“Of course I’m pleased.”
“Hm.” Jem looked unconvinced. Bending down, he held out his hand to the cat, who rubbed its head against the back of his fingers. “Good cat, Church.”
“Church? Is that the cat’s name?” Tessa was amused despite herself. “Goodness, didn’t it used to be one of Mrs. Dark’s familiars or some such thing? Perhaps Church isn’t the best name for it!”
“He,” Jem corrected with mock severity, “was not a familiar but a poor creature she planned to sacrifice as part of her necromantic spell casting. And Charlotte’s been saying that we ought to keep him because it’s good luck to have a cat in a church. So we started calling him “the church cat,” and from that . . .” He shrugged. “Church. And if the name helps keep him out of trouble, so much the better.”
“I do believe he’s looking at me in a superior manner.”
“Probably. Cats think they’re superior to everyone.” Jem scratched Church behind the ears. “What are you reading?”
Tessa showed him the Codex. “Will gave it to me. . . .”
Jem reached out and took it from her, with such deftness that Tessa had no time to draw her hand back. It was still open to the page she’d been studying. Jem glanced down at it, and then back up at her, his expression changing. “Did you not know this?”
She shook her head. “It is not so much that I dreamed of having children,” she said. “I had not thought so far ahead in my life. It’s more that this seems yet another thing that separates me from humanity. That makes me a monster. Something set apart.”
Jem was silent for a long moment, his long fingers stroking the gray cat’s fur. “Perhaps,” he said, “it is not such a bad thing to be set apart.” He leaned forward. “Tessa, you know that although it seems you are a warlock, you have an ability we have never seen before. You carry no warlock’s mark. With so much about you uncertain, you cannot allow this one piece of information to drive you to despair.”
“I am not despairing,” Tessa said. “It’s just—I have been lying awake these past few nights. Thinking about my parents. I barely remember them, you see. And yet I cannot help but wonder. Mortmain said my mother did not know that my father was a demon, but was he lying? He said she did not know what she was, but what does that mean? Did she ever know what I was, that I was not human? Is that why they left London as they did, so secretively, under cover of darkness? If I am the result of something—something hideous—that was done to my mother without her knowing, then how could she ever have loved me?”
“They hid you from Mortmain,” said Jem. “They must have known he wanted you. All those years he searched for you, and they kept you safe—first your parents, then your aunt. That is not the act of an unloving family.” His gaze was intent on her face. “Tessa, I do not want to make you promises I cannot keep, but if you truly wish to know the truth about your past, we can seek it out. After all you have done for us, we owe you that much. If there are secrets to be learned about how you came to be what you are, we can learn them, if that is what you desire.”
“Yes. That is what I want.”
“You may not,” said Jem, “like what you discover.”
“It is better to know the truth.” Tessa was surprised by the conviction in her own voice. “I know the truth about Nate, now, and painful as it is, it is better than being lied to. It is better than going on loving someone who cannot love me back. Better than wasting all that feeling.” Her voice shook.
“I think he did,” said Jem, “and does love you, in his way, but you cannot concern yourself with that. It is as great a thing to love as it is to be loved. Love is not something that can be wasted.”
“It is hard. That is all.” Tessa knew she was being self-pitying, but she could not seem to shake it off. “To be so alone.”
Jem leaned forward and looked at her. The red Marks stood out like fire on his pale skin, making her think of the patterns that traced the edges of the Silent Brothers’ robes. “My parents, like yours, are dead. So are Jessie’s, and even Henry’s and Charlotte’s. Will’s might as well be. I am not sure there is anyone in the Institute who is not without family. Otherwise we would not be here.”
Tessa opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “I know,” she said. “I am sorry. I was being perfectly selfish not to think—”
He held up a slender hand. “I am not blaming you,” he said. “Perhaps you are here because you are otherwise alone, but so am I. So is Will. So is Jessamine. And even, to an extent, Charlotte and Henry. Where else could Henry have his laboratory? Where else would Charlotte be allowed to put her brilliant mind to work the way she can here? And though Jessamine pretends to hate everything, and Will would never admit to needing anything, they have both made homes for themselves here. In a way, we are not here just because we have nowhere else; we need nowhere else, because we have the Institute, and those who are in it are our family.”
