Clockwork Princess by Cassandra Clare

  Charlotte couldn't stop herself from imagining what it must have been like when the doors of the Council room had opened and the automatons had poured in. Councils were not required to be unarmed, but they were not prepared to fight. Nor had most Shadowhunters ever faced an automaton. Even to imagine the slaughter chilled her. She was overwhelmed by the enormity of the loss to the Shadowhunter world, though it would have been much greater had Tessa not made the sacrifice she did. All the automatons had fallen with Mortmain's death, even the ones in the Council rooms, and the majority of the Shadowhunters had survived, though there had been heavy losses--including the Consul.

  "Part demon and part Shadowhunter," Charlotte murmured now, gazing down at Tessa. "What does that make her?"

  Nephilim blood is dominant. A new kind of Shadowhunter. New is not always a bad thing, Charlotte.

  It was because of that Nephilim blood that they had gone so far as to try healing runes upon Tessa, but the runes had simply sunk into her skin and vanished, like words written in water. Charlotte reached out now to touch Tessa's collarbone, where the rune had been inked. Her skin was hot to the touch.

  "Her clockwork angel," Charlotte observed. "It has stopped its ticking."

  The angel's presence has left it. Ithuriel is free, and Tessa unprotected, though with the Magister dead, and as a Nephilim herself, she will likely be safe. As long as she does not attempt to transform herself into an angel a second time. It would certainly kill her.

  "There are other dangers."

  We all must face dangers, said Brother Enoch. It was the same cool, unruffled mental voice he had used when he had told her that though Henry would live, he would never walk again.

  On the bed Tessa stirred, crying out in a dry voice. In her sleep, since the battle, she had called out names. She had called for Nate, and for her aunt, and for Charlotte. "Jem," she whispered now, clutching fitfully at her coverlet.

  Charlotte turned away from Enoch as she reached for the cool cloth again and laid it across Tessa's forehead. She knew she should not ask, and yet--

  "How is he? Our Jem? Is he--adjusting to the Brotherhood?"

  She felt Enoch's reproach. You know I cannot tell you that. He is no longer your Jem. He is Brother Zachariah now. You must forget him.

  "Forget him? I cannot forget him," Charlotte said. "He is not as your other Brothers, Enoch; you know that."

  The rituals that make a Silent Brother are our deepest secrets.

  "I am not asking to know of your rituals," Charlotte said. "Yet I know that most Silent Brothers sever their ties to their mortal lives before they enter the Brotherhood. But James could not do that. He still has that which tethers him to this world." She looked down at Tessa, her eyelids fluttering as she breathed harshly. "It is a cord that ties each of them to the other, and unless it is dissolved properly, I fear it may harm them both."

  "'She is coming, my own, my sweet;

  Were it ever so airy a tread,

  My heart would hear her and beat,

  Were it earth in an earthy bed;

  My dust would hear her and beat,

  Had I lain for a century dead;

  Would start and tremble under her feet,

  And blossom in purple and red.'"

  "Oh, for goodness' sake," Henry said irritably, pushing up the ink-stained sleeves of his dressing gown. "Can't you read something less depressing? Something with a good battle in it."

  "It's Tennyson," said Will, sliding his feet off the ottoman near the fire. They were in the drawing room, Henry's chair pulled up near the fire, a sketchbook open on his lap. He was still pale, as he had been since the battle at Cadair Idris, though he was beginning to get his color back. "It will improve your mind."

  Before Henry could reply, the door opened, and Charlotte came in, looking tired, the lace-edged sleeves of her sack dress stained with water. Will immediately set his book down, and Henry, too, looked up inquiringly from his sketchbook.

  Charlotte glanced from one of them to the other, noting the book on the side table beside the silver tea service. "Have you been reading to Henry, Will?"

  "Yes, some dreadful thing, all full of poetry." Henry had a pen in one hand and papers scattered all over the lap rug drawn up around his knees.

