It was a subdued morning. It had dawned rainy and gray, and the Institute felt leadenly weighted down, as if the sky were pressing on it. Sophie passed in and out of the kitchen carrying steaming platters of food, her pale face looking pinched and small; Jessamine slumped tiredly over her tea; Charlotte looked weary and unwell from her night spent in the library; and Will’s eyes were red-rimmed, his cheek bruised where Jem had hit him. Only Henry, reading the paper with one hand while he stabbed at his eggs with the other, seemed to have any energy.
Jem was conspicuous mainly by his absence. When Tessa had woken up that morning, she had floated for a moment in a blissful state of forgetfulness, the events of the night before a dim blur. Then she had sat bolt upright, absolute horror crashing over her like a wave of scalding water.
Had she really done all those things with Jem? His bed—his hands on her—the spilled drugs. She had raised her hands and touched her hair. It fell free over her shoulders, where Jem had tugged it out of its plaits. Oh, God, she thought. I really did all that; that was me. She had pressed her hands to her eyes, feeling an overwhelming mix of confusion, terrified happiness—for she could not deny that it had been wonderful in its way—horror at herself, and hideous and total humiliation.
Jem would think she had utterly lost control of herself. No wonder he couldn’t face her at breakfast. She could barely face herself in the mirror.
“Did you hear me?” Will said again, clearly disappointed at the reception of his announcement. “I said I went to an opium den last night.”
Charlotte looked up from her toast. Slowly she folded her newspaper, set it on the table beside her, and pushed her reading glasses down her upturned nose. “No,” she said. “That undoubtedly glorious aspect of your recent activities was unknown to us, in fact.”
“So is that where you’ve been all this time?” Jessamine asked listlessly, taking a sugar cube from the bowl and biting into it. “Are you quite a hopeless addict now? They say it takes only one or two doses.”
“It wasn’t really an opium den,” Tessa protested before she could stop herself. “That is to say—they seemed to have more of a trade in magic powders and things like that.”
“So perhaps not an opium den precisely,” said Will, “but still a den. Of vice!” he added, punctuating this last bit by stabbing his finger into the air.
“Oh, dear, not one of those places that’s run by ifrits,” sighed Charlotte. “Really, Will—”
“Exactly one of those places,” said Jem, coming into the breakfast room and sliding into a chair beside Charlotte—quite as far away from Tessa as it was possible to sit, she noticed, with a pinching feeling in her chest. He didn’t look at her either. “Off Whitechapel High Street.”
“And how do you and Tessa know so much about it?” asked Jessamine, who appeared revitalized by either her sugar intake or the expectation of some good gossip, or both.
“I used a tracking spell to find Will last night,” said Jem. “I was growing concerned at his absence. I thought he might have forgotten the way back to the Institute.”
“You worry too much,” said Jessamine. “It’s silly.”
“You’re quite right. I won’t make that mistake again,” said Jem, reaching for the dish of kedgeree. “As it turned out, Will wasn’t in need of my assistance at all.”
Will looked at Jem thoughtfully. “I seem to have woken up with what they call a Monday mouse,” he said, pointing at the bruised skin under his eye. “Any idea where I got it?”
“None.” Jem helped himself to some tea.
“Eggs,” said Henry dreamily, looking at his plate. “I do love eggs. I could eat them all day.”
“Was there really a need to bring Tessa with you to Whitechapel?” Charlotte asked Jem, sliding her glasses off and placing them on the newspaper. Her brown eyes were reproachful.
“Tessa is not made of delicate china,” said Jem. “She will not break.”
For some reason this statement, though he said it still without looking at her, sent a flood of images through Tessa’s mind of the night before—of clinging to Jem in the shadows of his bed, his hands gripping her shoulders, their mouths fierce on each other’s. No, he had not treated her as if she were breakable then. A boiling flood of heat seared her cheeks, and she looked down quickly, praying for her blush to go away.
“You might be surprised to know,” said Will, “that I saw something rather interesting in the opium den.”
“I’m sure you did,” said Charlotte with asperity.
