The Infernal Devices Series

by Cassandra Clare

  Will looked down at Jem, and what he felt, more than jealousy, more than anything else, was a wistful desire to commiserate with his best friend, to speak of the feelings he held in his heart. For were they not the same feelings? Did they not love the same way, the same person? But, “I wish you wouldn’t risk yourself,” was all he said.

  Jem stood up. “I have always wished that about you.”

  Will raised his eyes, so drowsy with sleep and the tiredness that came with healing runes that he could see Jem only as a haloed figure of light. “Are you going?”

  “Yes, to sleep.” Jem touched his fingers lightly to Will’s healing hands. “Let yourself rest, Will.”

  Will’s eyes were already drifting closed, even as Jem turned to go. He did not hear the door close behind Jem. Somewhere down the corridor Bridget was singing, her voice rising above the crackle of the fire. Will did not find it as annoying as he usually did, but rather more like a lullaby that his mother would once have sung him, to guide him to sleep.

  “Oh, what is brighter than the light?

  What is darker than the night?

  What is keener than an axe?

  What is softer than melting wax?

  Truth is brighter than the light,

  Falsehood darker than the night.

  Revenge is keener than an axe,

  And love is softer than melting wax.”

  “A riddle song,” Cecily said, her voice drowsy and half-awake. “I’ve always liked those. Do you remember when Mam used to sing to us?”

  “A little,” Will admitted. If he were not so tired, he might not have admitted it at all. His mother had always been singing, music filling the corners of the manor house, singing while she walked beside the waters in the Mawddach estuary, or among the daffodils in the gardens. Llawn yw’r coed o ddail a blode, llawn o goriad merch wyf inne.

  “Do you remember the sea?” he said, exhaustion making his voice heavy. “The lake at Tal-y-Llyn? There is nothing so blue here in London as either of those things.”

  He heard Cecily take a sharp breath. “Of course I remember. I thought you did not.”

  Images from dreams painted themselves on the inside of Will’s eyelids, sleep reaching for him like a current, pulling him away from the lighted shore. “I don’t think I can get up out of this chair, Cecy,” he murmured. “I shall rest here tonight.”

  Her hand came up, felt for his, and circled it in a loose clasp. “Then I will stay with you,” she said, and her voice became part of the current of dreams and sleep that caught him finally and drew him down and over and under.

  To: Gabriel and Gideon Lightwood

  From: Consul Josiah Wayland

  I was most surprised to receive your missive. I fail to perceive how I could possibly have made myself more clear. I wish for you to relay the details of Mrs. Branwell’s correspondence with her relatives and well-wishers in Idris. I did not request any persiflage about the woman’s milliner. I care neither about her manner of dress nor about your daily menu.

  Pray write back to me a letter containing relevant information. I devoutly hope such a letter will also be one more befitting Shadowhunters and less Bedlamites.

  In Raziel’s name,

  Consul Wayland

  8

  THAT FIRE OF FIRE

  You call it hope—that fire of fire!

  It is but agony of desire.

  —Edgar Allan Poe, “Tamerlane”

  Tessa sat at her vanity table methodically brushing out her hair. The air outside was cool but humid, seeming to trap the water of the Thames, scented with iron and city dirt. It was the sort of weather that made her normally thick, wavy hair tangle at the ends. Not that her mind was on her hair; it was simply a repetitive motion, the brushing, that allowed her to keep a sort of forcible calm.

  Over and over in her mind she saw Jem’s shock as Charlotte read out Mortmain’s letter, and Will’s burned hands, and the tiny bit of yin fen she had managed to gather up off the floor. She saw Cecily’s arms about Will, and Jem’s anguish as he apologized to Will, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.

  She hadn’t been able to bear it. They had been in agony, both of them, and she loved them both. Their pain had been because of her—she was what Mortmain wanted. She was the cause of Jem’s yin fen being gone, and Will’s misery. When she had whirled and run out of the room, it had been because she could not stand it any longer. How could three people who cared for one another so much cause one another so much pain?

