The Infernal Devices Series

by Cassandra Clare

  One of the metal beetles dipped down and hovered in front of Tessa, just at eye level, making a clicking sound. It was eyeless, though there was a circular plate of glass in the flat front of its head. She felt Jem reach for her arm, trying to pull her away from it, but she jerked away impatiently, seized her hat off her head, and slammed it down on top of the thing, trapping it between her hat and the seat of her chair. It immediately set up an enraged, high-pitched buzzing. “Henry!” she called. “Henry, I’ve got one of the things—”

  Henry appeared behind her, pink-faced, and stared down at the hat. A small hole was opening in the side of the elegant gray velvet where the mechanical creature was tearing at it. With a curse Henry brought his fist down hard, crushing the hat and the thing inside it against the seat. It buzzed and went still.

  Jem reached around and lifted the smashed hat gingerly. What was left under it was a scatter of parts—a metal wing, a shattered chassis, and broken-off stumps of copper legs. “Ugh,” said Tessa. “It’s so very—buglike.” She glanced up as another cry went through the room. The insectile creatures had come together in a black swirl in the center of the room; as she stared, they swirled faster and faster and then vanished, like black beetles sucked down a drain.

  “Sorry about the hat,” said Henry. “I’ll get you another.”

  “Bother the hat,” said Tessa as the cries of the angry Council echoed through the room. She looked toward the center of the room; the Consul stood with the glowing Mortal Sword in his hand, and behind him was Benedict, stone-faced, with eyes like ice. “Clearly, we have bigger things to worry about.”

  “It’s a sort of camera,” Henry said, holding the bits of the smashed metal beetle creature on his lap as the carriage clopped toward home. “Without Jessamine, Nate, or Benedict, Mortmain must be out of reliable human spies who can report to him. So he sent these things.” He poked at a shard; the bits were gathered together in the wreckage of Tessa’s hat, held on his lap as they jounced along.

  “Benedict didn’t look any too pleased to see those things,” said Will. “He must realize Mortmain already knows about his defection.”

  “It was a matter of time,” said Charlotte. “Henry, can those things record sound, like a phonautograph, or simply pictures? They were flying around so quickly—”

  “I’m not sure.” Henry frowned. “I shall have to examine the parts more closely in the crypt. I can find no shutter mechanism, but that does not mean—” He looked up at the uncomprehending faces focused on him, and shrugged. “In any case,” he said, “perhaps it is not the worst thing for the Council to get a look at Mortmain’s inventions. It is one thing to hear about them, another to see what he is doing. Don’t you think, Lottie?”

  Charlotte murmured an answer, but Tessa didn’t hear it. Her mind was caught up in going over a peculiar thing that had occurred just after she’d left the Council chambers and was waiting for the Branwells’ carriage. Jem had just turned away from her to speak to Will, when the flap of a black cloak caught her eye, and Aloysius Starkweather stalked up to her, his grizzled face fierce. “Miss Gray,” he’d barked. “That clockwork creature—the way it approached you . . .”

  Tessa had stood silently, staring—waiting for him to accuse her of something, though she could not imagine what.

  “Thee’s all right?” he’d said, abruptly and at last, his Yorkshire accent seeming suddenly very pronounced. “It dinna harm thee?”

  Slowly Tessa had shaken her head. “No, Mr. Starkweather. Thank you kindly for your inquiry into my welfare, but no.”

  By then Jem and Will had turned and were staring. As if aware he was drawing attention, Starkweather had nodded once, sharply, turned, and walked off, his ragged cloak blowing behind him.

  Tessa could make neither head nor tail of the whole business. She was just thinking of her brief time in Starkweather’s head, and the astonishment he’d felt when he’d first seen her, when the carriage came to a jerking halt before the Institute. Relieved to be free of their cramped quarters, the Shadowhunters and Tessa spilled out, onto the drive.

