"Will," she said, and her voice sounded thin to her own ears. "Will, I want to ask you ..."
He looked up at her. The water made his lashes cling to one another, so that they formed starlike sharp points. "What?"
"You act like you don't care about anything," she said on an exhale of breath. She felt as if she had been running, and had crested a hill and was racing down the other side, and there was no stopping now. Gravity was taking her where she had to go. "But—everyone cares about something. Don't they?"
"Do they?" Will said softly. When she didn't answer, he leaned back on his hands. "Tess," he said. "Come over here and sit by me."
She did. It was cold and damp on the floor, but she sat, gathering her skirts up around her so only the tips of her boots showed. She looked at Will; they were very close together, facing each other. His profile in the gray light was cold and clean; only his mouth had any softness.
"You never laugh," she said. "You behave as if everything is funny to you, but you never laugh. Sometimes you smile when you think no one is paying attention."
For a moment he was silent. Then, "You," he said, half-reluctantly. "You make me laugh. From the moment you hit me with that bottle."
"It was a jug," she said automatically.
His lips quirked up at the corners. "Not to mention the way that you always correct me. With that funny look on your face when you do it. And the way you shouted at Gabriel Lightwood. And even the way you talked back to de Quincey. You make me ..." He broke off, looking at her, and she wondered if she looked the way she felt—stunned and breathless. "Let me see your hands," he said suddenly. "Tessa?"
She gave them to him, palms up, hardly looking at them herself. She could not look away from his face.
"There's still blood," he told her. "On your gloves." And, looking down, she saw it was true. She had not taken off Camille's white leather gloves, and they were streaked with blood and dirt, shredded near the fingertips where she had pried at Nate's manacles.
"Oh," she said, and began to draw her hands back, meaning to take the gloves off, but Will let go of only her left hand. He continued to hold the right one, lightly, by the wrist. There was a heavy silver ring on his right index finger, she saw, carved with a delicate design of birds in flight. His head was bent, his damp black hair falling forward; she couldn't see his face. He brushed his fingers lightly over the surface of the glove. There were four pearl buttons fastening it closed at the wrist, and as he ran his fingertips over them, they sprang open and the pad of his thumb brushed against the bare skin of her inner wrist, where the blue veins pulsed.
She nearly jumped out of her skin. "Will."
"Tessa," he said. "What do you want from me?"
He was still stroking the inside of her wrist, his touch doing odd delicious things to her skin and nerves. Her voice shook when she spoke. "I—I want to understand you."
He looked up at her, through his lashes. "Is that really necessary?"
"I don't know," Tessa said. "I'm not sure anyone does understand you, except possibly Jem."
"Jem doesn't understand me," Will said. "He cares for me—like a brother might. It's not the same thing."
"Don't you want him to understand you?"
"Dear God, no," he said. "Why should he need to know my reasons for living my life as I do?"
"Maybe," Tessa said, "he simply wants to know that there is a reason."
"Does it matter?" Will asked softly, and with a swift motion he slipped her glove entirely off her hand. The chilly air of the room struck the bare skin of her fingers with a shock, and a shiver passed over Tessa's entire body, as if she had found herself suddenly naked in the cold. "Do reasons matter when there's nothing that can be done to change things?"
Tessa reached for an answer, and found none. She was shivering, almost too hard to speak.
"Are you cold?" Lacing his fingers with hers, Will took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. She was startled by the feverish heat of his skin. "Tess," he said, his voice thick and soft with desire, and she leaned toward him, swaying like a tree whose branches were weighted by snow. Her whole body ached; she ached, as if there were a terrible hollow emptiness inside her. She was more conscious of Will than she had ever been of anything or anyone else in her life, of the faint shine of blue beneath his half-closed lids, of the shadow of light stubble across his jaw where he hadn't shaved, of faint white scars that dotted the skin of his shoulders and throat—and more than anything else of his mouth, the crescent shape of it, the slight dent in the center of his bottom lip. When he leaned toward her and brushed his lips across hers, she reached for him as if she would otherwise drown.