  Henry had met with his usual fortitude the news that even the Silent Brothers' healing would not let him walk again. And a conviction that he must build himself a chair, like a sort of Bath chair but better, with self-propelling wheels and all manner of other accoutrements. He was determined that it be able to go up and down stairs, so that he could still get to his inventions in the crypt. He had been scribbling designs for the chair the whole hour that Will had been reading to him from "Maud," but then poetry had never been Henry's area of interest.

  "Well, you are released from your duties, Will, and, Henry, you are released from further poetry," said Charlotte. "If you like, darling, I can help you gather your notes--" She slipped around behind her husband's chair and reached over his shoulders, helping scoop his scattered papers into a neat pile. He took her wrist as she moved, and looked up at her--a gaze of such trust and adoration that it made Will feel as if tiny knives were cutting at his skin.

  It was not as if he begrudged Charlotte and Henry their happiness--far from it. But he could not help but think of Tessa. Of the hopes he had cherished once and repressed later. He wondered if she had ever looked at him like that. He did not think so. He had worked so hard to destroy her trust, and though all he wanted was a true chance to rebuild it for her, he could not help but fear--

  He pushed the dark thoughts back and rose to his feet, about to explain that he intended to go see Tessa. Before he could speak, there was a knock at the door, and Sophie came in, looking unaccountably anxious. The anxiety was explained a moment later when the Inquisitor followed her into the room.

  Will, used to seeing him in his ceremonial robes at Council meetings, almost didn't recognize the stern-looking man in the gray morning coat and dark trousers. There was a livid scar on his cheek that had not been there before.

  "Inquisitor Whitelaw." Charlotte straightened up, her expression suddenly serious. "To what do we owe the honor of your visit?"

  "Charlotte," said the Inquisitor, and he held out his hand. There was a letter, sealed with the seal of the Council. "I have brought a message for you."

  Charlotte looked at him in bewilderment. "You could not simply have sent it through the post?"

  "This letter is of grave importance. It is imperative that you read it now."

  Slowly Charlotte reached out and took it. She pulled at the flap, then frowned and crossed the room to take a letter opener from her bureau. Will took the opportunity to stare at the Inquisitor covertly. The man was frowning at Charlotte and ignoring Will entirely. He could not help but wonder if the scar on the Inquisitor's cheek was a relic of the Council's battle with Mortmain's automatons.

  Will had been sure that they were all going to die, together, there under the mountain, until Tessa had blazed up in all the glory of the angel and struck down Mortmain like lightning striking down a tree. It had been one of the most wondrous things he had ever seen, but his wonder had been consumed quickly by terror when Tessa had collapsed after the Change, bleeding and insensible, however hard they'd tried to wake her. Magnus, near exhaustion, had barely been able to open a Portal back to the Institute with Henry's help, and Will remembered only a blur after that, a blur of exhaustion and blood and fear, more Silent Brothers summoned to tend the wounded, and the news coming from the Council of all who had been killed in battle before the automatons had disintegrated upon Mortmain's death. And Tessa--Tessa not speaking, not waking, being carried off to her room by the Silent Brothers, and he had not been able to go with her. Being neither brother nor husband he could only stand and stare after her, closing and unclosing his bloodstained hands. Never had he felt more helpless.

  And when he had turned to find Jem, to share his fear with the only other person in the world who loved T
essa as much as he did--Jem had been gone, back to the Silent City on the orders of the Brothers. Gone without even a word of good-bye.

  Though Cecily had tried to soothe him, Will had been angry--angry with Jem, and with the Council and the Brotherhood themselves, for allowing Jem to become a Silent Brother, though Will knew that was unfair, that it had been Jem's choice and the only way to keep him alive. And yet since their return to the Institute, Will had felt constantly seasick--it was like having been a ship at anchor for years and being cut free to float on the tides, with no idea which direction to steer in. And Tessa--

  The sound of tearing paper interrupted his thoughts, as Charlotte opened the letter and read it, the color draining from her face. She lifted her eyes and stared at the Inquisitor. "Is this some sort of jest?"

  The Inquisitor's frown deepened. "There is no jest, I assure you. Do you have an answer?"

  "Lottie," said Henry, looking up at his wife, even his tufts of gingery hair radiating anxiety and love. "Lottie, what is it, what's wrong?"