  There was a gap in the gray cloud cover over the city, and lemon yellow sunlight poured down, making the front steps glisten. Charlotte started toward them, but Henry stopped her, pulling her close with the arm that wasn’t holding Tessa’s destroyed hat. Tessa watched them with the first glimmer of happiness she’d felt since yesterday. She had truly come to care for Charlotte and Henry, she realized, and she wanted to see them happy. “What we should remember is that everything went as well as we could have hoped,” Henry said, holding her tightly. “I’m so proud of you, darling.”

  Tessa would have expected a sarcastic comment from Will at this juncture, but he was staring off toward the gates. Gideon looked embarrassed, Jem as if he were pleased.

  Charlotte pulled away from Henry, blushing furiously and straightening her hat, but obviously delighted. “Are you really, Henry?”

  “Absolutely! Not only is my wife beautiful, she is brilliant, and that brilliance should be recognized!”

  “This,” said Will, still looking off toward the gates, “is when Jessamine would have told you to stop because you were making her sick.”

  The smile vanished from Charlotte’s face. “Poor Jessie . . .”

  But Henry’s expression was uncharacteristically hard. “She shouldn’t have done what she did, Lottie. It’s not your fault. We can only hope the Council deals with her leniently.” He cleared his throat. “And let’s have no more talk about Jessamine today, shall we? Tonight is for celebration. The Institute is still ours.”

  Charlotte beamed at him, with so much love in her eyes that Tessa had to look away, toward the Institute. She blinked. High up in the stone wall, her eyes caught a flicker of movement. A curtain twitched away from the corner of a window, and she saw a pale face peering down. Sophie, looking for Gideon? She couldn’t be sure—the face was gone as soon as it had appeared.

  Tessa dressed with special care that night, in one of the new gowns Charlotte had provided her: blue satin with a heart-shaped basque and a deeply cut, rounded neckline over which was pinned a chemisette of Mechlin lace. The sleeves were short and ruched, showing her long white arms, and she wore her hair in curls, pinned up and back, a coiffure interlaced with dark blue pansies. It was not until after Sophie had carefully fixed them in her hair that Tessa realized they were the color of Will’s eyes, and wanted suddenly to pull them out, but of course she did nothing of the sort, only thanked Sophie for her efforts and complimented her sincerely on how prettily her hair had turned out.

  Sophie left before she did, to go and help Bridget in the kitchen. Tessa sat down automatically in front of the mirror to bite her lips and pinch her cheeks. She needed the color, she thought. She was unusually pale. The jade pendant was shoved down under the Mechlin lace, where it could not be seen; Sophie had looked at it as Tessa had dressed, but had not commented. She reached for the clockwork angel pendant and fastened it, too, around her throat. It sat below the other pendant, just under her collarbones, and steadied her with its ticking. There was no reason she could not wear both, was there?

  When she emerged into the corridor, Jem was waiting for her. His eyes lit up when he saw her, and after a glance up and down the hall, he drew her toward him and kissed her on the mouth.

  She willed herself to melt into the kiss, to dissolve against him as she had done before. His mouth was soft on hers and tasted sweet, and his hand when it cupped her neck was strong and gentle. She moved closer to him, wanting to feel the beat of his heart.

  He drew back, breathless. “I didn’t mean to do that . . .”

  She smiled. “I think you did, James.”

  “Not before I saw you,” he said. “I meant only to ask if I could escort you to dinner. But you look so beautiful.” He touched her hair. “I’m afraid too much passion could start you shedding petals like a tree in autumn, though.”

  “Well, you can,” she said. “Escort me to dinner, that is.”<
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  “Thank you.” He ran his fingertips lightly across her cheekbones. “I thought I would wake up this morning and it would have been a dream, you saying yes to me. But it wasn’t. Was it?” His eyes searched her face.

  She shook her head. She could taste tears in the back of her throat and was glad for the kid gloves that hid the burn on her left hand.

  “I’m sorry you’re getting such a bad bargain in me, Tessa,” he said. “In years, I mean. Shackling yourself to a dying man when you’re only sixteen . . .”

  “You’re only seventeen. Plenty of time to find a cure,” she whispered. “And we will. Find one. I will be with you. Forever.”

  “Now, that I believe,” he said. “When two souls are as one, they stay together on the Wheel. I was born into this world to love you, and I will love you in the next life, and the one after that.”