For a moment their mouths pressed hotly together, Will's free hand tangling in her hair. Tessa gasped when his arms went around her, her skirts snagging on the floor as he pulled her hard against him. She put her hands lightly around his neck; his skin was burning hot to the touch. Through the thin wet material of his shirt, she could feel the muscles of his shoulders, hard and smooth. His fingers found her jeweled hair clasp and pulled at it, and her hair spilled down around her shoulders, the comb rattling to the floor, and Tessa gave a little cry of surprise against his mouth. And then, without warning, he ripped his hands from her and pushed hard against her shoulders, shoving her away from him with such force that she nearly fell backward, and only stopped herself awkwardly, her hands braced on the floor behind her.
She sat with her hair hanging down around her like a tangled curtain, staring at him in amazement. Will was on his knees, his chest hitching up and down as if he had been running incredibly fast and far. He was pale, except for two fever splotches of red across his cheeks. "God in Heaven," he whispered. "What was that?"
Tessa felt her cheeks turn scarlet. Wasn't Will the one who was supposed to know exactly what that was, and wasn't she the one who was supposed to have pushed him away?
"I can't." His hands were fists at his sides; she could see them trembling. "Tessa, I think you had better go."
"Go?" Her mind whirled; she felt as if she had been in a warm, safe place and without warning had been cast out into a freezing, empty darkness. "I ... I should not have been so forward. I'm sorry—"
A look of intense pain flashed across his face. "God. Tessa." The words seemed dragged out of him. "Please. Just leave. I can't have you here. It's—not possible."
"Will, please—"
"No." He jerked his gaze away from hers, averting his face, his eyes fixed on the floor. "I'll tell you anything you want to know tomorrow. Anything. Just leave me alone now." His voice broke unevenly. "Tessa. I'm begging you. Do you understand? I'm begging you. Please, please leave."
"Very well," Tessa said, and saw with a mixture of amazement and pain that the lines of tension went out of his shoulders. Was it that much of a horror having her there, and that much of a relief that she was leaving? She rose to her feet, her dress damp and cold and heavy, her feet nearly slipping on the wet floor. Will didn't move or look up, but stayed where he was on his knees, staring at the ground as Tessa made her way across the room and down the stairs, without looking back.
Some time later, her room half-lit with the wan glow of the London sunrise, Tessa lay on the bed, too exhausted to change out of Camille's clothes—too exhausted, even, to sleep. It had been a day of firsts. The first time she had used her power at her own wish and discretion, and had felt good about it. The first time she had fired a pistol. And—the only first she had ever dreamed of, for years—her first kiss.
Tessa rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. For so many years she had wondered what her first kiss would be like—if he would be handsome, if he would love her, if he would be kind. She had never imagined that the kiss would be so brief and desperate and wild. Or that it would taste of holy water. Holy water and blood.
13
SOMETHING DARK
Sometimes we are less unhappy in being deceived
by those we love, than in being undeceived by them.
—Francois La Rochefoucauld, Maxims
Tessa woke the next day to Sophie lighting the lamp by her bedside. With a moan Tessa made a move to cover her aching eyes.
"Now, then, miss." Sophie addressed Tessa with her usual briskness. "You've gone and slept the day away. It's past eight o'clock in the evening, and Charlotte said to wake you."
"Past eight? At night?" Tessa threw back her blankets, only to realize, to her surprise, that she was still wearing Camille's gown, now crushed and crumpled, not to mention stained. She must have collapsed into bed still entirely dressed. Memories of the night before began to flood into her mind—the white faces of vampires, the fire eating its way up the curtains, Magnus Bane laughing, de Quincey, Nathaniel, and Will. Oh, God, she thought. Will.
She pushed the thought of him from her mind and sat up, looking anxiously at Sophie. "My brother," she said. "Is he ..."
