessamine set her mouth, but her lips were trembling. A moment later a torrent of words burst from her mouth. Her eyes darted round in shock as if she could not believe she was speaking. “He sent me a message only a few days after Mortmain invaded the Institute. He apologized for his behavior toward me. He said he was grateful for my nursing of him and that he had not been able to forget my graciousness or my beauty. I—I wanted to ignore him. But a second letter came, and a third.. . . I agreed to meet him. I left the Institute in the middle of the night and we met in Hyde Park. He kissed me—” “Enough of that,” said Charlotte. “How long did it take him to convince you to spy on us?” “He said that he was only working for Mortmain until he could put together enough of a fortune to live comfortably. I said we could live together on my fortune, but he wouldn’t have it. It had to be his money. He said he would not live off his wife. Is that not noble?” “So by this point he had already proposed?”

“He proposed the second time we met.” Jessamine sounded breathy. “He said he knew there would never be another woman for him. And he promised that once he had enough money, I would have just the life I had always wanted, that we would never worry about money, and that there would be ch-children.” She sniffled.

“Oh, Jessamine.” Charlotte sounded almost sad.

Jessamine flushed. “It was true! He loved me! He has more than proved it. We are married! It was done most properly in a church with a minister—” “Probably a deconsecrated church and some flunky dressed to look like a minister,” said Charlotte. “What do you know of mundane weddings, Jessie? How would you know what a proper wedding was? I give you my word that Nathaniel Gray does not consider you his wife.” “He does, he does, he does!” Jessamine shrieked, and tried to pull away from the Sword. It stuck to her hands as if it had been nailed there. Her wails went up an octave. “I am Jessamine Gray!” “You are a traitor to the Clave. What else did you tell Nathaniel?”

“Everything,” Jessamine gasped. “Where you were looking for Mortmain, which Downworlders you had contacted in your attempt to find him. That was why he was never anywhere you searched. I warned him about the trip to York. That is why he sent the automatons to Will’s family’s home. Mortmain wanted to terrify you into ceasing the search. He considers you all pestilential annoyances. But he is not afraid of you.” Her chest was heaving up and down. “He will win out over you all. He knows it. So do I.” Charlotte leaned forward, her hands on her hips. “But he did not succeed in terrifying us into ceasing the search,” she said. “The automatons he sent tried to snatch Tessa but failed—” “They weren’t sent to try to snatch Tessa. Oh, he still plans to take her, but not like that, not yet. His plan is close to realization, and that is when he will move to take the Institute, to take Tessa—” “How close is he? Has he managed to open the Pyxis?” Charlotte snapped.

“I—I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“So you told Nate everything and he told you nothing. What of Benedict? Why has he agreed to work hand in glove with Mortmain? I always knew he was an unpleasant man, but it seems unlike him to betray the Clave.” Jessamine shook her head. She was sweating, her fair hair stuck to her temples. “Mortmain is holding something over him, something he wants. I don’t know what it is. But he will do anything to get it.” “Including handing me over to Mortmain,” said Tessa. Charlotte looked at her in surprise when she spoke, and seemed about to interrupt her, but Tessa hurtled on. “What is this about having me falsely accused of possessing articles of dark magic? How was that to be accomplished?” “The Book of the White,” Jessamine gasped. “I—took it from the locked case in the library. Hid it in your room while you were out.” “Where in my room?”

“Loose floorboard—near the fireplace.” Jessamine’s pupils were enormous. “Charlotte . . . please . . .” But Charlotte was relentless. “Where is Mortmain? Has he spoken to Nate of his plans for the Pyxis, for his automatons?” “I—” Jessamine took a shuddering gasp. Her face was dark red. “I can’t—” “Nate wouldn’t have told her,” said Tessa. “He would have known she might have been caught, and he would have thought she’d crack under torture and spill everything. He would.” Jessamine gave her a venomous look. “He hates you, you know,” she said. “He says that all his life you looked down on him, you and your aunt with your silly provincial morality, judging him for everything he did. Always telling him what to do, never wanting him to get ahead. Do you know what he calls you? He—” “I don’t care,” Tessa lied; her voice shook slightly. Despite everything, hearing that her brother hated her hurt more than she had thought it could. “Did he say what I am? Why I have the power I do?” “He said that your father was a demon.” Jessamine’s lips twitched. “And that your mother was a Shadowhunter.” Images

The door opened softly, so softly that had Magnus not already been drifting in and out of sleep, the noise would not have woken him.