  She thought of Magnus. We are chained to this life by a chain of gold, and we dare not sever it for fear of what lies beyond the drop.

  She knew what he meant now. Immortality was a gift, but not one without its consequences. For if I am immortal, she thought, 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.

  But she did not say it. It would hurt him, and if there was anything she knew to be true, it was that a fierce unreasoning desire lived in her to protect him from hurt, to stand between him and disappointment, between him and pain, between him and death, and fight them all back as Boadicea had fought back the advancing Romans. She reached up and touched his cheek instead, and he put his face against her hair, her hair full of flowers the color of Will’s eyes, and they stood like that, clasped together, until the dinner bell rang a second time.

  Bridget, who could be heard singing mournfully in the kitchen, had outdone herself in the dining room, placing candles in silver holders everywhere so the whole place glimmered with light. Cut roses and orchids floated in silver bowls on the white linen tablecloth. Henry and Charlotte presided at the head of the table. Gideon, in evening dress, sat with his eyes fixed on Sophie as she came in and out of the room, though she seemed to be studiously avoiding his glances. And beside him sat Will.

  I love Jem. I am marrying Jem. Tessa had repeated it to herself all the way down the hall, but it made little difference; her heart flipped sickeningly in her chest when she saw Will. She had not seen him in evening dress since the night of the ball, and, despite seeming pale and ill, he still looked ridiculously handsome in it.

  “Is your cook always singing?” Gideon was asking in an awed tone as Jem and Tessa came in. Henry looked up and, on seeing them, smiled all over his friendly, freckled face.

  “We were beginning to wonder where you two were—,” he began.

  “Tessa and I have news,” Jem burst out. His hand found Tessa’s, and held it; she stood frozen as three curious faces turned toward them—four, if you counted Sophie, who had just walked into the room. Will sat where he was, gazing at the silver bowl in front of him; a white rose was floating in it, and he seemed prepared to stare at it until it went under. In the kitchen Bridget was still singing one of her awful sad songs; the lyrics drifted in through the door:

  “’Twas on an evening fair I went to take the air,

  I heard a maid making her moan;

  Said, ‘Saw ye my father? Or saw ye my mother?

  Or saw ye my brother John?

  Or saw ye the lad that I love best,

  And his name it is Sweet William?’”

  I may murder her, Tessa thought. Let her make a song about that.

  “Well, you have to tell us now,” said Charlotte, smiling. “Don’t leave us dangling in suspense, Jem!”

  Jem raised their joined hands and said, “Tessa and I are engaged to be married. I asked her, and—she accepted me.”

  There was a shocked silence. Gideon looked astonished—Tessa felt rather sorry for him, in a detached sort of way—and Sophie stood holding a pitcher of cream, her mouth open. Both Henry and Charlotte looked startled out of their wits. None of them could have been expecting this, Tessa thought; whatever Jessamine had said about Tessa’s mother being a Shadowhunter, she was still a Downworlder, and Shadowhunters did not marry Downworlders. This moment had not occurred to her. She had thought somehow that they would tell everyone separately, carefully, not that Jem would blurt it out in a fever of joyous happiness in the dining room. And she thought, Oh, please smile. Please congratulate us. Please don’t spoil this for him. Please.

  Jem’s smile had only just begun to slip, when Will rose to his feet. Tessa drew a deep breath. He was beautiful in evening dress, that was true, but he was always beautiful; there was something different about him now, though, a deeper layer to the blue of his eyes, cracks in the hard and perfect armor around himself that let through a blaze of light. This was a new Will, a different Will, a Will she had caught only glimpses of—a Will that perhaps only Jem had ever really known. And now she would never know him. The thought pierced her with a sadness as if she were remembering someone who had died.

  He raised his glass of wine. “I do not know two finer people,” he said, “and could not imagine better news. May your lives together be happy and long.” His eyes sought Tessa’s, then slid away from her, fastening on Jem. “Congratulations, brother.”