“But not my family.”
“They could be,” said Jem. “When I first came here, I was twelve years old. It most decidedly did not feel like home to me then. I saw only how London was not like Shanghai, and I was homesick. So Will went down to a shop in the East End and bought me this.” He drew out the chain that hung around his neck, and Tessa saw that the flash of green she’d noticed before was a green stone pendant in the shape of a closed hand. “I think he liked it because it reminded him of a fist. But it was jade, and he knew jade came from China, so he brought it back to me and I hung it on a chain to wear it. I still wear it.”
The mention of Will made Tessa’s heart contract. “I suppose it is good to know he can be kind sometimes.”
Jem looked at her with keen silver eyes. “When I came in—that look on your face—it wasn’t just because of what you read in the Codex, was it? It was about Will. What did he say to you?”
Tessa hesitated. “He made it very clear that he didn’t want me here,” she said at last. “That my remaining at the Institute is not the happy chance I thought it was. Not in his view.”
“And after I just finished telling you why you should consider him family,” Jem said, a bit ruefully. “No wonder you looked as if I’d just told you something awful had happened.”
“I’m sorry,” Tessa whispered.
“Don’t be. It’s Will who ought to be sorry.” Jem’s eyes darkened. “We shall throw him out onto the streets,” he proclaimed. “I promise you he’ll be gone by morning.”
Tessa started and sat upright. “Oh—no, you can’t mean that—”
He grinned. “Of course I don’t. But you felt better for a moment there, didn’t you?”
“It was like a beautiful dream,” Tessa said gravely, but she smiled when she said it, which surprised her.
“Will is . . . difficult,” Jem said. “But family is difficult. If I didn’t think the Institute was the best place for you, Tessa, I would not say that it was. And one can build one’s own family. I know you feel inhuman, and as if you are set apart, away from life and love, but . . .” His voice cracked a little, the first time Tessa had heard him sound unsure. He cleared his throat. “I promise you, the right man won’t care.”
Before Tessa could reply, there was a sharp tapping against the glass of the window. She looked toward Jem, who shrugged. He heard it too. Crossing the room, she saw that indeed there was something outside—a dark winged shape, like a small bird struggling to get inside. She tried to lift the window sash, but it seemed stuck.
She turned, but Jem had already appeared at her side, and he pushed the window open. As the dark shape fluttered inside, it flew straight for Tessa. She raised her hands and caught it out of the air, feeling the sharp metal wings flutter against her palms. As she held it, they closed, and its eyes closed too. Once more it held its metal sword quietly, as if waiting to be wakened again. Tick-tick went its clockwork heart against her fingers.
Jem turned from the open window, the wind ruffling his hair. In the yellow light, it shone like white gold. “What is it?�
�
Tessa smiled. “My angel,” she said.
EPILOGUE
It had grown late, and Magnus Bane’s eyelids were drooping with exhaustion. He set Horace’s Odes down upon the end table and gazed thoughtfully at the rain-streaked windows that looked out onto the square.
This was Camille’s house, but tonight she was not in it; it seemed to Magnus unlikely that she would be home again for many more nights, if not for longer. She had left the city after that disastrous night at de Quincey’s, and though he had sent her a message telling her it was safe to return, he doubted she would. He could not help but wonder if, now that she had exacted revenge on her vampire clan, she would still desire his company. Perhaps he had only ever been something to throw in de Quincey’s face.
He could always depart—pack up and go, leave all this borrowed luxury behind him. This house, the servants, the books, even his clothes, were hers; he had come to London with nothing. It wasn’t as if Magnus couldn’t earn his own money. He had been quite wealthy in the past, on occasion, though having too much money usually bored him. But remaining here, however annoying, was still the most likely path to seeing Camille again.
