"Mr. Lightwood," she said, raising herself up on her elbows. "Are those scones under your bed?"
Gideon froze, blinking, a rabbit cornered by hounds. "What?"
"There." She pointed to the mounded dark shapes piled beneath the four-poster. "There is a veritable mountain of scones beneath your bed. What on earth?"
Gideon sat up, raking his hands through his tumbled hair as Sophie scrambled back away from him, her skirts rustling around her. "I ..."
"You called for those scones. Nearly every day. You asked for them, Mr. Lightwood. Why would you do that if you didn't want them?"
His cheeks darkened. "It was the only way I could think of to see you. You wouldn't speak to me, wouldn't listen when I tried to talk to you--"
"So you lied?" Seizing up her fallen cap, Sophie rose to her feet. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do, Mr. Lightwood? Carrying coal and hot water, dusting, polishing, cleaning up after you and the others--and I don't mind or complain, but how dare you make extra work for me, make me drag heavy trays up and down the stairs, just to bring you something you didn't even want?"
Gideon scrambled to his feet, his clothes even more wrinkled now. "Forgive me," he said. "I did not think."
"No," Sophie said, furiously tucking her hair up under her cap. "You lot never do, do you?"
And with that, she stalked from the room, leaving Gideon staring hopelessly after her.
"Nicely done, brother," said Gabriel from the bed, blinking sleepy green eyes at Gideon.
Gideon threw a scone at him.
"Henry." Charlotte moved across the floor of the crypt. The witchlight torches were burning so brightly it looked almost as if it were day, though she knew it was closer to midnight. Henry was hunched over the largest of the great wooden tables scattered about the center of the room. Something or other odious was burning in a beaker on another table, giving off great puffs of lavender smoke. A massive piece of paper, the sort butchers used to wrap their wares in, was spread across Henry's table, and he was covering it with all sorts of mysterious ciphers and calculations, muttering to himself under his breath as he scribbled. "Henry, darling, aren't you exhausted? You've been down here for hours."
Henry started and looked up, pushing the spectacles he wore when he worked up into his gingery hair. "Charlotte!" He seemed astonished, if thrilled, to see her; only Henry, Charlotte thought dryly, would be astonished to see his own wife in their own home. "My angel. What are you doing down here? It's freezing cold. It can't be good for the baby."
Charlotte laughed, but she didn't object when Henry hurried over to her and gave her a gentle hug. Ever since he had found out they were going to have a child, he had been treating her like fine china. He pressed a kiss into the top of her hair now and drew back to study her face. "In fact, you look a little peaked. Perhaps rather than supper you should have Sophie bring you some strengthening beef tea in your room? I shall go and--"
"Henry. We decided not to have supper hours ago--everyone was brought sandwiches in their rooms. Jem is still too ill to eat, and the Lightwood boys too shaken up. And you know how Will is when Jem is unwell. And Tessa, too, of course. Really, the whole house is going all to pieces."
"Sandwiches?" said Henry, who seemed to have seized on this as the substantive part of Charlotte's speech, and was looking wistful.
Charlotte smiled. "There are some for you upstairs, Henry, if you can tear yourself away. I suppose I shouldn't scold you--I've been going through Benedict's journals, and quite fascinating they are--but what are you working on?"
"A portal," said Henry eagerly. "A form of transport. Something that might conceivably whisk a Shadowhunter from one point of the globe to another in a matter of seconds. It was Mortmain's rings that gave me the idea."
Charlotte's eyes were wide. "But Mortmain's rings are assuredly dark magic... ."
"But this is not. Oh, and there is something else. Come. It is for Buford."
Charlotte allowed her husband to take her wrist and draw her across the room. "I have told you a hundred times, Henry, no son of mine will ever be named Buford-- By the Angel, is that a cradle?"
Henry beamed. "It is better than a cradle!" he announced, flinging his arm out to indicate the sturdy-looking wooden baby's bed, hung between two poles that it might rock from side to side. Charlotte had to admit to herself it was quite a nice-looking piece of furniture. "It is a self-rocking cradle!"
"A what?" Charlotte asked faintly.