  A flood of other voices came after his speech. Sophie set the pitcher down and came to embrace Tessa; Henry and Gideon shook Jem’s hand, and Will stood watching it all, still holding the glass. Through the happy babble of voices, only Charlotte was silent, her hand against her chest; Tessa bent worriedly over her. “Charlotte, is everything all right?”

  “Yes,” Charlotte said, and then more loudly, “Yes. It is just—I have news of my own. Good news.”

  “Yes, darling,” said Henry. “We won the Institute back! But everyone does already know—”

  “No, not that, Henry. You—” Charlotte made a hiccuping sound, half laughter, half tears. “Henry and I are going to have a child. A boy. Brother Enoch told me. I didn’t want to say anything before, but—”

  The rest of her words were drowned out by Henry’s incredulous whoop of joy. He lifted Charlotte entirely out of her seat and threw his arms around her. “Darling, that’s wonderful, wonderful—”

  Sophie gave a little shriek and clapped her hands. Gideon looked as if he were so embarrassed that he might conceivably die on the spot, and Will and Jem exchanged bemused smiles. Tessa could not help smiling as well; Henry’s delight was infectious. He waltzed Charlotte across the room and then back again before suddenly stopping, horrified that waltzing might be bad for the baby, and sat her down in the nearest chair.

  “Henry, I’m perfectly capable of walking,” Charlotte said indignantly. “Even of dancing.”

  “My darling, you are indisposed! You must remain abed for the next eight months. Little Buford—”

  “I am not naming our child Buford. I don’t care if it was your father’s name, or if it is a traditional Yorkshire name—,” Charlotte began in exasperation, when a knock sounded on the door, and Cyril poked his tousled head in. He stared at the scene of gaiety going on in front of him, and said hesitantly:

  “Mr. Branwell, there’s someone here to see you all.”

  Henry blinked. “Someone to see us? But this is a private dinner, Cyril. And I did not hear the bell ring—”

  “No, she is Nephilim,” said Cyril. “And she says it’s very important. She will not wait.”

  Henry and Charlotte exchanged bewildered glances. “Well, all right, then,” said Henry at last. “Let her up, but tell her it will have to be quick.”

  Cyril vanished. Charlotte rose to her feet, smoothing down her dress and patting her disheveled hair. “Aunt Callida, perhaps?” she said in a puzzled voice. “I can’t fathom who else . . .”

  The door opened again, and Cyril came in, followed by a young girl of about fifteen. She wore a black traveling cloa
k over a green dress. Even if Tessa had not seen her before, she would have known who she was instantly—known her by her black hair, by the violet-blue of her eyes, by the graceful curve of her white throat, the delicate angles of her features, the full swoop of her mouth.

  She heard Will draw a sudden, violent breath.

  “Hello,” said the girl, in a voice both surprisingly soft and surprisingly firm. “I apologize for interrupting your dinner hour, but I had nowhere else to go. I am Cecily Herondale, you see. I have come to be trained as a Shadowhunter.”

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks as always to my family: my mother and father; Jim Hill and Kate Connor; Nao, Tim, David, and Ben; Melanie, Jonathan, and Helen Lewis; Florence; and Joyce. Thanks to those who read and critiqued and pointed out anachronisms or inconsistencies: Kelly Link, Clary, Delia Sherman, Holly Black, Sarah Rees Brennan, Justine Larbalestier, Robin Wasserman, Maureen Johnson. Thanks to Lisa Gold, Research Maven (lisagoldresearch.wordpress.com) for her help. Thanks to Joey Yeung and Huan Yu for the Mandarin translations. Thanks to Wayne Miller for Greek and Latin help. 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 of course, thanks to my husband, Josh, for keeping Linus and Lucy from eating the manuscript.

  A NOTE ON TESSA’S ENGLAND

  As in Clockwork Angel, the London of Clockwork Prince is, as much as I could make it, an admixture of the real and the unreal, the famous and the forgotten. (For instance, there really is a Pyx Chamber in Westminster Abbey.) 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 the Infernal Devices as the Institute has taken its place. For those wondering about the Institute in York, it is based on Holy Trinity Goodramgate, a church you can still find and tour in York.