فصل 15

Chapter 15

THOUSANDS MORE

There is something horrible about a flower;

This, broken in my hand, is one of those

He threw it in just now; it will not live another hour;

There are thousands more; you do not miss a rose.

—Charlotte Mew, “In Nunhead Cemetery”

The rest of the day at the Institute passed in a mood of great tension, as the Shadowhunters prepared for their confrontation with Nate that night. There were no formal meals again, only a great deal of rushing about, as weapons were readied and polished, gear was prepared, and maps consulted while Bridget, warbling mournful ballads, carried trays of sandwiches and tea up and down the halls.

If it hadn’t been for Sophie’s invitation to “come and have a pickle” Tessa probably wouldn’t have eaten anything all day; as it was, her knotted throat would allow only a few bites of sandwich to slide down before she felt as if she were choking.

I’m going to see Nate tonight, she thought, staring at herself in the pier glass as Sophie knelt at her feet, lacing up her boots—boys’ boots from Jessamine’s hidden trove of male clothing.

And then I am going to betray him.

She thought of the way Nate had lain in her lap in the carriage on the way from de Quincey’s, and the way he had shrieked her name and held on to her when Brother Enoch had appeared. She wondered how much of that had been show. Probably at least part of him had been truly terrified—abandoned by Mortmain, hated by de Quincey, in the hands of Shadowhunters he had no reason to trust.

Except that she had told him they were trustworthy. And he had not cared. He had wanted what Mortmain was offering him. More than he had wanted her safety. More than he had cared about anything else. All the years between them, the time that had knitted them together so closely that she had thought them inseparable, had meant nothing to him.

“You can’t brood on it, miss,” said Sophie, rising to her feet and dusting off her hands. “He aren’t—I mean, he isn’t worth it.” “Who isn’t worth it?”

“Your brother. Wasn’t that what you were thinking on?”

Tessa squinted suspiciously. “Can you tell what I’m thinking because you have the Sight?”

Sophie laughed. “Lord, no, miss. I can read it on your face like a book. You always have the same look when you think of Master Nathaniel. But he’s a bad hat, miss, not worth your thoughts.” “He’s my brother.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re like him,” said Sophie decisively. “Some are just born bad, and that’s all there is to it.” Some imp of the perverse made Tessa ask: “And what of Will? Do you still think he was born bad? Lovely and poisonous like a snake, you said.” Sophie raised her delicately arched eyebrows. “Master Will is a mystery, no doubt.”

Before Tessa could reply the door swung open, and Jem stood in the doorway. “Charlotte sent me to give you—,” he began, and broke off, staring at Tessa.

She looked down at herself. Trousers, shoes, shirt, waistcoat, all in order. It was certainly a peculiar feeling, wearing men’s clothes—they were tight in places she was not used to clothes being tight, and loose in others, and they itched—but that hardly explained the look on Jem’s face.

“I . . .” Jem had flushed all over, red spreading up from his collar to his face. “Charlotte sent me to tell you we’re waiting in the drawing room,” he said. Then he turned around and left the room hurriedly.

“Goodness,” Tessa said, perplexed. “What was that about?”

Sophie chuckled softly. “Well, look at yourself.” Tessa looked. She was flushed, she thought, her hair tumbling loose over her shirt and waistcoat. The shirt had clearly been made with something of a feminine figure in mind, since it did not strain over the bosom as much as Tessa had feared it would; still, it was tight, thanks to Jessie’s smaller frame. The trousers were tight as well, as was the fashion, molding themselves to her legs. She cocked her head to the side. There was something indecent about it, wasn’t there? A man was not supposed to be able to see the shape of a lady’s upper legs, or so much of the curve of her hips. There was something about the men’s clothing that made her look not masculine but . . . undressed.

“My goodness,” she said.

“Indeed,” said Sophie. “Don’t worry. They’ll fit better once you Change, and besides . . . he fancies you anyway.” “I—you know—I mean, you think he fancies me?”