"Watch." Proudly Henry stepped forward and pressed some sort of invisible button. The cradle began to rock gently from side to side.
Charlotte expelled a breath. "That's lovely, darling."
"Don't you like it?" Henry beamed. "There, it's rocking a bit faster now." It was, with a slight jerkiness to the motion that gave Charlotte the feeling that she had been cast adrift on a choppy sea.
"Hm," she said. "Henry, I do have something I wish to speak to you about. Something important."
"More important than our child being rocked gently to sleep each night?"
"The Clave has decided to release Jessamine," Charlotte said. "She is returning to the Institute. In two days."
Henry turned to her with an incredulous look. Behind him the cradle was rocking even faster, like a carriage hurtling ahead at full tilt. "She is coming back here?"
"Henry, she has nowhere else to go."
Henry opened his mouth to reply, but before a word could emerge, there was a terrible ripping sound, and the cradle tore free of its mooring and flew across the room to crash against the farthest wall, where it exploded into splinters.
Charlotte gave a little gasp, her hand rising to cover her mouth. Henry's brow furrowed. "Perhaps with some refinements to the design ..."
"No, Henry," Charlotte said firmly.
"But--"
"Under no circumstances." There were daggers in Charlotte's voice.
Henry sighed. "Very well, dear."
The Infernal Devices are without pity. The Infernal Devices are without regret. The Infernal Devices are without number. The Infernal Devices will never stop coming.
The words written on the wall of Benedict's study echoed in Tessa's head as she sat by Jem's bed, watching him sleep. She was not sure what time it was exactly; certainly it was "in the wee smalls," as Bridget would have said, no doubt past midnight. Jem had been awake when she had come in, just after Will had gone, awake and sitting up and well enough to take some tea and toast, though he'd been more breathless than she would have liked, and paler.
Sophie had come later to clear away the food, and had smiled at Tessa. "Fluff his pillows up," she had suggested in a whisper, and Tessa had done it, though Jem had looked amused at her fussing. Tessa had never had much experience with sickrooms. Taking care of her brother when he'd been drunk was the closest she had come to playing nursemaid. She did not mind it now that it was Jem, did not mind sitting holding his hand while he breathed softly, his eyes half-closed, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones.
"Not very heroic," he said suddenly without opening his eyes, though his voice was steady.
Tessa started, and leaned forward. She had slid her fingers into his earlier, and their linked hands lay beside him on the bed. His fingers were cool in hers, his pulse slow. "What do you mean?"
"Today," he said in a low voice, and coughed. "Collapsing and coughing up blood all over Lightwood House--"
"It only improved the look of the place," said Tessa.
"Now you sound like Will." Jem gave a sleepy smile. "And you're changing the subject, just like he would."
"Of course I am. As if I would ever think any less of you for being ill; you know that I don't. And you were quite heroic today. Though Will was saying earlier," she added, "that heroes all come to bad ends, and he could not imagine why anyone would want to be one anyway."
"Ah." Jem's hand squeezed hers briefly, and then let it go. "Well, Will is looking at it from the hero's viewpoint, isn't he? But as for the rest of us, it's
an easy answer."
"Is it?"
"Of course. Heroes endure because we need them. Not for their own sakes."
"You speak of them as though you were not one." She reached to brush the hair from his forehead. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing. "Jem--have you ever--" She hesitated. "Have you ever thought of ways to prolong your life that are not a cure for the drug?"
At that his eyelids flew open. "What do you mean?"
She thought of Will, on the floor of the attic, choking on holy water. "Becoming a vampire. You would live forever--"
He scrambled upright against the pillows. "Tessa, no. Don't--you can't think that way."
She darted her eyes away from him. "Is the thought of becoming a Downworlder truly so horrible to you?"
"Tessa ..." He exhaled. "I am a Shadowhunter. Nephilim. Like my parents before me. It is the heritage I claim, just as I claim my mother's heritage as part of myself. It does not mean I hate my father. But I honor the gift they gave me, the blood of the Angel, the trust placed in me, the vows I have taken. Nor, I think, would I make a very good vampire. Vampires by and large despise us. Sometimes they Turn a Nephilim, as a joke, but that vampire is scorned by the others. We carry day and the fire of angels in our veins, everything they hate. They would shun me, and the Nephilim would shun me. I would no longer be Will's parabatai, no longer be welcome in the Institute. No, Tessa. I would rather die and be reborn and see the sun again, than live to the end of the world without daylight."