A knock on the door broke him out of his reverie, and he turned to see Archer, the footman, standing in the doorway. Archer had been Camille’s subjugate for years, and regarded Magnus with loathing, likely because he felt that a liaison with a warlock wasn’t the right sort of attachment for his beloved mistress.
“There’s someone to see you, sir.” Archer lingered over the word “sir” just long enough for it to be insulting.
“At this hour? Who is it?”
“One of the Nephilim.” A faint distaste colored Archer’s words. “He says his business with you is urgent.”
So it wasn’t Charlotte, the only one of the London Nephilim that Magnus might have expected to see. For several days now he had been assisting the Enclave, watching while they questioned terrified mundanes who had been members of the Pandemonium Club, and using magic to remove the mundanes’ memories of the ordeal when it was over. An unpleasant job, but the Clave always paid well, and it was wise to remain in their favor.
“He is,” Archer added, with deepening distaste, “also very wet.”
“Wet?”
“It is raining, sir, and the gentleman is not wearing a hat. I offered to dry his clothes, but he declined.”
“Very well. Send him in.”
Archer’s lips thinned. “He is waiting for you in the parlor. I thought he might wish to warm himself by the fire.”
Magnus sighed inwardly. He could, of course, demand that Archer show the guest into the library, a room he preferred. But it seemed like a great deal of effort for little return, and besides, if he did, the footman would sulk for the next three days. “Very well.”
Gratified, Archer melted away, leaving Magnus to make his own way to the parlor. The door was closed, but he could see from the light that gleamed beneath the door that there was a fire, and light, inside the room. He pushed the door open.
The parlor had been Camille’s favorite room and bore her decorating touches. The walls were painted a lush burgundy, the rosewood furniture imported from China. The windows that otherwise would have looked out onto the square were covered with velvet curtains that hung straight from floor to ceiling, blocking out any light. Someone was standing in front of the fireplace, his hands behind his back—a slender someone with dark hair. When he turned, Magnus recognized him immediately.
Will Herondale.
He was, as Archer had said, wet, in the manner of someone who did not care one way or another whether it rained on him or not. His clothes were drenched, his hair hanging in his eyes. Water streaked his face like tears.
“William,” Magnus said, honestly surprised. “What on earth are you doing here? Has something happened at the Institute?”
“No.” Will’s voice sounded as if he were choking. “I’m here on my own account. I need your help. There is—there is absolutely no one else that I can ask.”
“Really.” Magnus looked at the boy more closely. Will was beautiful; Magnus had been in love many times throughout the years, and normally beauty of any sort moved him, but Will’s never had. There was something dark about the boy, something hidden and strange that was hard to admire. He seemed to show nothing real to the world. Yet now, under his dripping black hair, he was as white as parchment, his hands clenched at his sides so tightly that they were shaking. It seemed clear that some terrible turmoil was ripping him apart from the inside out.
Magnus reached behind himself and locked the parlor door. “Very well,” he said. “Why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”
A NOTE ON TESSA’S LONDON
The London of Clockwork Angel is, as much as I could make it, an admixture of the real and the unreal, the famous and the forgotten. The geography of real Victorian London is preserved as much as possible, but there were times that wasn’t possible. For those wondering about the Institute: There was indeed a church called All-Hallows-the-Less that burned in the Great Fire of London in 1666; it was located, however, in Upper Thames Street, not where I have placed it, just off Fleet Street. Those familiar with London will recognize the location of the Institute, and the shape of its spire, as that of the famous St. Bride’s Church, beloved of newspapermen and journalists, which goes unmentioned in Clockwork as the Institute has taken its place. There is no Carleton Square in reality, though there is a Carlton Square; Blackfriars Bridge, Hyde Park, the Strand—even Gunther’s ice cream shop—all existed and are presented to the best of my researching abilities. Sometimes I think all cities have a shadow self, where the memory of great events and great places lingers after those places themselves are gone. To that end, there was a Devil Tavern on Fleet Street and Chancery, where Samuel Pepys and Dr. Samuel Johnson drank, but though it was demolished in 1787, I like to think Will can visit its shadow self in 1878.