He looked up. He was sitting in an armchair near the fire, as his favorite place on the sofa was taken up by Will. Will, in bloody shirtsleeves, was sleeping the heavy sleep of the drugged and healing. His forearm was bandaged to the elbow, his cheeks flushed, his head pillowed on his unhurt arm. The tooth Will had pulled from his arm sat on the side table beside him, gleaming like ivory.

The door to the drawing room stood open behind him. And there, framed in the archway, was Camille.

She wore a black velvet traveling cloak open over a brilliant green dress that matched her eyes. Her hair was dressed high on her head with emerald combs, and as he watched, she drew off her white kid gloves, deliberately slowly, one by one, and laid them on the table by the door.

“Magnus,” she said, and her voice, as always, sounded like silvery bells. “Did you miss me?” Magnus sat up straight. The firelight played over Camille’s shining hair, her poreless white skin. She was extraordinarily beautiful. “I did not realize you would be favoring me with your presence tonight.” She looked at Will, asleep on the sofa. Her lips curled upward. “Clearly.” “You sent no message. In fact, you have sent me no messages at all since you left London.” “Are you reproaching me, Magnus?” Camille sounded amused. Gliding behind the sofa, she leaned over the back, looking down into Will’s face. “Will Herondale,” she said. “He is lovely, isn’t he? Is he your newest amusement?” Instead of answering, Magnus crossed his long legs in front of him. “Where have you been?” Camille leaned forward farther; if she had had breath, it would have stirred the curling dark hair on Will’s forehead. “Can I kiss him?” “No,” said Magnus. “Where have you been, Camille? Every night I lay here on your sofa and I waited to hear your step in the hall, and I wondered where you were. You might at least tell me.” She straightened, rolling her eyes. “Oh, very well. I was in Paris, having some new dresses fitted. A much-needed holiday from the dramas of London.” There was a long silence. Then, “You’re lying,” Magnus said.

Her eyes widened. “Why would you say such a thing?”

“Because it’s the truth.” He took a crumpled letter from his pocket and threw it onto the floor between them. “You cannot track a vampire, but you can track a vampire’s subjugate. You took Walker with you. It was easy enough for me to track him to Saint Petersburg. I have informants there. They let me know that you were living there with a human lover.” Camille watched him, a little smile playing about her mouth. “And that made you jealous?” “Did you want me to be?”

“Ça m’est égal,” said Camille, dropping into the French she used when she truly wanted to annoy him. “It’s all the same to me. He had nothing to do with you. He was a diversion while I was in Russia, nothing more.” “And now he is . . .”

“Dead. So he hardly represents competition for you. You must let me have my little diversions, Magnus.” “Otherwise?”

“Otherwise I shall become extremely cross.”

“As you became cross with your human lover, and murdered him?” Magnus inquired. “What of pity? Compassion? Love? Or do you not feel that emotion?” “I love,” Camille said indignantly. “You and I, Magnus, who endure forever, love in such a manner as cannot be conceived of by mortals—a dark constant flame to their brief, sputtering light. What do they matter to you? Fidelity is a human concept, based upon the idea that we are here but for a short time. You cannot demand my faithfulness for eternity.” “How foolish of me. I thought I could. I thought I could at least expect you not to lie to me.” “You are being ridiculous,” she said. “A child. You expect me to have the morals of some mundane when I am not human, and neither are you. Regardless, there is precious little you can do about it. I will not be dictated to, certainly not by some half-breed.” It was the Downworlders’ own insulting term for warlocks. “You are devoted to me; you have said so yourself. Your devotion will simply have to suffer my diversions, and then we shall rub along quite pleasantly. If not, I shall drop you. I cannot imagine you want that.” There was a little sneer in her voice as she spoke, and it snapped something inside Magnus. He recalled the sick feeling in his throat when the letter had come from Saint Petersburg. And yet he had waited for her return, hoping she had an explanation. That she would apologize. Ask him to love her again. Now that he realized he was not worth that to her—that he never had been—a red mist passed before his eyes; he seemed to go mad momentarily, for it was the only explanation for what he did next.

“It doesn’t matter.” He rose to his feet. “I have Will now.”

Her mouth opened. “You can’t be serious. A Shadowhunter?”

