He could not. They both knew he could not.
She swallowed, her long lashes screening the shine of her eyes. Tessa was always brave. She would not let him take a memory of her tears back to the Silent City, but she called him by the name she was always careful not to call him when anybody but they could hear. “Good-bye, Jem.”
Brother Zachariah bowed his head, his hood falling about his face, and went out into the winter cold of London.
Finally you leave, said Brother Enoch in his mind.
All the Silent Brothers hushed when Brother Zachariah was with Tessa, like small animals in the trees hearing the approach of that which they did not understand. In a way, they were all in love with her, and some resented her for that. Brother Enoch had made it clear he was tired of two names ceaselessly echoing in their minds.
Brother Zachariah was halfway down the street where the Fairchilds lived when a tall shadow struck his across the pale streets.
Brother Zachariah looked up from shadow and saw Will Herondale, head of the London Institute. He carried a walking stick that had once been Zachariah’s, before Zachariah took a staff into his hands.
Charlotte will live, said Brother Zachariah. The child never had a chance to.
“I know,” said Will. “I already knew. I did not come to you for those tidings.”
He should really have learned better by now. Of course Tessa would have sent word to Will, and while Will often traded upon Brother Zachariah’s position as a Silent Brother to command his services and thus his presence, he very seldom spoke to Zachariah of his duties as a Silent Brother, as if he could make Zachariah not what he was by dint of sheer determination.
If anyone could have done it, Will would have been that one.
Will threw him the walking stick, which he must have stolen from James’s room, and confiscated Brother Zachariah’s staff. Jem had asked them to give James his room at the Institute, fill it with their son’s bright presence, and not keep it as some dreary shrine. He was not dead. He had felt when they made him a Silent Brother as if he had been cut open, and all things inside him ripped out.
Only, there was that which they could not take away.
“Carry it a while,” said Will. “It lightens my heart to see you with it. We could all do with lighter hearts tonight.”
He traced a carving upon the staff, the Herondale ring winking by moonlight.
Where shall I carry it?
“Wherever you please. I thought I would walk with you a little way, my parabatai.”
How far? asked Jem.
Will smiled. “Need you ask? I will go with you as far as I possibly may.”
Jem smiled back. Perhaps there was more hope and less sorrow in store for Matthew Fairchild than he feared. None knew better than Jem that someone could be not fully known yet still entirely loved. Forgiven all sins, and dearest in darkness. James would not let his parabatai travel any shadowy paths alone. No matter what catastrophe came, Jem believed the son had as great a heart as his father.
New streetlights showed Will’s and Jem’s silhouettes, walking together through their city, as they had of old. Even though both knew they must part.
Across London the bells rang all together in a sudden terrifying clamor. Frightened birds in mad wheeling flight cast deeper shadows across the city at night, and Jem knew the Queen was dead.
A new age was beginning.
Read on for a snippet from the third Ghosts of the Shadow Market story, “Every Exquisite Thing,” by Cassandra Clare and Maureen Johnson:
An excerpt from
Every Exquisite Thing
This one was stained with something purple.
This one had a hole in the sleeve.
This one was missing a . . . back. An entire back. It was just a front of a shirt and two sleeves clinging on for dear life.
“Christopher,” Anna said, turning the garment over in her hands, “how do you do these things?”
Everyone had their small wonderland. For her brother Christopher and Uncle Henry, it was the laboratory. For Cousin James and Uncle Will, the library. For Lucie, her writing desk where she wrote her long adventures for Cordelia Carstairs. For Matthew Fairchild, it was any troublesome corner of London.
For Anna Lightwood, it was her brother’s wardrobe.
In many ways, it was very good to have a brother who was largely oblivious about his clothes. Anna could have taken Christopher’s coat right off his back and he would hardly have noticed. The only downside was that Christopher’s clothes had suffered fates no clothes should suffer. They were dipped in acids, brushed by fire, poked with sharp objects, left out in the rain . . . His wardrobe was like a museum of experiment and disaster, tattered, stained, charred, and stinking of sulphur.
To Anna, though, the clothes were still precious.
Christopher was over visiting the Institute and Uncle Henry, so he would be gone for hours. Her mother and father were both out in the park with her baby brother, Alexander. This was her golden hour, and there was no time to waste. Christopher was taller than her now and growing all the time. This meant that his older trousers suited her frame. She chose a pair, found the least-damaged shirt, and a passable gray-striped waistcoat. She dug through the pile of ties, scarves, kerchiefs, cuffs, and collars that lay on the bottom of Christopher’s wardrobe and selected the most passable items. On his dressing stand she found a hat that had a sandwich in it. It was ham, Anna noted, as she tipped it out and dusted out the crumbs. Once she had everything she needed, she bundled it all under her arm and slipped out into the hall, shutting his door quietly.
Anna’s room was so different from her brother’s. Her walls were papered in a dusty rose. There was a white lace coverlet, a pink vase with lilacs next to her bed. Her cousin Lucie thought her bedroom quite charming. Anna had different tastes. Given her choice, the paper would be a rich, deep green, her decor black and gold. She would have a deep chaise longue on which she could read and smoke.
Still, she had a long dressing mirror, and that was all that mattered right now. (Christopher’s mirror had met its fate in an experiment in which he attempted to magnify the effect of glamours. It had not been replaced.) She drew the curtains against the warm summer sun and began to change. Anna had long foresworn wearing a corset—she had no interest in squeezing her internal organs into a lump or pushing her small bosom up. She slipped out of her tea gown, letting it drop to the floor. She kicked it away. Off went the stockings, down came the hair. The trousers were tucked in at the ankle to adjust for height. A few adjustments of the waistcoat hid the damage to the shirt. She put one of his black ascots around her slender neck and tied it expertly. Then, she took the derby that had been hosting the ham sandwich and placed it on her head, tucking her black hair carefully up under it and arranging it until it appeared that her hair was shorn short.
Anna stood before the mirror, examining the effect. The waistcoat flattened her chest a bit. She tugged it up and adjusted it until the fit was right. She rolled the legs of the trousers and knocked the hat down over her eye.
There. Even in these clothes—stains and ham sandwiches and all—her confidence swelled. She was no longer a gangly girl who looked awkward in ribbons and flounces. Instead she looked elegant, her lean body complemented by more severe tailoring, the waistcoat nipping in her slim waist and flaring over her narrow hips.
Imagine what she could do with Matthew Fairchild’s wardrobe! He was a real peacock, with his colorful waistcoats and ties, and the beautiful suits. She walked back and forth a bit, tipping her hat to imaginary ladies. She bowed, pretending to be taking the hand of a fair maiden, keeping her eyes turned up. Always keep the fair maiden’s eye as you press your lips to her hand.
“Enchanted,” she said to her imaginary lady. “Would you care for a dance?”