A NOTE ON THE POETRY
The poetry quotations at the beginning of each chapter are by and large taken from poetry Tessa would be familiar with, either of her era, or a staple from before it. The exceptions are the poems by Wilde and Kipling—still Victorian poets, but dating later than the 1870s—and the poem by Elka Cloke at the beginning of the volume, “Thames River Song,” which was written specifically for this book. A longer version of the poem can be found at the author’s website: ElkaCloke.com.
Acknowledgments
Much thanks for familial support from my mother and father, as well as Jim Hill and Kate Connor; Nao, Tim, David, and Ben; Melanie, Jonathan, and Helen Lewis; Florence and Joyce. To those who read and critiqued and pointed out anachronisms—Clary, Eve Sinaiko, Sarah Smith, Delia Sherman, Holly Black, Sarah Rees Brennan, Justine Larbalestier—tons of thanks. And thanks to those whose smiling faces and snarky remarks keep me going another day: Elka Cloke, Holly Black, Robin Wasserman, Maureen Johnson, Libba Bray, and Sarah Rees Brennan. Thanks to Margie Longoria for her support of Project Book Babe. Thanks to Lisa Gold: Research Maven (http://lisagoldresearch.wordpress.com) for her help in digging up hard-to-find primary sources. My always-gratitude to my agent, Barry Goldblatt; my editor, Karen Wojtyla; and the teams at Simon & Schuster and Walker Books for making it all happen. And lastly, my thanks to Josh, who did a lot of laundry while I was doing revisions on this book, and only complained some of the time.
A SHORT STORY SET DURING CITY OF BONES
MAGNUS’S VOW
Magnus Bane lay on the floor of his Brooklyn loft, looking up at the bare ceiling. The floor was slightly sticky, as was much else in the apartment. Spilled faery wine mixed with blood on the floor, running in rivulets across the splintery floorboards. The bar, which had been a door laid across two dented metal garbage cans, had gotten wrecked at some point during the night during a lively fight between a vampire and Bat, one of the downtown werewolf pack. Magnus felt satisfied. It wasn’t a good party unless something got broken.
Soft footsteps padded across the floor
toward him and then something crawled onto his chest: something small, soft, and heavy. He looked up and found himself staring into a pair of wide gold-green eyes that matched his own. Chairman Meow.
He stroked the cat, who kneaded his claws happily into Magnus’s shirt. A bit of Silly String fell from the ceiling and landed on both of them, causing Chairman Meow to leap sideways.
With a yawn, Magnus sat up. He usually felt like this after a party—tired but too wound up to sleep. His mind was humming over the events of the evening, but like a scratched CD, it kept coming back to the same point and spinning there, sending his memories into a whirl.
Those Shadowhunter children. He hadn’t been surprised that Clarissa had finally tracked him down; he’d known Jocelyn’s stopgap memory spells wouldn’t work forever. He’d told her as much, but she’d been determined to protect the girl as long as she could. Now that he’d met her, conscious and alert, he wondered if she’d really needed all that protecting. She was fiery, impulsive, brave—and lucky, like her mother.
That was if you believed in luck. But something must have led her to the Shadowhunters of the Institute, possibly the only ones who could protect her from Valentine. A pity that Maryse and Robert were gone. He’d dealt with Maryse more than once, but it had been years since he’d seen the younger generation.
He had a vague memory of visiting Maryse and Hodge, and there being two boys in the hallway, about eleven years old, battling back and forth with harmless model seraph blades. A girl with black hair in two braids had been watching them and vociferously complaining about not being included. He had taken very little note of them at the time.
But now—seeing them had shaken him, especially the boys, Jace and Alec. When you had so many memories, sometimes it was hard to identify the exact one you wanted, like flipping through a ten-thousand page book to find the correct paragraph.
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