  She looked at him, and then back at the Inquisitor. "No," she said. "I don't have an answer. Not yet."

  "The Council does not wish--," he began, and then seemed to see Will for the first time. "If I could speak to you in private, Charlotte."

  Charlotte straightened her spine. "I will not send either Will or Henry away."

  The two of them glared at each other, eyes locked. Will knew that Henry was looking at him anxiously. In the aftermath of Charlotte's disagreement with the Consul, and the Consul's death, they had all waited breathlessly for the Council to hand down some sort of retributive judgment. Their hold on the Institute felt precarious. Will could see it in the minute trembling of Charlotte's hands, and the set of her mouth.

  He wished suddenly that Jem or Tessa were here, someone he could speak to, someone he could ask what he should do for Charlotte, to whom he owed so much.

  "It's all right," he said, rising to his feet. He wanted to see Tessa, even if she would not open her eyes, not recognize him. "I had meant to go anyway."

  "Will--," Charlotte protested.

  "It's all right, Charlotte," Will said again, and he pushed past the Inquisitor to the door. Once out in the corridor, he leaned against the wall for a moment, recovering himself. He couldn't help remembering his own words--God, it seemed a million years ago now, and no longer in the least bit funny: The Consul? Breaking up our breakfast time? Whatever next? The Inquisitor over for tea?

  If the Institute was taken from Charlotte ...

  If they all lost their home ...

  If Tessa ...

  He could not finish the thought. Tessa would live; she must live. As he set off down the corridor, he thought of the blues and greens and grays of Wales. Perhaps he could return there, with Cecily, if the Institute was lost, make some kind of life for themselves in their home country. It would not be a Shadowhunting life, but without Charlotte, without Henry, without Jem or Tessa or Sophie or even the bloody Lightwoods, he did not want to be a Shadowhunter. They were his family, and precious to him--just another realization, he thought, that had come to him all at once and yet too late.

  "Tessa. Wake up. Please, wake up."

  Sophie's voice now, cutting through the darkness. Tessa struggled, forcing her eyes open for a split second. She saw her bedroom at the Institute, the familiar furniture, the drapes pulled back, weak sunlight casting squares of light on the floor. She fought to hold on to it. It was like this, brief periods of lucidity in between fever and nightmares--never enough, never enough time to reach out, to speak. Sophie, she fought to whisper, but her dry lips would not pass the words. Lightning shivered down through her vision, splitting the world apart. She cried out soundlessly as the Institute broke into pieces and rushed away from her into the dark.

  It was Cyril who finally told Gabriel that Cecily was in the stables, after the younger Lightwood brother had spent much of the day searching fruitlessly--though, he hoped not obviously--through the Institute for her.

  Twilight had come, and the stable was full of warm yellow lantern light and the smell of horses. Cecily was standing by Balios's stall, her head against the neck of the great black horse. Her hair, nearly the same inky color, was loose over her shoulders. When she turned to look at him, Gabriel saw the wink of the red ruby around her throat.

  A look of concern passed across her face. "Has something happened to Will?"

  "Will?" Gabriel was startled.

  "I just thought--the way you looked--" She sighed. "He has been so distraught these past few days. If it were not enough that Tessa is ill and injured, to know what he does about Jem--" She shook her head. "I have tried to speak to him about it, but he will say nothing."

  "I think he is speaking to Jem now," Gabriel said. "I confess I do not know his state of mind. If you wish, I could--"

  "No." Cecily's voice was quiet. Her blue eyes were fixed on something far away. "Let him be."

  Gabriel took a few steps forward. The soft yellow glow of the lantern at Cecily's feet laid a faint golden sheen over her skin. Her hands were bare of gloves, very white against the horse's black hide. "I ...," he began. "You seem to like that horse very much."

  Silently he cursed himself. He remembered his father once saying that women, the gentler sex, liked to be wooed with charming words and pithy phrases. He wasn't sure exactly what a pithy phrase was, but he was sure that "You seem to like that horse very much" was not one.

  Cecily seemed not to mind, though. She gave the horse's hide an absent pat before turning to face him. "Balios saved my brother's life."