“Was it an egg?” Henry inquired.
“Downworlders,” said Will. “Almost all werewolves.”
“There’s nothing interesting about werewolves.” Jessamine sounded aggrieved. “We’re focusing on finding Mortmain now, Will, if you haven’t forgotten, not some drug-addled Downworlders.”
“They were buying yin fen,” said Will. “Buckets of it.”
At that Jem’s head snapped up and he met Will’s eyes.
“They had already begun to change color,” said Will. “Quite a few had silver hair, or eyes. Even their skin had started to silver over.”
“This is very disturbing.” Charlotte frowned. “We should speak to Woolsey Scott as soon as this Mortmain matter is cleared up. If there is an issue of addiction to warlock powders in his pack, he will want to know about it.”
“Don’t you think he already does?” said Will, sitting back in his chair. He looked pleased to have finally gotten a reaction to his news. “It is his pack, after all.”
“His pack is all of London’s wolves,” objected Jem. “He can’t possibly keep real track of them all.”
“I’m not sure you want to wait,” said Will. “If you can get hold of Scott, I’d speak to him as soon as possible.”
Charlotte tilted her head to the side. “And why is that?”
“Because,” said Will. “One of the ifrits asked a werewolf why he needed so much yin fen. Apparently it works on werewolves as a stimulant. The answer was that it pleased the Magister that the drug kept them working all night long.”
Charlotte’s teacup crashed into her saucer. “Working on what?”
Will smirked, clearly pleased at the effect he was having. “I’ve no idea. I lost consciousness about then. I was having a lovely dream about a young woman who had mislaid nearly all her clothes . . .”
Charlotte was white-faced. “Dear God, I hope Scott isn’t caught up with the Magister. De Quincey first, now the wolves—all our allies. The Accords . . .”
“I’m sure it will all be all right, Charlotte,” said Henry mildly. “Scott doesn’t seem the sort to get tangled up with Mortmain’s sort.”
“Perhaps you should be there when I speak with him,” said Charlotte. “Nominally, you are the head of the Institute—”
“Oh, no,” said Henry with a look of horror. “Darling, you’ll be quite all right without me. You’re such a genius where these negotiations are concerned, and I’m simply not. And besides, the invention I’m working on now could shatter the whole clockwork army into pieces if I get the formulations right!”
He beamed round the table proudly. Charlotte looked at him for a long moment, then pushed her chair back from the table, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word.
Will regarded Henry from beneath half-lidded eyes. “Nothing ever disturbs your circles, does it, Henry?”
Henry blinked. “What do you mean?”
“Archimedes,” Jem said, as usual knowing what Will meant, though not looking at him. “He was drawing a mathematical diagram in the sand when his city was attacked by Romans. He was so intent on what he was doing that he didn’t see the soldier coming up behind him. His last words were ‘Do not disturb my circles.’ Of course, he was an old man by then.”
“And he was probably never married,” said Will, and he grinned at Jem across the table.
Jem didn’t return his grin. Without looking at Will, or Tessa—without looking at any of them—he got to his feet an
d went out of the room after Charlotte.
“Oh, bother,” said Jessamine. “Is this one of those days where we all stalk out in a fury? Because I simply haven’t got the energy for it.” She put her head down on her arms and closed her eyes.
Henry looked bewilderedly from Will to Tessa. “What is it? What have I done wrong?”
Tessa sighed. “Nothing dreadful, Henry. It’s just—I think Charlotte wanted you to come with her.”
“Then, why didn’t she say so?” Henry’s eyes were mournful. His joy over his eggs and inventions seemed to have vanished. Perhaps he shouldn’t have married Charlotte, Tessa thought, her mood as bleak as the weather. Perhaps, like Archimedes, he would have been happier drawing circles in the sand.
“Because women never say what they think,” said Will. His eyes drifted toward the kitchen, where Bridget was clearing up the remains of the meal. Her singing floated lugubriously out into the dining room.
“‘I fear you are poisoned, my own pretty boy,
I fear you are poisoned, my comfort and joy!’