“Quite,” said Sophie, sounding unperturbed. “You should see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t think you see. Or looks up when a door opens, and is always disappointed when it isn’t you. Master Jem, he isn’t like Master Will. He can’t hide what he’s thinking.” “And you’re not . . .” Tessa searched for words. “Sophie, you’re not—put out with me?”

“Why would I be put out with you?” A little of the amusement had gone out of Sophie’s voice, and now she sounded carefully neutral.

You’re in for it now, Tessa, she thought. “I thought perhaps that there was a time when you looked at Jem with a certain admiration. That is all. I meant nothing improper, Sophie.” Sophie was silent for such a long time that Tessa was sure she was angry, or worse, terribly hurt. Instead she said, finally, “There was a time when I—when I admired him. He was so gentle and so kind, not like any man I’d known. And so lovely to look at, and the music he makes—” She shook her head, and her dark ringlets bounced. “But he never cared for me. Never by a word or a gesture did he lead me to believe he returned my admiration, though he was never unkind.” “Sophie,” Tessa said softly. “You have been more than a maidservant since I have come here. You have been a good friend. I would not do anything that might hurt you.” Sophie looked up at her. “Do you care for him?”

“I think,” Tessa said with slow caution, “that I do.”

“Good.” Sophie exhaled. “He deserves that. To be happy. Master Will has always been the brighter burning star, the one to catch attention—but Jem is a steady flame, unwavering and honest. He could make you happy.” “And you would not object?”

“Object?” Sophie shook her head. “Oh, Miss Tessa, it is kind of you to care what I think, but no. I would not object. My fondness for him—and that is all it was, a girlish fondness—has quite cooled into friendship. I wish only his happiness and yours.” Tessa was amazed. All the worrying she had done about Sophie’s feelings, and Sophie didn’t mind at all. What had changed since Sophie had wept over Jem’s illness the night of the Blackfriars Bridge debacle? Unless . . . “Have you been walking out with someone? Cyril, or . . .” Sophie rolled her eyes. “Oh, Lord have mercy on us all. First Thomas, now Cyril. When will you stop trying to marry me off to the nearest available man?” “There must be someone—”

“There’s no one,” Sophie said firmly, rising to her feet and turning Tessa toward the pier glass. “There you are. Twist up your hair under your hat and you’ll be the model of a gentleman.” Tessa did as she was told.

Images

When Tessa came into the library, the small band of Institute Shadowhunters—Jem, Will, Henry, and Charlotte, all in gear now—were grouped around a table on which a small oblong device made of brass was balanced. Henry was gesturing at it animatedly, his voice rising. “This,” he was saying, “is what I have been working on. For just this occasion. It is specifically calibrated to function as a weapon against clockwork assassins.” “As dull as Nate Gray is,” Will said, “his head is not actually filled with gears, Henry. He’s a human.” “He may bring one of those creatures with him. We don’t know he’ll be there unaccompanied. If nothing else, that clockwork coachman of Mortmain’s—” “I think Henry is right,” said Tessa, and they all whirled to face her. Jem flushed again, though more lightly this time, and offered her a crooked smile; Will’s eyes ran up and down her body once, not briskly.

He said, “You don’t look like a boy at all. You look like a girl in boys’ clothes.”

She couldn’t tell if he was approving, disapproving, or neutral on the subject. “I’m not trying to fool anyone but a casual observer,” she replied crossly. “Nate knows Jessamine’s a girl. And the clothes will fit me better once I’ve Changed into her.” “Maybe you should do it now,” said Will.

Tessa glared at him, then shut her eyes. It was different, Changing into someone you had been before. She did not need to be holding something of theirs, or to be near them. It was like closing her eyes and reaching into a wardrobe, detecting a familiar garment by touch, and drawing it out. She reached for Jessamine inside herself, and let her free, wrapping the Jessamine disguise around herself, feeling the breath pushed from her lungs as her rib cage contracted, her hair slipping from its twist to fall in light corn silk waves against her face. She pushed it back up under the hat and opened her eyes.

They were all staring at her. Jem was the only one to offer a smile as she blinked in the light.