"A Silent Brother, then," she said. "The Codex says that the runes they put upon themselves are powerful enough to arrest their mortality."
"Silent Brothers cannot marry, Tessa." He had lifted his chin. Tessa had known for a long time that beneath Jem's gentleness lay a stubbornness as strong as Will's. She could see it now, steel under silk.
"You know I would rather have you alive and not married to me than--" Her throat closed on the word.
His eyes softened slightly. "The path of Silent Brotherhood is not open to me. With the yin fen in my blood, contaminating it, I cannot survive the runes they must put upon themselves. I would have to cease the drug until it was purged from my system, and that would most likely kill me." He must have seen something in her expression, for he gentled his voice. "And it is not much of a life they have, Silent Brothers, shadows and darkness, silence and--no music." He swallowed. "And besides, I do not wish to live forever."
"I may live forever," Tessa said. The enormity of it was something she could still not quite comprehend. It was as hard to comprehend that your life would never end as it was to comprehend that it would.
"I know," Jem said. "And I am sorry for it, for I think it is a burden no one should have to bear. You know I believe we live again, Tessa. I will return, if not in this body. Souls that love each other are drawn to each other in their next lives. I will see Will, my parents, my uncles, Charlotte and Henry ..."
"But you will not see me." It was not the first time she had thought it, though she often pushed the thought down when it rose. If I am immortal, then I have only this, this one life. I will not turn and change as you do, James. I will not see you in Heaven, or on the banks of the great river, or in whatever life lies beyond this one.
"I see you now." He reached out and put his hand on her cheek, his clear silver-gray eyes searching hers.
"And I see you," she whispered, and he smiled tiredly, closing his eyes. She put her hand over his, her cheek resting in the hollow of his palm. She sat, wordless, his fingers cool against her skin, until his breathing slowed and his fingers went boneless in hers; he had fallen asleep. With a rueful smile she lowered his hand gently so that it rested on the coverlet, by his side.
The bedroom door opened; Tessa turned round in her chair and saw Will standing on the threshold, still in his coat and gloves. One look at his stark, distraught face had her rising to her feet and following Will out into the corridor.
Will was already striding down the corridor with the haste of a man with the devil at his heels. Tessa closed the bedroom door carefully behind her and hurried after him. "What is it, Will? What's happened?"
"I just came back from the East End," Will said. There was pain in his voice, pain she had not heard the likes of since that day in the drawing room when she had told him she was engaged to Jem. "I had gone to look for more yin fen. But there is no more."
Tessa nearly stumbled as they reached the steps. "What do you mean, there's no more? Jem has a supply, does he not?"
Will turned to face her, walking backward down the stairs. "It's gone," he said curtly. "He did not want you to know, but there is no way to hide it. It is gone, and I cannot find more. I have always been the one to buy it. I had suppliers--but they have either vanished or come up empty-handed. I went first to that place--that place where you came and found me, you and Jem, together. They had no yin fen."
"Then another place--"
"I went everywhere," Will said, spinning back around. They emerged into the corridor on the second level of the Institute; the library and the drawing room were here. Both their doors were open, spilling yellow light into the hall. "Everywhere. In the last place I went, someone told me that it had all been deliberately bought up in the last few weeks. There is nothing."
"But Jem," Tessa said, shock buzzing through her like fire. "Without the yin fen ..."
"He'll die." Will paused for a moment in front of the library door; his eyes met hers. "Just this afternoon he gave me permission to seek a cure for him. To search. And now he will die because I cannot keep him alive long enough to find it."
"No," Tessa said. "He will not die; we will not let him."
