Clockwork Prince tid-2

by Cassandra Clare

  Will sat upright. “You’ve decided on my plan, then?”

  “It’s my plan now,” said Charlotte firmly. “You may accompany me, Will, but you will follow my lead, and there will be no talk of demon pox until I say so.”

  “But—but . . .” Will sputtered.

  “Oh, leave it,” said Jem, kicking Will, not without affection, lightly on the ankle.

  “She’s annexed my plan!”

  “Will,” Tessa said firmly. “Do you care more about the plan being enacted or about getting credit for it?”

  Will pointed a finger at her. “That,” he said. “The second one.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes skyward. “William, this will be either on my terms or not at all.”

  Will took a deep breath, and looked at Jem, who grinned at him; Will let the air out of his lungs with a defeated sigh and said, “All right, then, Charlotte. Do you intend for all of us to go?”

  “You and Tessa, certainly. We need you as witnesses regarding the party. Jem, Henry, there is no need for you to go, and we require at least one of you to remain and guard the Institute.”

  “Darling . . .” Henry touched Charlotte’s arm with a quizzical look on his face.

  She looked up at him in surprise. “Yes?”

  “You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  Charlotte smiled at him, a smile that transformed her tired, pinched face. “Quite sure, Henry; Jem isn’t technically an adult, and to leave him here alone—not that he isn’t capable—will only add fuel to Benedict’s fire of complaints. But thank you.”

  Tessa looked at Jem; he gave her a regretful smile and, hidden behind the spread of her skirts, pressed her hand with his. His touch sent a warm rush of reassurance through her, and she rose to her feet, amid Will rising to go, while Charlotte sought for a pen to scribble a note to Benedict on the back of a flossed calling card, which Cyril would deliver while they waited in the carriage.

  “I’d best fetch my hat and gloves,” Tessa whispered to Jem, and made her way to the door. Will was just behind her, and a moment later, the drawing room door swinging shut behind them, they found themselves alone in the corridor. Tessa was about to hurry down the hall toward her room, when she heard Will’s footsteps behind her.

  “Tessa!” he called, and she swung around. “Tessa, I need to speak with you.”

  “Now?” she said, surprised. “I gathered from Charlotte that she wanted us to hurry—”

  “Damn hurrying,” said Will, coming closer to her. “Damn Benedict Lightwood and the Institute and all this business. I want to talk to you.” He grinned at her. There had always been a reckless energy to him, but this was different—the difference between the recklessness of despair and the abandonment of happiness. But what an odd time to be happy!

  “Have you gone quite mad?” she asked him. “You say ‘demon pox’ the way someone else might say ‘massive surprise inheritance.’ Are you really that pleased?”

  “Vindicated, not happy, and anyway, this isn’t about the demon pox. This is about you and me—”

  The drawing room door opened, and Henry emerged, Charlotte just behind him. Knowing Jem would be next, Tessa stepped away from Will hastily, though nothing improper had transpired between them at all. Except in your thoughts, said a little voice in the back of her mind, which she ignored. “Will, not now,” she said under her breath. “I believe I know what it is you want to say, and you’re quite right to wish to say it, but this isn’t the time or place, is it? Believe me, I am as eager for the talk as you, for it has been weighing heavily on my mind—”

  “You are? It has?” Will looked dazed, as if she had hit him with a rock.

  “Well—yes,” said Tessa, looking up to see Jem coming toward them. “But not now.”

  Will followed her gaze, swallowed, and nodded reluctantly. “Then, when?”

  “Later, after we go to the Lightwoods’. Meet me in the drawing room.”

  “In the drawing room?”

  She frowned at him. “Really, Will,” she said. “Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

  Jem had reached them, and heard this last remark; he grinned. “Tessa, do let poor Will gather his wits about him; he’s been out all night and looks as if he can barely remember his own name.” He put his hand on his parabatai’s arm. “Come along, Herondale. You seem as if you need an energy rune—or two or three.”

  Will tore his eyes away from Tessa’s and let Jem lead him off down the corridor. Tessa watched them, shaking her head. Boys, she thought. She would never understand them.