“Uncanny,” said Henry. His hand rested lightly on the object on the table. Tessa, uncomfortable with the eyes on her, moved toward it. “What is that?” “It’s a sort of . . . infernal device that Henry’s created,” Jem said. “Meant to disrupt the internal mechanisms that keep the clockwork creatures running.” “You twist it, like this”—Henry mimed twisting the bottom half of the thing in one direction and the top half in another—“and then throw it. Try to lodge it into the creature’s gears or somewhere that it will stick. It is meant to disrupt the mechanical currents that run through the creature’s body, causing them to wrench apart. It could do you some damage too, even if you aren’t clockwork, so don’t hang on to it once it’s activated. I’ve only two, so . . .” He handed one to Jem, and another to Charlotte, who took it and hung it from her weapons belt without a word.

“The message has been sent?” Tessa asked.

“Yes. We’re only waiting for a reply from your brother now,” said Charlotte. She unrolled a paper across the surface of the table, weighting down the corners with copper gears from a stack Henry must have left there. “Here,” she said, “is a map that shows where Jessamine claims she and Nate usually meet. It’s a warehouse on Mincing Lane, down by Lower Thames Street. It used to be a tea merchant’s packing factory until the business went bankrupt.” “Mincing Lane,” said Jem. “Center of the tea trade. Also the opium trade. Makes sense Mortmain might keep a warehouse there.” He ran a slender finger over the map, tracing the names of the nearby streets: Eastcheap, Gracechurch Street, Lower Thames Street, St. Swithin’s Lane. “Such an odd place for Jessamine, though,” he said. “She always dreamed of such glamour—of being introduced at Court and putting her hair up for dances. Not of clandestine meetings in some sooty warehouse near the wharves.” “She did do what she set out to do,” Tessa said. “She married someone who isn’t a Shadowhunter.” Will’s mouth quirked into a half smile. “If the marriage were valid, she’d be your sister-in-law.” Tessa shuddered. “I—it’s not that I hold a grudge against Jessamine. But she deserves better than my brother.” “Anyone deserves better than that.” Will reached under the table and drew out a rolled-up bunch of fabric. He spread it across the table, avoiding the map. Inside were several long, thin weapons, each with a gleaming rune carved into the blade. “I’d nearly forgotten I had Thomas order these for me a few weeks ago. They’ve only just arrived. Misericords—good for getting in between the jointure of those clockwork creatures.” “The question is,” Jem said, lifting one of the misericords and examining the blade, “once we get Tessa inside to meet Nate, how do the rest of us watch their meeting without being noticed? We must be ready to intervene at any moment, especially if it appears that his suspicions have been aroused.” “We must arrive first, and hide ourselves,” said Will. “It is the only way. We listen to see if Nate says anything useful.” “I dislike the idea of Tessa being forced to speak with him at all,” muttered Jem.

“She can well hold her own; I have seen it. Besides, he is more likely to speak freely if he thinks himself safe. Once captured, even if the Silent Brothers do explore his mind, Mortmain may have thought to put blocks in it to protect his knowledge, which can take time to dismantle.” “I think Mortmain has put in blocks in Jessamine’s case,” said Tessa. “For whatever it is worth, I cannot touch her thoughts.” “Even more likely he will have done it in Nate’s, then,” said Will.

“That boy is as weak as a kitten,” said Henry. “He will tell us whatever we want to know. And if not, I have a device—” “Henry!” Charlotte looked seriously alarmed. “Tell me you have not been working on a torture device.” “Not at all. I call it the Confuser. It emits a vibration that directly affects the human brain, rendering it incapable of telling between fiction and fact.” Henry, looking proud, reached for his box. “He will simply spill everything that is in his mind, with no attention to the consequences . . .” Charlotte held up a warning hand. “Not right now, Henry. If we must utilize the . . . Confuser on Nate Gray, we will do so when we have brought him back here. At the moment we must concentrate on reaching the warehouse before Tessa. It is not that far; I suggest Cyril takes us there, then returns for Tessa.” “Nate will recognize the Institute’s carriage,” Tessa objected. “When I saw Jessamine leaving for a meeting with Nate, she was most decidedly going on foot. I shall walk.” “You will get lost,” said Will.