Sophie's smile wavered. "No worse, really, but no better, either." Seeing Tessa's stricken expression, she said, "A hot bath and food, miss, that's what you need. It won't make your brother any better for you to starve and let yourself get filthy."
Tessa looked down at herself. Camille's dress was ruined, that was evident—torn and stained with blood and ash in a dozen places. Her silk stockings were ripped, her feet filthy, her hands and arms streaked with grime. She hesitated to think about the state of her hair. "I suppose you're right."
The bathtub was an oval claw-footed affair hidden behind a Japanese screen in a corner of the room. Sophie had filled it with hot water that was already beginning to cool. Tessa slid behind the screen, undressed, and lowered herself into the bath. The hot water came up to her shoulders, warming her. For a moment she sat motionless, letting the heat soak into her chilled bones. Slowly she began to relax, and closed her eyes—
Memories of Will flooded in on her. Will, the attic, the way he had touched her hand. The way he had kissed her, then ordered her away.
She ducked under the surface of the water as if she could hide from the humiliating memory. It didn't work. Drowning yourself won't help, she told herself sternly. Now, drowning Will, on the other hand ... She sat up, reached for the cake of lavender soap on the edge of the bath, and scrubbed her skin and hair with it until the water turned black with ash and dirt. Perhaps it wasn't actually possible to scrub away your thoughts of someone, but she could try.
Sophie was waiting for Tessa when she emerged from behind the screen. There was a tray of sandwiches and tea at the ready. In front of the mirror, she helped Tessa dress in her yellow gown trimmed with dark braid; it was fussier than Tessa would have preferred, but Jessamine had liked the design very much in the shop and had insisted that Tessa have it made for her. I can't wear yellow, but it's ever so suitable for girls with dull brown hair like yours, she'd said.
The feeling of the brush going through her hair was very pleasant; it reminded Tessa of when she had been a small girl and Aunt Harriet had brushed her hair for her. It was soothing enough that when Sophie spoke next, it jolted her slightly.
"Did you manage to get Mr. Herondale to take his medicine last night, miss?"
"Oh, I—" Tessa scrambled to collect herself, but it was too late; scarlet color had flooded up her neck into her face. "He didn't want to," she finished lamely. "But I convinced him in the end."
"I see." Sophie's expression didn't change, but the rhythmic strokes of the brush through Tessa's hair began to come faster. "I know it's not my place, but—"
"Sophie, you can say anything you want to me, truly."
"It's just—Master Will." Sophie's words came out in a rush. "He isn't someone you should care for, Miss Tessa. Not like that. He isn't to be trusted, or relied on. He—he isn't what you think he is."
Tessa clasped her hands in her lap. She felt a vague sense of unreality. Had things really gone so far that she needed to be warned off Will? And yet it was good to have someone to talk to about him. She felt a bit like a starving person being offered food. "I don't know what I think he is, Sophie. He's like one thing sometimes, and then he can change completely, like the wind changing, and I don't know why, or what's happened—"
"Nothing. Nothing's happened. He just doesn't care about anyone but himself."
"He cares about Jem," Tessa said quietly.
The brush went still; Sophie had paused, frozen. There was something she wanted to say, Tessa thought, something she was holding herself back from saying. But what was it?
The brush began to move again. "That's not enough, though."
"You mean that I shouldn't wring my heart out over some boy who will never care for me—"
"No!" Sophie said. "There are worse things than that. It's all right to love someone who doesn't love you back, as long as they're worth you loving them. As long as they deserve it."
The passion in Sophie's voice surprised Tessa. She twisted around to look at the other girl. "Sophie, is there someone you care for? Is it Thomas?"
Sophie looked astonished. "Thomas? No. What ever gave you that idea?"
"Well, because I think he cares for you," Tessa said. "I've seen him looking at you. He watches you when you're in the room. I suppose I thought ..."
Her voice trailed off at Sophie's flabbergasted look.
"Thomas?" Sophie said again. "No, that couldn't be. I'm sure he hasn't any such thoughts about me."