  She set the hairbrush down and looked at herself in the mirror. She looked tired, with shadowed eyes, as Will had looked all day as he’d sat with her in the library and helped Charlotte with Benedict’s papers, translating some of the passages that were in Greek or Latin or Purgatic, his quill pen moving swiftly over paper, his dark head bent. It was odd to look at Will in the daylight and remember the boy who had held her as if she were a life raft in a storm on the steps of Woolsey’s house. Will’s daylight face was not untroubled, but it was not open or giving either. He had not been unfriendly or cold, but neither had he looked up, or smiled over the library table at her, or acknowledged in any way the events of the previous night.

  She had wanted to pull him aside and ask him if he had heard from Magnus, to say to him: No one understands what you feel but me, and no one understands what I feel but you, so can we not feel together? But if Magnus had contacted him, Will would have told her; he was honorable. They were all honorable. If they had not been, she thought, looking down at her hands, perhaps everything would not be so awful.

  It had been foolish to offer to go to Mortmain—she knew that now—but the thought had seized her as fiercely as a passion. She could not be the cause of all this unhappiness and not do something to alleviate it. If she gave herself up to Mortmain, Jem would live longer, and Jem and Will would have each other, and it would be as if she had never come to the Institute.

  But now, in the cold hours of the evening, she knew that nothing she could do would turn back the clock, or unmake the feelings that existed between them all. She felt hollow inside, as if a piece of her were missing, and yet she was paralyzed. Part of her wanted to run to Will, to see if his hands were healed and to tell him she understood. The rest of her wanted to flee across the hall to Jem’s room and beg him to forgive her. They had never been angry with each other before, and she did not know how to navigate a Jem who was furious. Would he want to end their engagement? Would he be disappointed in her? Somehow that thought was as hard to bear, that Jem might be disappointed in her.

  Skritch. She looked up and around the room—a faint noise. Perhaps she had imagined it? She was tired; perhaps it was time to call for Sophie to help her with her dress, and then to retire to bed with a book. She was partway through The Castle of Otranto and finding it an excellent distraction.

  She had risen from her chair and gone to ring the servants’ bell when the noise came again, more determined. A sktritch, skritch, against the door of her bedroom. With slight trepidation she crossed the room and flung the door open.

  Church crouched on the other side, his blue-gray fur ruffled, his expression furious. Around his neck was tied a bow of silver lace, and attached to the bow was a small piece of rolled paper, like a tiny scroll. Tessa dropped to her knees, reached for the bow, and untied it. The bow fell away, and the cat immediately bolted down the hall.

  The paper came free of the lace, and Tessa picked up the paper and unrolled it. Familiar looping script traced its way across the page.

  Meet me in the music room.

  —J

  “There’s nothing here,” Gabriel said.

  He and Gideon were in the drawing room. It was quite dark, with the curtains drawn; if they had not had their witchlights, it would have been as black as pitch. Gabriel was going hastily through the correspondence on Charlotte’s desk, for the second time.

  “What do you mean, nothing?” said Gideon, standing by the door. “I see a pile of letters there. Certainly one of them must be
—”

  “Nothing scandalous,” Gabriel said, slamming a desk drawer shut. “Or even interesting. Some correspondence with an uncle in Idris. He appears to have gout.”

  “Fascinating,” Gideon muttered.

  “One cannot help but wonder exactly what it is that the Consul believes Charlotte to be involved in. Some sort of betrayal of the Council?” Gabriel picked up her sheaf of letters and made a face. “We could reassure him of her innocence if only we knew what it was that he suspected.”

  “And if I believed he wanted to be reassured of her innocence,” Gideon said. “It seems to me more likely that he is hoping to catch her out.” He reached out a hand. “Give me that letter.”

  “The one to her uncle?” Gabriel was dubious, but did as directed. He held the witchlight up, shining its rays over the desk as Gideon bent over and, having appropriated one of Charlotte’s pens, began to scratch out a missive to the Consul.