“I won’t,” said Tessa, indicating the map. “It’s a simple walk. I could turn left at Gracechurch Street, go along Eastcheap, and cut through to Mincing Lane.” An argument ensued, with Jem, to Tessa’s surprise, siding with Will against the idea of her walking the streets alone. Eventually it was decided that Henry would drive the carriage to Mincing Lane, while Tessa would walk, with Cyril following her at a discreet distance, lest she lose herself in the crowded, dirty, noisy city. With a shrug she agreed; it seemed less trouble than arguing, and she didn’t mind Cyril.

“I don’t suppose anyone’s going to point out,” said Will, “that once again we are leaving the Institute without a Shadowhunter to protect it?” Charlotte rolled up the map with a flick of her wrist. “And which of us would you suggest stay home, then, instead of helping Tessa?” “I didn’t say anything about anyone staying home.” Will’s voice dropped. “But Cyril will be with Tessa, Sophie’s only half-trained, and Bridget . . .” Tessa glanced over at Sophie, who was sitting quietly in the corner of the library, but the other girl gave no sign of having heard Will. Meanwhile, Bridget’s voice was wafting faintly from the kitchen, another miserable ballad: “So John took out of his pocket

A knife both long and sharp,

And stuck it through his brother’s heart,

And the blood came pouring down.

Says John to William, ‘Take off thy shirt,

And tear it from gore to gore,

And wrap it round your bleeding heart,

And the blood will pour no more.’”

“By the Angel,” said Charlotte, “we really are going to have to do something about her before she drives us all to madness, aren’t we?” Before anyone could reply, two things happened at once: Something tapped at the window, startling Tessa so much that she took a step back, and a great, echoing noise sounded through the Institute—the sound of the summoning bell. Charlotte said something to Will—lost in the noise of the bell—and he left the room, while Charlotte crossed it, slid the window up and open, and captured something hovering outside.

She turned away from the window, a fluttering piece of paper in her hand; it looked a bit like a white bird, edges flapping in the breeze. Her hair blew about her face too, and Tessa was reminded how young Charlotte was. “From Nate, I suppose,” said Charlotte. “His message for Jessamine.” She brought it to Tessa, who tore the creamy parchment lengthwise in her eagerness to get it open.

Tessa glanced up. “It is from Nate,” she confirmed. “He has agreed to meet Jessie in the usual place at sundown—” She gave a little gasp as, recognizing itself somehow as having been read, the note burst into quick, heatless flames, consuming itself until it was only a film of black ash on her fingers.

“That gives us only a little time,” said Henry. “I will go and tell Cyril to ready the carriage.” He looked to Charlotte, as if for approval, but she only nodded without meeting his eyes. With a sigh Henry left the room—nearly bumping into Will, who was on his way back in, followed by a figure in a traveling cloak. For a moment Tessa wondered in confusion if it was a Silent Brother—until the visitor drew his hood back and she saw the familiar sandy-blond curling hair and green eyes.

“Gideon Lightwood?” she said in surprise.

“There.” Charlotte slipped the map she was holding into her pocket. “The Institute will not be Shadowhunterless.” Sophie got hastily to her feet—then froze, as if, outside the atmosphere of the training room, she was not sure what to do or say in front of the eldest Lightwood brother.

Gideon glanced around the room. As always his green eyes were calm, unruffled. Will, behind him, seemed to burn with bright energy by contrast, even when he was simply standing still. “You called on me?” Gideon said, and she realized that of course, looking at her, he was seeing Jessamine. “And I am here, though I know not why, or what for.” “To train Sophie, ostensibly,” said Charlotte. “And also to look after the Institute while we’re gone. We need a Shadow-hunter of age to be present, and you qualify. In fact, it was Sophie who suggested you.” “And how long will you be gone?”

“Two hours, three. Not all night.”

“All right.” Gideon began to unbutton his cloak. There was dust on his boots, and his hair looked as if he had been out in the cold wind, hatless. “My father would say it was good practice for when I run the place.” Will muttered something under his breath that sounded like “bloody cheek.” He looked at Charlotte, who shook her head at him minutely.