Tessa didn't move to contradict her; clearly, whatever feelings Thomas might have had, Sophie didn't return them. Which left ...
"Will?" Tessa said. "Do you mean you cared for Will once?" Which would explain the bitterness and the dislike, she thought, considering how Will treated girls who fancied him.
"Will?" Sophie sounded absolutely horrified—horrified enough to forget to call Will Mr. Herondale. "Are you asking me if I was ever in love with him?"
"Well, I thought— I mean, he's awfully handsome." Tessa realized she sounded rather feeble.
"There's more to someone being lovable than the way they look. My last employer," Sophie said, her careful accent slipping with her excitement as she spoke, so that "last" sounded more like "larst," "he was always off on safari in Africa and India, shooting tigers and things. And he told me that the way you can tell if a bug or a snake is poisonous, like, is if it's got really lovely, bright markings. The more beautiful its skin is, the more deadly it is. That's what Will's like. All that pretty face and whatnot just hides how twisted up and rotten he is on the inside."
"Sophie, I don't know—"
"There's something dark in him," Sophie said. "Something black and dark that he's hiding. He's got some sort of secret, the kind that eats you up inside." She set the silver-haired brush down on the vanity, and Tessa saw with surprise that her hand was shaking. "You mark my words."
After Sophie left, Tessa took the clockwork angel from her bedside table and strung it around her neck. As it settled against her chest, she felt immediately reassured. She had missed it while she'd been disguised as Camille. Its presence was a comfort, and—though it was foolish, she knew—she thought perhaps that if she visited Nate while wearing it, he might feel its presence and be reassured as well.
She kept her hand on it as she shut the bedroom door behind her, made her way down the corridor, and knocked on his door softly. When there was no answer, she took hold of the knob and pushed the door open. The curtains in the room were drawn back, the room half-filled with light, and she could see Nate asleep on his back against a mound of pillows. He had one arm flung across his forehead, and his cheeks were bright with fever.
He wasn't alone, either. In the armchair by the head of the bed sat Jessamine, a book open on her lap. She met Tessa's surprised look with a cool and level stare.
"I—," Tessa began, and collected herself. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I would read to your brother for a while," Jessamine said. "Everyone's been asleep half the day, and he was being cruelly neglected. Just Sophie checking in on him, and you can't count on her for decent conversation."
"
Nate's unconscious, Jessamine; he doesn't want conversation."
"You can't be sure," Jessamine said. "I've heard that people can hear what you say to them even if they're quite unconscious, or even dead."
"He's not dead, either."
"Certainly not." Jessamine gave him a lingering look. "He's far too handsome to die. Is he married, Tessa? Or is there a girl back in New York who has a claim on him?"
"On Nate?" Tessa stared. There had always been girls, all sorts of girls, who'd been interested in Nate, but he had the attention span of a butterfly. "Jessamine, he isn't even conscious. Now is hardly the time—"
"He'll get better," Jessamine announced. "And when he does, he'll know I'm the one who nursed him back to health. Men always fall in love with the woman who nurses them back to health. 'When pain and anguish wring the brow, / A ministering angel thou!'" she finished, with a self-satisfied smirk. Seeing Tessa's horrified look, she scowled. "What's wrong? Am I not good enough for your precious brother?"
"He doesn't have any money, Jessie—"
"I have enough money for both of us. I just need someone to take me away from this place. I told you that."
"In fact, you asked me if I'd be the one to do it."
"Is that what's putting you out of countenance?" Jessamine asked. "Really, Tessa, we can still be the best of friends once we're sisters-in-law, but a man is always better than a woman for this sort of thing, don't you think?"
Tessa could think of nothing to say in reply.
Jessamine shrugged. "Charlotte wishes to see you, by the way. In the drawing room. She wanted me to tell you. You don't need to worry about Nathaniel. I've been checking his temperature every quarter hour and putting cold compresses on his forehead besides."
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