  Gideon was blowing on the ink to dry it when the door of the drawing room flew open. Gideon jerked upright. A yellow glow poured into the room, far brighter than the dim witchlight; Gabriel put up a hand to cover his eyes, blinking. He ought to have put on a Night Vision rune, he thought, but they took time to fade, and he had been concerned it would have raised questions. In the moments that it took his vision to adjust, he heard his brother exclaim, aghast:

  “Sophie?”

  “I have told you not to call me that, Mr. Lightwood.” Her tone was cold. Gabriel’s vision resolved, and he saw the maid standing in the doorway, a lit lamp in one hand. She was squinting. Her eyes narrowed further as they lit on Gabriel, Charlotte’s letters still in his hand. “Are you—Is that Mrs. Branwell’s correspondence?”

  Gabriel dropped the letters hastily onto the desk. “I . . . We . . .”

  “Have you been reading her letters?” Sophie looked furious, like some sort of avenging angel, lamp in hand. Gabriel glanced quickly at his brother, but Gideon appeared to be struck speechless.

  In all Gabriel’s life he could not remember his brother giving even the prettiest of Shadowhunter girls a second glance. Yet he looked at this scarred mundane servant as if she were the sun rising. It was inexplicable, but it was also undeniable. He could see the horror on his brother’s face as Sophie’s good opinion of him shattered before his eyes.

  “Yes,” Gabriel said. “Yes, we are indeed going through her correspondence.”

  Sophie took a step back. “I shall fetch Mrs. Branwell immediately—”

  “No—” Gabriel held out a hand. “It isn’t what you think. Wait.” Quickly he outlined what had happened: the Consul’s threats, his request that they spy on Charlotte, and their solution to the problem. “We never intended to reveal a word she had actually written,” he finished. “Our intention was to protect her.”

  Sophie’s suspicious expression did not change. “And why should I believe a word of that, Mr. Lightwood?”

  Gideon finally spoke. “Ms. Collins,” he said. “Please. I know that since the—unfortunate business—with the scones you have not held me in esteem, but please do believe I would not betray the trust Charlotte has placed in me, nor reward her kindness to me with betrayal.”

  Sophie wavered for a moment, then dropped her gaze. “I am sorry, Mr. Lightwood. I wish to believe you, but it is with Mrs. Branwell that my first loyalty must lie.”

  Gabriel snatched up from the desk the letter his brother had just written. “Miss Collins,” he said. “Please read this missive. It was what we had intended to send the Consul. If, after reading it, you are still determined in your heart to seek out Mrs. Branwell, then we will not try to stop you.”

  Sophie looked from him to Gideon. Then, with a quick inclination of her head, she came forward and set the lamp down on the desk. Taking the letter from Gideon, she unfolded it and read out loud:

  “To: Consul Josiah Wayland

  From: Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood

  Dear Sir,

  You have displayed your usual great wisdom in asking us to read Mrs. Branwell’s missives to Idris. We obtained a private glance into said correspondence and observed that she is in almost daily communication with her great-uncle Roderick Fairchild.

  The contents of these letters, sir, would shock and disappoint you. It has robbed us of much of our belief in the fairer sex.

  Mrs. Branwell displays a most callous, inhumane, and unfeminine attitude toward his many grievous ills. She recommends the application of less liquor to cure his gout, shows unmistakable signs of being amused by his dire ailment of dropsy, and entirely ignores his mention of a suspicious substance building up within his ears and other orifices.

  Signs of the tender feminine care one would expect from a woman to her male relatives, and the respect any relatively young woman should give her elder as his due—there are none! Mrs. Branwell, we fear, has run mad with power. She must be stopped before it is too late and many brave Shadowhunters have fallen by the wayside for lack of feminine care.

  Yours faithfully,

  Gideon and Gabriel Lightwood”

  There was silence when she had finished. Sophie stood for what felt like an eternity, staring wide-eyed at the paper. At last she said, “Which one of you wrote this?”

  Gideon cleared his throat. “I did.”

  She looked up. She had pressed her lips together, but they were trembling. For a horrible moment Gabriel thought she was about to cry. “Oh, my gracious,” she said. “And is this the first?”