“It may be that the Institute will be yours one day,” she said to Gideon quite mildly. “In any case, we’re grateful for your assistance. The Institute is the responsibility of all Shadowhunters, after all. These are our dwelling places—our Idris away from home.” Gideon turned to Sophie. “Are you ready to train?”

She nodded. They left the room together in a group, Gideon and Sophie turning right to make their way to the training room, the rest of them heading for the stairs. Bridget’s mournful yowl was even louder out here, and Tessa heard Gideon say something to Sophie about it, and Sophie’s soft voice in response, before they were too far away for her to hear them anymore.

It seemed natural to fall into step beside Jem as they went downstairs and through the nave of the cathedral. She was walking close enough to him that though they did not speak, she could feel the warmth of him against her side, the brush of his bare hand against hers as they stepped outside. Sunset was coming. The sky had begun to take on the bronze sheen that came just before twilight. Cyril was waiting on the front stairs, looking so much like Thomas that it hurt one’s heart to look at him. He was carrying a long, thin dagger, which he handed off to Will without a word; Will took it and put it through his belt.

Charlotte turned and put her hand against Tessa’s cheek. “We shall see you at the warehouse,” she said. “You will be perfectly safe, Tessa. And thank you, for doing this for us.” Charlotte dropped her hand and went down the steps, Henry following her, and Will just after. Jem hesitated, just for a moment, and Tessa—remembering a night like this one, when he had run up the steps to bid her good-bye—pressed her fingers lightly against his wrist.

“Mizpah,” she said.

She heard him suck in his breath. The Shadowhunters were getting into the carriage; he turned and kissed her quickly on the cheek, before spinning and running down the steps after the others; none of them seemed to have noticed, but Tessa put her hand to her face as Jem climbed, last, into the carriage and Henry made his way up to the driver’s seat. The gates of the Institute swung open, and the carriage clattered out into the darkening afternoon.

Images

“Shall we go, then, miss?” Cyril inquired. Despite how much he looked like Thomas, Tessa thought, he had a less diffident demeanor. He looked her directly in the eye when he spoke, and the corners of his mouth always seemed to be about to crinkle into a smile. She wondered if there was always one calmer and one more high-strung brother, like Gabriel and Gideon.

“Yes, I think we—” Tessa stopped suddenly, one foot about to descend the steps. It was ridiculous, she knew, and yet—she had taken off the clockwork angel to dress herself in Jessamine’s clothes. She had not put it back on. She couldn’t wear it—Nate would recognize it immediately—but she had meant to put it into her pocket for luck, and she had forgotten. She hesitated now. It was more than silly superstition; twice now the angel had literally saved her life.

She turned. “I have forgotten something. Wait here for me, Cyril. I’ll be only a moment.”

The door to the Institute was still open; she charged back through it and up the stairs, through the halls and into the corridor that led to Jessamine’s room—where she froze.

Jessamine’s hall was the same hall that led to the steps to the training room. She had seen Sophie and Gideon disappear down it minutes ago. Only, they had not disappeared; they were still there. The light was low, and they were only shadows in the dimness, but Tessa could see them plainly: Sophie, standing against the wall, and Gideon pressing her hand.

Tessa took a step backward, her heart jerking inside her chest. Neither of them saw her. They seemed entirely concentrated on each other. Gideon leaned in then, murmuring something to Sophie; gently he brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. Tessa’s stomach tensed, and she turned and crept away, as soundlessly as she could.

The sky had turned a shade darker when she came back out onto the steps. Cyril was there, whistling off-key; he broke off abruptly when he saw Tessa’s expression. “Is everything all right, miss? Did you get what you wanted?” Tessa thought of Gideon moving Sophie’s hair away from her face. She remembered Will’s hands gentle on her waist and the softness of Jem’s kiss on her cheek, and felt as if her mind were whirling. Who was she to tell Sophie to be careful, even silently, when she was so lost herself?

“Yes,” she lied. “I got what I wanted. Thank you, Cyril.”

