Clockwork Angel (The Infernal Devices #1)

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.





Go deeper into the world of

Shadowhunters and Downworlders with

Clockwork Prince

BOOK TWO IN THE INFERNAL DEVICES.





PROLOGUE:


The Outcast Dead