  “No, there has been one other,” Gabriel admitted. “It was about Charlotte’s hats.”

  “Her hats?” A peal of laughter escaped Sophie’s lips, and Gideon looked at her as if he had never seen anything so marvelous. Gabriel had to admit she did look quite pretty when she laughed, scar or not. “And was the Consul furious?”

  “Murderously so,” said Gideon.

  “Are you going to tell Mrs. Branwell?” demanded Gabriel, who could not stand the suspense another moment.

  Sophie had stopped laughing. “I will not,” she said, “for I do not wish to compromise you in the eyes of the Consul, and also, I think such news would hurt her, and to no good end. Spying on her like that, that awful man!” Her gaze sparked. “If you would like aid in your plan to frustrate the Consul’s schemes, I am happy to give it. Let me keep the letter, and I shall ensure that it is posted tomorrow.”

  The music room was not as dusty as Tessa remembered it—it looked as if it had received a good cleaning recently; the mellow wood of the windowsills and floors shone, as did the grand piano in the corner. A fire was leaping in the grate, outlining Jem in fire as he turned away from it and, seeing her, smiled a nervous smile.

  Everything in the room seemed soft, as muted as watercolor—the light of the fire bringing the white-sheeted instruments to life like ghosts, the dark gleam of the piano, the flames a dim reflected gold in the windowpanes. She could see her and Jem too, facing each other: a girl in a dark blue evening dress, and a thin rake of a boy with a mop of silvery hair, his black jacket hanging just slightly too loose on his slender frame.

  His face in the shadows was all vulnerability, anxiety in the soft curve of his mouth. “I was not sure that you would come.”

  At that, she took a step forward, wanting to fling her arms about him, but she stopped herself. She had to speak first. “Of course I came,” she said. “Jem, I am so sorry. So very sorry. I cannot explain—it was a sort of madness. I could not bear the thought that harm would come to you because of me, because in some way I am connected to Mortmain, and he to me.”

  “That is not your fault. It was never your choice—”

  “I was not seeing sense. Will was right; Mortmain cannot be trusted. Even if I went to him, there is no guarantee that he would honor his end of the bargain. And I would be placing a weapon in the hands of your enemy. I do not know what he wants to use me for, but it is not for the good of Shadowhunters; of that we can be sure. I could even in the end yet be what hurts you all.” Tears stung her eyes, but
she held them back by force. “Forgive me, Jem. We cannot waste the time we have together in anger. I understand why you did what you did—I would have done it for you.”

  His eyes went soft and silver as she spoke. “Zhe shi jie shang, wo shi zui ai ne de,” he whispered.

  She understood it. In all the world, you are what I love the most.

  “Jem—”

  “You know that; you must know that. I could never let you go away from me, not into danger, not while I have breath.” He held his hand up, before she could take a step toward him. “Wait.” He bent down, and when he rose, he was holding his square violin case and bow. “I—There was something I wished to give you. A bridal gift, when we were married. But I would like to give it to you now, if you will let me.”

  “A gift?” she said, wonderingly. “After—But we quarreled!”

  He smiled at that, the lovely smile that lit his face and made you forget how thin and drawn he looked. “An integral part of married life, I have been informed. It will have been good practice.”

  “But—”

  “Tessa, did you imagine that there exists any quarrel, large or small, that could make me stop loving you?” He sounded amazed, and she thought suddenly of Will, of the years that Will had tested Jem’s loyalty, driven him mad with lies and evasion and self-harm, and through all of it Jem’s love for his blood brother had never frayed, much less broken.

  “I was afraid,” she said softly. “And I—I have no gift for you.”

  “Yes, you do.” He said it quietly but firmly. “Sit down, Tessa, please. Do you remember how we met?”

  Tessa sat down on a low chair with gilded arms, her skirts crinkling around her. “I barged into your room in the middle of the night like a madwoman.”

  Jem grinned. “You glided gracefully into my bedroom and found me playing the violin.” He was tightening the screw on the bow; he finished, set it down, and lovingly took his violin out of its case. “Would you mind if I play for you now?”