Images

The warehouse was a great limestone building surrounded by a black wrought iron fence. The windows had been boarded over, and a stout iron padlock held closed the front gates, over which the blackening name of Mortmain and Co. could barely be seen below layers of soot.

The Shadowhunters left the carriage drawn up to the curb, with a glamour on it to prevent it from being stolen or molested by passing mundanes, at least until Cyril arrived to wait with it. A closer inspection of the padlock showed Will that it had been oiled recently and opened; a rune took care of the lack of a key, and he and the others slipped inside, closing the gate behind them.

Another rune unlocked the front door, leading them into a suite of offices. Only one was still furnished, with a desk, a green-shaded lamp, and a floral sofa with a high carved back. “Doubtless where Jessamine and Nate accomplished the majority of their courtship,” Will observed cheerfully.

Jem made a noise of disgust and poked at the couch with his cane. Charlotte was bending over the desk, hastily going through the drawers.

“I didn’t realize you’d taken up such a strong anti-courtship stance,” Will observed to Jem.

“Not on principle. The thought of Nate Gray touching anyone—” Jem made a face. “And Jessamine is so convinced he loves her. If you could see her, I think even you might pity her, Will.” “I would not,” said Will. “Unrequited love is a ridiculous state, and it makes those in it behave ridiculously.” He tugged at the bandage on his arm as if it were paining him. “Charlotte? The desk?” “Nothing.” She slid the drawers shut. “Some papers listing the prices of tea and the times of tea auctions, but other than that, nothing but dead spiders.” “How romantic,” murmured Will. He ducked behind Jem, who had already wandered ahead into the adjacent office, using his cane to sweep away cobwebs as he went. The next few rooms were empty, and the last opened out onto what had once been a warehouse floor. It was a great shadowy cavernous space, its ceiling disappearing up into darkness. Rickety wooden steps led up to a second-floor gallery. Burlap bags were propped against the walls on the first floor, looking for all the world, in the shadows, like slumped bodies. Will raised his witchlight rune-stone in one hand, sending out spokes of light through the room as Henry went to investigate one of the sacks. He was back in a moment, shrugging his shoulders.

“Broken bits of loose-leaf tea,” he said. “Orange pekoe, from the looks of it.”

But Jem was shaking his head, glancing about. “I am perfectly willing to accept that this was an active tea-trading office at one point, but it’s clearly been shuttered for years, ever since Mortmain decided to interest himself in mechanisms instead. And yet the floor is clear of dust.” He took Will’s wrist, guiding the beam of witchlight over the smooth wooden floor. “There has been activity here—more than simply Jessamine and Nate’s meeting in a disused office.” “There are more offices that way,” said Henry, pointing to the far end of the room. “Charlotte and I will search them. Will, Jem, you examine the second floor.” It was a rare and novel thrill when Henry gave orders; Will looked at Jem and grinned, and commenced making his way up the rickety wooden stairs. The steps creaked under the pressure, and under Jem’s slighter weight behind Will. The witch-light stone in Will’s hand threw sharp patterns of light against the wall as he reached the top step.

He found himself on a gallery, a platform where perhaps trunks of tea had been stored, or a foreman had watched the floor below. It was empty now, save for a single figure, lying on the ground. The body of a man, slim and youthful, and as Will came closer, his heart began to pound crazily, because he had seen this before—had had this vision before—the limp body, the silver hair and dark clothes, the closed bruised-looking eyes, fringed with silver lashes.

“Will?” It was Jem, behind him. He looked from Will’s silent, stunned face to the body on the floor and pushed past him to kneel down. He took the man by the wrist just as Charlotte reached the top of the steps. Will looked at her in surprise for a moment; her face was sheened with sweat and she looked slightly ill. Jem said, “He has a pulse. Will?” Will came closer, and knelt down beside his friend. At this distance it was easy to see that the man on the floor was not Jem. He was older, and Caucasian; he had a growth of silver stubble on his chin and cheeks, and his features were broader and less defined. Will’s heartbeat slowed as the man’s eyes fluttered open.

They were silver discs, like Jem’s. And in that moment Will recognized him. He smelled the sweet-sour tang of burning warlock drugs, felt the heat of them in his veins, and knew that he had seen this man before, and knew where.