‘O yes, I am poisoned; mother, make my bed soon,
There’s a pain in my heart, and I mean to lie down.’”
“I swear that woman had a previous career as a death-hunter selling tragic ballads down around the Seven Dials,” said Will. “And I do wish she wouldn’t sing about poisoning just after we’ve eaten.” He looked sideways at Tessa. “Shouldn’t you be off putting on your gear? Haven’t you training with the lunatic Lightwoods today?”
“Yes, this morning, but I needn’t change clothes. We’re just practicing knife throwing,” said Tessa, somewhat amazed that she was able to have this mild and civil a conversation with Will after the events of last night. Cyril’s handkerchief, with Will’s blood on it, was still in her dresser drawer; she remembered the warmth of his lips on her fingers, and darted her eyes away from his.
“How fortunate that I am a crack hand at knife throwing.” Will got to his feet and held out his arm to her. “Come along; it’ll drive Gideon and Gabriel mad if I watch the training, and I could do with a little madness this morning.”
Will was correct. His presence during the training session seemed to madden Gabriel at least, though Gideon, as he seemed to do with everything, took this intrusion in a stolid manner. Will sat on a low wooden bench that ran along one of the walls, and ate an apple, his long legs stretched out before him, occasionally calling out bits of advice that Gideon ignored and that Gabriel took like blows to the chest.
“Must he be here?” Gabriel growled to Tessa the second time he had nearly dropped a knife while handing it to her. He put a hand on her shoulder, showing her the sight line for the target she was aiming at—a black circle drawn on the wall. She knew how much he would rather she were aiming at Will. “Can’t you tell him to go away?”
“Now, why would I do that?” Tessa asked reasonably. “Will is my friend, and you are someone whom I do not even like.”
She threw the knife. It missed its target by several feet, striking low in the wall near the floor.
“No, you’re still weighting the point too much—and what do you mean, you don’t like me?” Gabriel demanded, handing her another knife as if by reflex, but his expression was very surprised indeed.
“Well,” Tessa said, sighting along the line of the knife, “you behave as if you dislike me. In fact, you behave as if you dislike us all.”
“I don’t,” Gabriel said. “I just dislike him.” He pointed at Will.
“Dear me,” said Will, and he took another bite of his apple. “Is it because I’m better-looking than you?”
“Both of you be quiet,” Gideon called from across the room. “We’re meant to be working, not snapping at each other over years-old petty disagreements.”
“Petty?” Gabriel snarled. “He broke my arm.”
Will took another bite out of his apple. “I can hardly believe you’re still upset about that.”
Tessa threw the knife. This throw was better. It landed inside the black circle, if not in the center itself. Gabriel looked around for another knife and, not seeing one, let out an exhalation of annoyance. “When we run the Institute,” he said, pitching his voice loud enough for Will to hear, “this training room will be far better kept up and supplied.”
Tessa looked at him angrily. “Amazing that I don’t like you, isn’t it?”
Gabriel’s handsome face crumpled into an ugly look of contempt. “I don’t see what this has to do with you, little warlock; this Institute isn’t your home. You don’t belong in this place. Believe me, you’d be better off with my family running things here; we could find uses for your . . . talent. Employment that would make you rich. You could live where you liked. And Charlotte can go run the Institute in York, where she’ll do considerably less harm.”
Will was sitting upright now, apple forgotten. Gideon and Sophie had ceased their practicing and were watching the conversation—Gideon wary, Sophie wide-eyed. “If you hadn’t noticed,” Will said, “someone already runs the York Institute.”
“Aloysius Starkweather is a senile old man.” Gabriel dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “And he has no descendants he can beg the Consul to appoint in his place. Since the business with his granddaughter, his son and daughter-in-law packed up and went to Idris. They won’t come back here for love or money.”
“What business with his granddaughter?” Tessa demanded, flashing back to the portrait of the sickly-looking little girl on the staircase of the York Institute.