“You may be immortal, Camille, but your feelings are vapid and shallow. Will’s are not. He understands what it is to love.” Magnus, having delivered this insane speech with great dignity, stepped across the room and shook Will’s shoulder. “Will. William. Wake up.” Will’s hazy blue eyes opened. He was lying on his back, looking upward, and the first thing he saw was Camille’s face as she bent over the back of the sofa, regarding him. He jerked upright. “By the Angel—” “Oh, shush,” said Camille lazily, smiling just enough to show the tips of baby fangs. “I won’t hurt you, Nephilim.” Magnus hauled Will to his feet. “The lady of the house,” he said, “has returned.” “I see that.” Will was flushed, the collar of his shirt dark with sweat. “Delightful,” he said to no one in particular, and Magnus wasn’t sure whether he meant he was delighted to see Camille, delighted with the effects of the painkilling spell Magnus had used on him—certainly a possibility—or simply rambling.

“And therefore,” said Magnus, squeezing Will’s arm with a meaning pressure, “we must go.” Will blinked at him. “Go where?”

“Don’t worry about that right now, my love.”

Will blinked again. “Pardon?” He glanced around, as if he half-expected people to be watching. “I—where’s my coat?” “Ruined with blood,” said Magnus. “Archer disposed of it.” He nodded toward Camille. “Will’s been hunting demons all night. So brave.” Camille’s expression was a mixture of amazement and annoyance.

“I am brave,” Will said. He looked pleased with himself. The painkilling tonics had enlarged his pupils, and his eyes looked very dark.

“Yes, you are,” Magnus said, and kissed him. It wasn’t the most dramatic kiss, but Will flailed his free arm as if a bee had landed on him; Magnus had to hope Camille would assume this was passion. When they broke apart, Will looked stunned. So did Camille, for that matter.

“Now,” Magnus said, hoping that Will would recollect that he was indebted to him. “We must go.” “I—but—” Will swung sideways. “The tooth!” He dashed across the room, retrieved it, and tucked it into Magnus’s waistcoat pocket. Then, with a wink at Camille that, Magnus thought, God alone knew how she would interpret, he sauntered out of the room.

“Camille,” Magnus began.

She had her arms crossed over her chest and was looking at him venomously. “Carrying on with Shadowhunters behind my back,” she said icily, and with no apparent regard for the hypocrisy of her position. “And in my own house! Really, Magnus.” She pointed toward the door. “Please leave my residence and do not return. I trust I shall not have to ask you twice.” Magnus was only too pleased to oblige. A few moments later he had joined Will on the pavement outside the house, shrugging on his coat—all he now owned in the world besides what was in his pockets—and fastening the buttons against the chilly air. It would not be long, Magnus thought, before the first gray flush of morning lightened the sky.

“Did you just kiss me?” Will inquired.

Magnus made a split-second decision. “No.”

“I thought—”

“On occasion the aftereffects of the painkilling spells can result in hallucinations of the most bizarre sort.” “Oh,” Will said. “How peculiar.” He looked back at Camille’s house. Magnus could see the window of the drawing room, the red velvet curtains drawn tight. “What are we going to do now? About summoning the demon? Have we somewhere to go?” “I’ve got somewhere to go,” said Magnus, saying a prayer of silent thanks for Will’s single-minded fixation on demon summoning. “I have a friend I can stop with. You go along back to the Institute. I’ll get to work on your blasted demon tooth as soon as I possibly can. I’ll send a message to you when I know anything.” Will nodded slowly, then looked up at the black sky. “The stars,” he said. “I have never seen them so bright. The wind has blown off the fog, I think.” Magnus thought of the joy on Will’s face as he had stood bleeding in Camille’s living room, clutching the demon tooth in his hand. Somehow, I don’t think it’s the stars that have changed.

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“A Shadowhunter?” Tessa gasped. “That’s not possible.” She whirled around and looked at Charlotte, whose face mirrored her own shock. “It isn’t possible, is it? Will told me that the offspring of Shadowhunters and demons are stillborn.” Charlotte was shaking her head. “No. No, it isn’t possible.”

“But if Jessamine has to tell the truth—” Tessa’s voice wavered.

“She has to tell the truth as she believes it,” said Charlotte. “If your brother lied to her but she believed him, she will speak it as if it were the truth.” “Nate would never lie to me,” Jessamine spat.

“If Tessa’s mother was a Shadowhunter,” said Charlotte coldly, “then Nate is also a Shadowhunter. Shadowhunter blood breeds true. Did he ever mention that to you? That he was a Shadowhunter?” Jessamine looked revolted. “Nate isn’t a Shadowhunter!” she cried. “I would have known! I would never have married—” She broke off, biting down on her lip.