  "Are you going to leave?" Gabriel said abruptly.

  Her eyes widened. "What was that, Mr. Lightwood?"

  "No." He held his hand up. "Don't call me Mr. Lightwood, please. We are Shadowhunters. I am Gabriel to you."

  Her cheeks pinked. "Gabriel, then. Why did you ask me if I am leaving?"

  "You came here to bring your brother home," said Gabriel. "But it is clear he is not going to go, isn't it? He is in love with Tessa. He is going to stay wherever she is."

  "She might not stay here," Cecily said, her eyes unreadable.

  "I think she will. But even if she does not, he will go where she is. And Jem--Jem has become a Silent Brother. He is still Nephilim. If Will hopes to see him again, and I think we know he does, he will remain. The years have changed him, Cecily. His family is here now."

  "Do you think you are telling me anything I have not observed for myself? Will's heart is here, not in Yorkshire, in a house he has never lived in, with parents he has not seen for years."

  "Then, if he cannot go home--I thought perhaps that you would."

  "So that my parents are not alone. Yes. I can see why you would think that." She hesitated. "You know, of course, that in a few years I would be expected to be married, and to leave my parents regardless."

  "But not to never speak to them again. They are exiled, Cecily. If you remain here, you will be cut off from them."

  "You say it as if you wish to convince me to return home."

  "I say it because I am afraid you will." The words were out of his mouth before he could recapture them; he could only look at her as a flush of embarrassment heated his face.

  She took a step toward him. Her blue eyes, upturned to his, were wide. He wondered when they had stopped reminding him of Will's eyes; they were just Cecily's eyes, a shade of blue he associated with her alone. "When I came here," she said, "I thought the Shadowhunters were monsters. I thought I had to rescue my brother. I thought that we would return home together, and my parents would be proud of us both. That we would be a family again. Then I realized--you helped me realize--"

  "I helped you? How?"

  "Your father did not give you choices," she said. "He demanded that you be what he wanted. And that demand broke your family apart. But my father, he chose to leave the Nephilim and marry my mother. That was his choice, just as staying with the Shadowhunters is Will's. Choosing love or war: both are brave choices
, in their own ways. And I do not think my parents would grudge Will his choice. Above all, what matters to them is that he be happy."

  "But what of you?" Gabriel said, and they were very close now, almost touching. "It is your choice to make now, to stay or return."

  "I will stay," Cecily said. "I choose the war."

  Gabriel let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "You will give up your home?"

  "A drafty old house in Yorkshire?" Cecily said. "This is London."

  "And give up what is familiar?"

  "Familiar is dull."

  "And give up seeing your parents? It is against the Law ..."

  She smiled, the glimmer of a smile. "Everyone breaks the Law."

  "Cecy," he said, and closed the distance between them, though it was not much, and then he was kissing her--his hands awkward around her shoulders at first, slipping on the stiff taffeta of her gown before his fingers slid behind her head, tangling in her soft, warm hair. She stiffened in surprise before softening against him, the seam of her lips parting as he tasted the sweetness of her mouth. When she drew away at last, he felt light-headed. "Cecy?" he said again, his voice hoarse.

  "Five," she said. Her lips and cheeks were flushed, but her gaze was steady.

  "Five?" he echoed blankly.

  "My rating," she said, and smiled at him. "Your skill and technique may, perhaps, require work, but the native talent is certainly there. What you require is practice."

  "And you are willing to be my tutor?"

  "I should be very insulted if you chose another," she said, and leaned up to kiss him again.

  When Will came into Tessa's room, Sophie was sitting by her bed, murmuring in a soft voice. She swung around as the door closed behind Will. The corners of her mouth looked pinched and worried.

  "How is she?" Will asked, pushing his hands deep into his trouser pockets. It hurt to see Tessa like this, hurt as if a sliver of ice had lodged itself under his ribs and was digging into his heart. Sophie had plaited Tessa's long brown hair neatly so that it would not tangle when she tossed her head fitfully against the pillows. She breathed quickly, her chest rising and falling fast, her eyes visibly moving beneath her pale eyelids. He wondered what she was dreaming.