  Tessa had gone only a few steps into her bedroom when she stopped in surprise, staring at what was on the bed. A stylish walking suit of cream and gray striped India silk, trimmed with delicate braid and silver buttons. Gray velvet gloves lay beside it, figured with a pattern of leaves in silver thread. At the foot of the bed were bone-colored buttoned boots, and fashionable patterned stockings.

  The door opened, and Sophie came in, holding a pale gray hat with trimmings of silver berries. She was very pale, and her eyes were swollen and red. She avoided Tessa’s gaze. “New clothing, miss,” Sophie said. “The fabric was part of Mrs. Branwell’s trousseau, and, well, a few weeks ago she thought of having it made into a dress for you. I think she thought you ought to have some clothes that Miss Jessamine didn’t buy for you. She thought it might make you more—comfortable. And these were just delivered this morning. I asked Bridget to lay them out for you.”

  Tessa felt tears sting the backs of her eyes and sat down hastily on the edge of the bed. The thought that Charlotte, with everything else that was going on, would think of Tessa’s comfort at all made her want to cry. But she stifled the urge, as she always did. “Sophie,” she said, her voice uneven. “I ought—no, I wanted—to apologize to you.”

  “Apologize to me, miss?” Sophie said tonelessly, laying the hat on the bed. Tessa stared. Charlotte wore such plain clothes herself. She never would have thought of her as having the inclination or taste to choose such lovely things.

  “I was entirely wrong to speak to you about Gideon as I did,” said Tessa. “I put my nose in where it was decidedly not wanted, and you are quite correct, Sophie. One cannot judge a man for the sins of his family. And I should have told you that, though I saw Gideon at the ball that night, I cannot say he was partaking of the festivities; in fact, I cannot see into his head to determine what he thinks at all, and I should not have behaved as if I could. I am no more experienced than you, Sophie, and where it comes to gentlemen, I am decidedly uninformed. I apologize for acting superior; I shan’t do it again, if only you’ll forgive me.”

  Sophie went to the wardrobe and opened it to reveal a second dress—this one of a very dark blue, trimmed with a golden velvet braid, the polonaise slashed down the right side to reveal pale faille flounces beneath. “So lovely,” she said a little wistfully, and touched it lightly with her hand. Then she turned to Tessa. “That were—that was a very pretty apology, miss, and I do forgive you. I forgave you in the drawing room, I did, when you lied for me. I don’t approve of lying, but I know you meant it out of kindness.”

  “It was very brave, what you did,” said Tessa. “Telling the truth to Charlotte. I know how you feared she’d be angry.”

  Sophie smiled sadly. “She isn’t angry. She’s disappointed. I know. She said she couldn’t talk to me now but she would later, and I could see it, on her face. It’s worse in a way, somehow.”

  “Oh, Sophie. She’s disappointed in Will all the time!”

  “Well, who isn’t.”

  “That’s not what I meant. I meant she loves you, like you were Will or Jem or—well, you know. Even if she’s disappointed, you must stop fearing she’ll sack you. She won’t. She thinks you’re wonderful, and so do I.”

  Sophie’s eyes widened. “Miss Tessa!”

  “Well, I do,” said Tessa mutinously. “You are brave and selfless and lovely. Like Charlotte.”

  Sophie’s eyes shone. She w
iped at them hastily with the edge of her apron. “Now, that’s enough of that,” she said briskly, still blinking hard. “We must get you dressed and ready, for Cyril’s coming round with the carriage, and I know Mrs. Branwell doesn’t want to waste any time.”

  Tessa came forward obediently, and with Sophie’s help she changed into the gray and white striped dress. “And do be careful, is all I have to say,” said Sophie as she deftly wielded her buttonhook. “The old man is a nasty piece of work, and don’t forget it. Very harsh, he is, on those boys.”

  Those boys. The way she said it made it sound like Sophie had sympathy for Gabriel as well as Gideon. Just what did Gideon think of his younger brother, Tessa wondered, and the sister, too? But she asked nothing as Sophie brushed and curled her hair, and daubed her temples with lavender water.