“Well, it’s one or the other, Jessamine,” said Charlotte. “Either you married a Shadowhunter, a truly supreme irony, or, more likely, you married a liar who used and discarded you. He must have known you’d be caught eventually. And what did he think would happen to you then?” “Nothing.” Jessamine looked shaken. “He said you were weak. That you would not punish me. That you could not bring yourself to truly harm me.” “He was wrong,” said Charlotte. “You are a traitor to the Clave. So is Benedict Lightwood. When the Consul hears of all this—” Jessamine laughed, a thin, broken sound. “Tell him,” she said. “That’s exactly what Mortmain wants.” She sputtered. “D-don’t bother asking me why. I don’t know. But I know he wants it. So tattle all you like, Charlotte. It will only put you in his power.” Charlotte gripped the footboard of the bed, her hands whitening. “Where is Mortmain?” Jessamine shuddered, shaking her head, her hair whipping back and forth. “No . . .” “Where is Mortmain?”

“H-he,” she gasped. “He—” Jessamine’s face was almost purple, her eyes bugging out of her head. She was clutching the Sword so tightly that blood welled around her fingers. Tessa looked at Charlotte in horror. “Idris,” Jessamine gasped at last, and slumped back against the pillow.

Charlotte’s face froze. “Idris?” she echoed. “Mortmain is in Idris, our homeland?” Jessamine’s eyelids fluttered. “No. He is not there.”

“Jessamine!” Charlotte looked as if she were going to leap on the girl and shake her till her teeth rattled. “How can he be in Idris and not be? Save yourself, you stupid girl. Tell us where he is!” “Stop!” Jessamine cried out. “Stop, it hurts. . ..”

Charlotte gave her a long, hard look. Then she went to the door of the room; when she returned, it was with Brother Enoch in tow. She crossed her arms over her chest and indicated Jessamine with a jerk of her chin. “There is something wrong, Brother. I asked her where Mortmain was; she said Idris. When I asked again, she denied it.” Her voice hardened. “Jessamine! Has Mortmain breached the wards of Idris?” Jessamine made a choking sound; her breath wheezed in and out of her chest. “No, he has not. . . . I swear . . . Charlotte, please . . .” Charlotte. Brother Enoch spoke firmly, his words echoing in Tessa’s mind. Enough. There is some sort of block in the girl’s mind, something placed there by Mortmain. He taunts us with the idea of Idris, yet she confesses he is not there. These blocks are strong. Continue to question her in this manner, and her heart may well fail her.

Charlotte sagged back. “Then what . . .”

Let me take her to the Silent City. We have our ways of seeking out the secrets locked in the mind, secrets even the girl herself may not be aware she knows.

Brother Enoch withdrew the Sword from Jessamine’s grasp. She seemed barely to notice. Her gaze was on Charlotte, her eyes wide and panicked. “The City of Bones?” she whispered. “Where the dead lie? No! I will not go there! I cannot bear that place!” “Then tell us where Mortmain is,” said Charlotte, her voice like ice.

Jessamine only began to sob. Charlotte ignored her. Brother Enoch lifted the girl to her feet; Jessamine struggled, but the Silent Brother held her in an iron grip, his other hand on the hilt of the Mortal Sword.

“Charlotte!” Jessamine shrieked piteously. “Charlotte, please, not the Silent City! Lock me in the crypt, give me to the Council, but please do not send me alone to that—that graveyard! I shall die of fear!” “You should have thought of that before you betrayed us,” said Charlotte. “Brother Enoch, take her, please.” Jessamine was still shrieking as the Silent Brother lifted her and threw her over his shoulder. As Tessa stared, wide-eyed, he strode from the room carrying her. Her cries and gasps echoed down the corridor long after the door closed behind them—and then were cut off suddenly.

“Jessamine—,” Tessa began.

“She is quite all right. He has probably put a Rune of Quietude on her. That is all. There is nothing to worry about,” said Charlotte, and she sat down on the edge of the bed. She looked down at her own hands, wonderingly, as if they did not belong to her. “Henry . . .” “Shall I rouse him for you, Mrs. Branwell?” Sophie asked gently.

“He is in the crypt, working. . . . I could not bear to get him.” Charlotte’s voice was distant. “Jessamine has been with us since she was a little girl. It would have been too much for him, too much. He does not have it in him to be cruel.” “Charlotte.” Tessa touched her shoulder gently. “Charlotte, you are not cruel either.” “I do what I must. There is nothing to worry about,” Charlotte said again, and burst into tears.