“You’re a werewolf,” he said. “One of the packless ones, buying yin fen off the ifrits down the Chapel. Aren’t you?” The werewolf’s eyes roamed over them both, and fastened on Jem. His lids narrowed, and his hand shot out, grabbing Jem by the lapels. “You,” he wheezed. “You’re one of us. ‘ave you got any of it on you—any of the stuff—” Jem recoiled. Will seized the werewolf by the wrist and yanked his hand free. It wasn’t difficult; there was very little strength in his nerveless fingers. “Don’t touch him.” Will heard his own voice as if from a distance, clipped and cold. “He doesn’t have any of your filthy powder. It doesn’t work on us Nephilim like it does on you.” “Will.” There was a plea in Jem’s voice: Be kinder.

“You work for Mortmain,” said Will. “Tell us what you do for him. Tell us where he is.”

The werewolf laughed. Blood splashed up over his lips and dribbled down his chin. Some of it splattered onto Jem’s gear. “As if—I’d know—where the Magister was,” he wheezed. “Bloody fools, the pair of you. Bloody useless Nephilim. If I ‘ad—me strength—I’d chop yer into bloody rags—” “But you don’t.” Will was remorseless. “And maybe we do have some yin fen.”

“You don’t. You think—I don’t know?” The werewolf’s eyes wandered. “When ‘e gave it to me first, I saw things—such things as yer can’t imagine—the great crystal city—the towers of Heaven—” Another spasming cough racked him. More blood splattered. It had a silvery sheen to it, like mercury. Will exchanged a look with Jem. The crystal city. He couldn’t help thinking of Alicante, though he had never been there. “I thought I were going ter live forever—work all night, all day, never get tired. Then we started dying off, one by one. The drug, it kills ya, but ‘e never said. I came back here to see if maybe there was still any of it stashed somewhere. But there’s none. No point leavin’. I’m dyin’ now. Might as well die ‘ere as anywhere.” “He knew what he was doing when he gave you that drug,” said Jem. “He knew it would kill you. He doesn’t deserve your secrecy. Tell us what he was doing—what he was keeping you working on all night and day.” “Putting those things together—those metal men. They don’t ‘arf give you the willies, but the money were good and the drugs were better—” “And a great deal of good that money will do you now,” said Jem, his voice uncharacteristically bitter. “How often did he make you take it? The silver powder?” “Six, seven times a day.”

“No wonder they’re running out of it down the Chapel,” Will muttered. “Mortmain’s controlling the supply.” “You’re not supposed to take it like that,” said Jem. “The more you take, the faster you die.”

The werewolf fixed his gaze on Jem. His eyes were shot through with red veins. “And you,” he said. “’Ow much longer ‘ave you got left?” Will turned his head. Charlotte was motionless behind him at the top of the stairs, staring. He raised a hand to gesture her over. “Charlotte, if we can get him downstairs, perhaps the Silent Brothers can do something to help him. If you could—” But Charlotte, to Will’s surprise, had turned a pale shade of green. She clapped her hand over her mouth and dashed downstairs.

“Charlotte!” Will hissed; he didn’t dare shout. “Oh, bloody hell. All right, Jem. You take his legs, I’ll take his shoulders—” “There’s no point, Will.” Jem’s voice was soft. “He’s dead.”

Will turned back. Indeed, the silver eyes were wide open, glassy, fixed on the ceiling; the chest had ceased to rise and fall. Jem reached to close his eyelids, but Will caught his friend by the wrist.

“Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to give him the blessing, Will. Just close his eyes.”

“He doesn’t deserve that. He was working with the Magister!” Will’s whisper was rising to a shout.

“He is like me,” said Jem simply. “An addict.”

Will looked at him over their joined hands. “He is not like you. And you will not die like that.” Jem’s lips parted in surprise. “Will . . .”

They both heard the sound of a door opening, and a voice calling out Jessamine’s name. Will released Jem’s wrist, and both of them dropped flat to the ground, inching to the edge of the gallery to see what was happening on the warehouse floor.