  “Now, don’t you look lovely, miss,” she said proudly when she was done at last, and Tessa had to admit that Charlotte had done a fine job in selecting just the right cut to flatter her, and gray suited her well. Her eyes looked bigger and blue, her waist and arms more slender, her bosom fuller. “There’s just one other thing . . .”

  “What is it, Sophie?”

  “Master Jem,” said Sophie, startling Tessa. “Please, whatever else you do, miss . . .” The other girl glanced at the chain of the jade pendant tucked down the front of Tessa’s dress and bit her lip. “Don’t break his heart.”

  Chapter 20

  THE BITTER ROOT

  But now, you are twain, you are cloven apart,

  Flesh of his flesh, but heart of my heart;

  And deep in one is the bitter root,

  And sweet for one is the lifelong flower.

  —Algernon Charles Swinburne, “The Triumph of Time”

  Tessa was just drawing on her velvet gloves as she ducked through the front doors of the Institute. A sharp wind had come up off the river and was blowing armfuls of leaves through the courtyard. The sky had gone thunderous and gray. Will stood at the foot of the stairs, hands in his pockets, looking up at the church steeple.

  He was hatless, and the wind lifted his black hair and blew it back from his face. He did not seem to see Tessa, and for a moment she stood and looked at him. She knew it was not right to do; Jem was hers, she was his now, and other men might as well not exist. But she could not stop herself from comparing the two—Jem with his odd combination of delicacy and strength, and Will like a storm at sea, slate blue and black with brilliant flashes of temper like heat lightning. She wondered if there would ever be a time when the sight of him didn’t move her, make her heart flutter, and if that feeling would subside as she grew used to the idea of being engaged to Jem. It was new enough still that it did not seem real.

  There was one thing that was different, though. When she looked at Will now, she no longer felt any pain.

  Will saw her then, and smiled through the hair that blew across his face. He reached up to push it back. “That’s a new dress, isn’t it?” he said as she came down the stairs. “Not one of Jessamine’s.”

  She nodded, and waited resignedly for him to say something sarcastic, about her, Jessamine, the dress, or all three.

  “It suits you. Odd that gray would make your eyes look blue, but it does.”

  She looked at him in astonishment, but before she could do more than open her mouth to ask him if he was feeling all right, the carriage came rattling around the corner of the Institute with Cyril at the reins. He pulled up in front of the steps, and the door of the carriage opened; Charlotte was inside, wearing a wine-colored velvet dress and a hat with a sprig of dried flowers in it. She looked as nervous as Tessa had ever seen her. “Get in quickly,” she called, holding her hat on as she leaned out the door. “I think it’s going to rain.”

  To Tessa’s surprise, Cyril drove her, Charlotte, and Will not to the manor house in Chiswick but to an elegant house in Pimlico, which was apparently the Lightwoods’ weekday residence. It had begun to rain, and their wet things—gloves, hats, and coats—were taken from them by a sour-faced footman before they were ushered down many polished corridors and into a large library, where a roaring fire burned in a deep grate.

  Behind a massive oak desk sat Benedict Lightwood, his sharp profile made even sharper by the play of light and shadow inside the room. The drapes were pulled across the windows, and the walls were lined with heavy tomes bound in dark leather, gold printing across the spines. On either side of him stood his sons—Gideon at his right, his blond hair falling forward to hide his expression, his arms crossed over his broad chest. On the other side was Gabriel, his green eyes alight with a superior amusement, his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He looked as if he were about to start whistling.

  “Charlotte,” said Benedict. “Will. Miss Gray. Always a pleasure.” He gestured for them to seat themselves in the chairs set before the desk. Gabriel grinned nastily at Will as he sat. Will looked at him, his face a careful blank, and then looked away. Without a sarcastic remark, Tessa thought, baffled. Without even a cold glare. What was going on?

  “Thank you, Benedict.” Charlotte, tiny, her spine straight, spoke with perfect poise. “For seeing us on such short notice.”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “You do know that there’s nothing you can do that’s going to change the outcome of this. It isn’t up to me what the Council rules. It is their decision entirely.”

  Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “Indeed, Benedict. But it is you who are making this happen. If you had not forced Consul Wayland into making a show of disciplining me, there would be no ruling.”

  Benedict shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Ah, Charlotte. I remember you when you were Charlotte Fairchild. You were such a delightful little girl, and believe it or not as you will, I am fond of you even now. What I am doing is in the best interests of the Institute and the Clave. A woman cannot run the Institute. It is not in her nature. You’ll be thanking me when you’re home with Henry raising the next generation of Shadowhunters, as you should be. It might sting your pride, but in your heart you know I’m correct.”

  Charlotte’s chest rose and fell rapidly. “If you abdicated your claim on the Institute before the ruling, do you truly think it would be such a disaster? Me, running the Institute?”

  “Well, we’ll never find out, will we?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Charlotte said. “I think most Council members would choose a woman over a dissolute reprobate who fraternizes not just with Downworlders but with demons.”

  There was a short silence. Benedict didn’t move a muscle. Neither did Gideon.

  Finally Benedict spoke, though now there were teeth in the smooth velvet of his voice. “Rumors and innuendo.”

  “Truth and observation,” said Charlotte. “Will and Tessa were at your last gathering, in Chiswick. They observed a great deal.”

  “That demon woman you were lounging with on the divan,” said Will. “Would you call her a friend, or more of a business associate?”

  Benedict’s dark eyes hardened. “Insolent puppy—”

  “Oh, I’d say she was a friend,” said Tessa. “One doesn’t usually let one’s business associates lick one’s face. Although I could be wrong. What do I know about these things? I’m only a silly woman.”

  Will’s mouth quirked up at the corner. Gabriel was still staring; Gideon had his eyes on the floor. Charlotte sat perfectly composed, hands in her lap.

  “All three of you are quite foolish,” said Benedict, gesturing contemptuously toward them. Tessa caught a glimpse of something on his wrist, a shadow, like the coils of a woman’s bracelet, before his sleeve fell back to cover it. “That is, if you think the Council will believe any of your lies. You”—he cast a dismissive look at Tessa—“are a Downworlder; your word is worthless. And you”—he flung an arm at Will—“are a certifiable lunatic who fraternizes with warlocks. Not just this chit here but Magnus Bane as well. And when they test me under the Mortal Sword and I refute your claims, who do you think will be believed, you or me?”


  Will exchanged a quick look with Charlotte and Tessa. He had been right, Tessa thought, that Benedict did not fear the Sword. “There is other evidence, Benedict,” he said.

  “Oh?” Lightwood’s lip curled upward in a sneer. “And what is that?”

  “The evidence of your own poisoned blood,” said Charlotte. “Just now, when you gestured at us, I saw your wrist. How far has the corruption spread? It begins on the torso, does it not, and spreads down the arms and legs—”

  “What is he talking about?” Gabriel’s voice was a mixture of fury and terror. “Father?”

  “Demon pox,” said Will with the satisfaction of the truly vindicated.

  “What a disgusting accusation—,” began Benedict.

  “Refute it, then,” said Charlotte. “Pull up your sleeve. Show us your arm.”

  The muscle by the side of Benedict’s mouth twitched again. Tessa watched him in fascination. He did not terrify her, as Mortmain had, but rather disgusted her, the way the sight of a fat worm wriggling across a garden might. She watched as he whirled on his eldest son.

  “You,” he snarled. “You told them. You betrayed me.”

  “I did,” said Gideon, raising his head and uncurling his arms at last. “And I would again.”

  “Gideon?” It was Gabriel, sounding bewildered. “Father? What are you talking about?”

  “Your brother has betrayed us, Gabriel. He has told our secrets to the Branwells.” Benedict spat his words out like poison. “Gideon Arthur Lightwood,” Benedict went on. His face looked older, the lines at the sides of his mouth more severe, but his tone was unchanged. “I suggest you think very carefully about what you have done, and what you will do next.”