“Only lived to be ten or so,” said Gabriel. “Never was very healthy, by all accounts, and when they first Marked her—Well, she must have been improperly trained. She went mad, turned Forsaken, and died. The shock killed old Starkweather’s wife, and sent his children scurrying to Idris. It wouldn’t be much trouble to get him replaced by Charlotte. The Consul must see he’s no good—far too married to the old ways.”
Tessa looked at Gabriel in disbelief. His voice had retained its cool indifference as he’d told the story of the Starkweathers, as if it were a fairy tale. And she—she didn’t want to pity the old man with the sly eyes and the bloody room full of dead Downworlders’ remains, but she couldn’t help it. She pushed Aloysius Starkweather from her mind. “Charlotte runs this Institute,” she said. “And your father will not take it from her.”
“She deserves to have it taken from her.”
Will tossed his apple core into the air, at the same time drawing a knife from his belt and throwing it. The knife and the apple sailed across the room together, somehow managing to stick into the wall just beside Gabriel’s head, the knife driven cleanly through the core and into the wood. “Say that again,” said Will, “and I’ll darken your daylights for you.”
Gabriel’s face worked. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Gideon took a step forward, warning in every line of his posture. “Gabriel—”
But his brother ignored him. “You don’t even know what your precious Charlotte’s father did to mine, do you? I only just learned it myself a few days ago. My father finally broke down and told us. He’d protected the Fairchilds till then.”
“Your father?” Will’s tone was incredulous. “Protected the Fairchilds?”
“He was protecting us as well.” Gabriel’s words tumbled over themselves. “My mother’s brother—my uncle Silas—was one of Granville Fairchild’s closest friends. Then Uncle Silas broke the Law—a tiny thing, a minor infraction—and Fairchild discovered it. All he cared about was the Law, not friendship, not loyalty. He went straight to the Clave.” Gabriel’s voice rose. “My uncle killed himself in shame, and my mother died of the grief. The Fairchilds don’t care about anyone but themselves and the Law!”
For a moment the room was silent; even Will was speechless, looking utterly taken aback. It was Tessa who spoke at last, “But that is the fault of Charlotte’s father. Not of Charlotte.”
Gabriel was white with rage, his green eyes standing out agains
t his pale skin. “You don’t understand,” he said viciously. “You’re not a Shadowhunter. We have blood pride. Family pride. Granville Fairchild wanted the Institute to go to his daughter, and the Consul made it happen. But even though Fairchild is dead, we can still take that away from him. He was hated—so hated that no one would have married Charlotte if he hadn’t paid off the Branwells to hand Henry over. Everyone knows it. Everyone knows he doesn’t really love her. How could he—”
There was a crack, like the sound of a rifle shot, and Gabriel fell silent. Sophie had slapped him across the face. His pale skin was already beginning to redden. Sophie was staring at him, breathing hard, an incredulous look on her face, as if she could not believe what she had done.
Gabriel’s hands tightened at his sides, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t, Tessa knew. He could not strike a girl, a girl who was not even a Shadowhunter or a Downworlder but merely a mundane. He looked to his brother, but Gideon, expressionless, met his eyes and shook his head slowly; with a choked sound Gabriel spun on his heel and stalked from the room.
“Sophie!” Tessa exclaimed, reaching for her. “Are you all right?”
But Sophie was looking anxiously up at Gideon. “I’m so sorry, sir,” she said. “There’s no excuse—I lost my head, and I—”
“It was a well-placed blow,” Gideon said calmly. “I see you’ve been paying attention to my training.”
Will was sitting up on the bench, his blue eyes lively and curious. “Was it true?” he said. “That story Gabriel just told us.”
Gideon shrugged. “Gabriel worships our father,” he said. “Anything Benedict says is like a pronouncement from on high. I knew my uncle had killed himself, but not the circumstances, until the day after we first came back from training you. Father asked us how the Institute seemed to be run, and I told him it seemed in fine condition, no different from the Institute in Madrid. In fact, I told him I could see no evidence that Charlotte was doing a lax job. That was when he told us this story.”
The Infernal Devices Series Page 60