Will moved into the library, Tessa beside him, his gaze roaming over the familiar room, the lamplit tables, the shelves of old volumes. "There were books," he said, as if she hadn't spoken. "Books I was consulting, volumes about rare poisons." He moved away from her, toward a nearby shelf, his gloved hands running feverishly over the tomes that rested there. "It was years ago, before Jem forbade any more research. I have forgotten--"
Tessa moved to join him, her skirts swishing about her ankles. "Will, stop."
"But I have to remember." He moved to another shelf, and then another, his long, slender body casting an angled shadow across the floor. "I have to find--"
"Will, you can't read every book in the library in time. Stop." She had moved behind him, close enough to see where the collar of his jacket was damp from the rain. "This will not help Jem."
"Then what will? What will?" He reached for another book, stared at it, and threw it to the floor; Tessa jumped.
"Stop," she said again, and caught at his sleeve, turning him to face her. He was flushed, breathless, his arm as tense as iron beneath her grip. "When you searched for the cure before, you did not know what you know now. You did not have the allies you have now. We will go and we will ask Magnus Bane. He has eyes and ears in Downworld; he knows of all kinds of magic. He helped you with your curse; he can help us with this as well."
"There was no curse," said Will, as if he were reciting the lines of a play; his eyes were glassy.
"Will--listen to me. Please. Let us go to Magnus. He can help."
He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. Tessa stared. She could not help watching him when she knew he could not see her--the fine spidering dark lashes against his cheekbones, the faint blue tint to his eyelids. "Yes," he said finally. "Yes. Of course. Tessa--thank you. I did not think."
"You were grieved," she said, suddenly aware that she was still holding his arm, and that they were close enough that she could have pressed a kiss to his cheek, or wrapped her arms about his neck to comfort him. She stepped back, releasing him. His eyes opened. "And you had thought he would always forbid you from searching for a cure. You know I have never been at peace with that. I had thought of Magnus before."
His eyes searched her face. "But you have never asked him?"
She shook her head. "Jem did not wish it. But now-- All is change
d now."
"Yes." He drew back from her, his eyes lingering on her face. "I will go down and call Cyril to fetch the carriage. Meet me in the courtyard."
To: Consul Josiah Wayland
From: Members of the Council
Dear Sir,
We can but express our great distress at receiving your letter. It was our impression that Charlotte Branwell was a choice you wholeheartedly embraced, and that she had proven herself a fit leader of the London Institute. Our own Inquisitor Whitelaw speaks highly of her and the manner in which she managed the challenge laid against her authority by Benedict Lightwood.
It is our opinion as a body that George Penhallow is not a fit successor to the place of Consul. Unlike Mrs. Branwell, he has not proven himself as a leader of others. It is true Mrs. Branwell is young and passionate, but the role of Consul is one that requires passion. We urge you to put aside thoughts of Mr. Penhallow, who is too young and green for the position, and take time to consider again the possibility of Mrs. Branwell.
Yours in Raziel's name,
Members of the Council
5
A HEART DIVIDED
Yea, though God search it warily enough,
There is not one sound thing in all thereof;
Though he search all my veins through, searching them
He shall find nothing whole therein but love.
--Algernon Charles Swinburne, "Laus Veneris"
To: Members of the Council
From: Josiah Wayland, Consul
It is with a weighted heart that I take up my pen to write to you, gentlemen. Many of you have known me for a good number of years, and for many of those I have led you in the position of Consul. I believe I have led you well, and have served the Angel as best I could. It is, however, human to err, and I believe I have done such in appointing Charlotte Branwell head of the London Institute.
When I granted her the position, I believed that she would follow in the footsteps of her father and prove a faithful leader, obedient to the rule of the Clave. I also believed that her husband would stem her natural feminine tendencies toward impulsivity and thoughtlessness. Unfortunately, this has not proved to be the case. Henry Branwell lacks the strength of character to restrain his wife, and, unfettered by womanly duty, she has left the virtues of obedience far behind. Only the other day I discovered that Charlotte had given orders to have the spy Jessamine Lovelace recalled to the Institute upon her release from the Silent City, despite my express wishes that she be sent to Idris. I also suspect she lends an ear to those who are not friendly to the cause of the Nephilim and may in fact even be in league with Mortmain, such as the werewolf Woolsey Scott.