She looked down at herself. Trousers, shoes, shirt, waistcoat, al in order. It was certainly a peculiar feeling, wearing men’s clothes—they were tight in places she was not used to clothes being tight, and loose in others, and they itched—but that hardly explained the look on Jem’s face.
“I . . .” Jem had flushed al over, red spreading up from his col ar to his face. “Charlotte sent me to tel you we’re waiting in the drawing room,” he said. Then he turned around and left the room hurriedly.
“Goodness,” Tessa said, perplexed. “What was that about?”
Sophie chuckled softly. “Wel , look at yourself.” Tessa looked. She was flushed, she thought, her hair tumbling loose over her shirt and waistcoat.
The shirt had clearly been made with something of a feminine figure in mind, since it did not strain over the bosom as much as Tessa had feared it would; stil , it was tight, thanks to Jessie’s smal er frame. The trousers were tight as wel , as was the fashion, molding themselves to her legs. She cocked her head to the side. There was something indecent about it, wasn’t there? A man was not supposed to be able to see the shape of a lady’s upper legs, or so much of the curve of her hips. There was something about the men’s clothing that made her look not masculine but . . .
undressed.
“My goodness,” she said.
“Indeed,” said Sophie. “Don’t worry. They’l fit better once you Change, and besides . . . he fancies you anyway.”
“I—you know—I mean, you think he fancies me?”
“Quite,” said Sophie, sounding unperturbed. “You should see the way he looks at you when he doesn’t think you see. Or looks up when a door opens, and is always disappointed when it isn’t you. Master Jem, he isn’t like Master Wil . He can’t hide what he’s thinking.”
“And you’re not . . .” Tessa searched for words. “Sophie, you’re not—put out with me?”
“Why would I be put out with you?” A little of the amusement had gone out of Sophie’s voice, and now she sounded careful y neutral.
You’re in for it now, Tessa, she thought. “I thought perhaps that there was a time when you looked at Jem with a certain admiration. That is al . I meant nothing improper, Sophie.”
Sophie was silent for such a long time that Tessa was sure she was angry, or worse, terribly hurt. Instead she said, final y, “There was a time when I—when I admired him. He was so gentle and so kind, not like any man I’d known. And so lovely to look at, and the music he makes—” She shook her head, and her dark ringlets bounced. “But he never cared for me. Never by a word or a gesture did he lead me to believe he returned my admiration, though he was never unkind.”
“Sophie,” Tessa said softly. “You have been more than a maidservant since I have come here. You have been a good friend. I would not do anything that might hurt you.”
Sophie looked up at her. “Do you care for him?”
“I think,” Tessa said with slow caution, “that I do.”
“Good.” Sophie exhaled. “He deserves that. To be happy. Master Wil has always been the brighter burning star, the one to catch attention—but Jem is a steady flame, unwavering and honest. He could make you happy.”
“And you would not object?”
“Object?” Sophie shook her head. “Oh, Miss Tessa, it is kind of you to care what I think, but no. I would not object. My fondness for him—and that is al it was, a girlish fondness—has quite cooled into friendship. I wish only his happiness and yours.”
Tessa was amazed. Al the worrying she had done about Sophie’s feelings, and Sophie didn’t mind at al . What had changed since Sophie had wept over Jem’s il ness the night of the Blackfriars Bridge debacle? Unless . . . “Have you been walking out with someone? Cyril, or . . .”
Sophie rol ed her eyes. “Oh, Lord have mercy on us al . First Thomas, now Cyril. When will you stop trying to marry me off to the nearest available man?”
“There must be someone—”
“There’s no one,” Sophie said firmly, rising to her feet and turning Tessa toward the pier glass. “There you are. Twist up your hair under your hat and you’l be the model of a gentleman.”
Tessa did as she was told.
When Tessa came into the library, the smal band of Institute Shadowhunters—Jem, Wil , Henry, and Charlotte, al in gear now—were grouped around a table on which a smal oblong device made of brass was balanced. Henry was gesturing at it animatedly, his voice rising. “This,” he was saying, “is what I have been working on. For just this occasion. It is specifical y calibrated to function as a weapon against clockwork assassins.”
“As dul as Nate Gray is,” Wil said, “his head is not actual y fil ed with gears, Henry. He’s a human.”
“He may bring one of those creatures with him. We don’t know he’l be there unaccompanied. If nothing else, that clockwork coachman of Mortmain’s—”
“I think Henry is right,” said Tessa, and they al whirled to face her. Jem flushed again, though more lightly this time, and offered her a crooked smile; Wil ’s eyes ran up and down her body once, not briskly.