Sophie’s voice was flat. “Warn me against what?”
“The Lightwoods . . .” Tessa swal owed. “They are not nice people. When I was at their house—with Wil —I saw dreadful things, awful—”
“That’s Mr. Lightwood, not his sons!” The sharpness in Sophie’s voice made Tessa flinch. “They’re not like him!”
“How different could they be?”
Sophie stood up, the poker clattering into the fire. “You think I’m such a fool that I’d let some half-hour gentleman make a mockery of me after al I been through? After al Mrs. Branwel ’s taught me? Gideon’s a good man—”
“It’s a question of upbringing, Sophie! Can you picture him going to Benedict Lightwood and saying he wants to marry a mundane, and a parlor maid to boot? Can you see him doing that?”
Sophie’s face twisted. “You don’t know anything,” she said. “You don’t know what he’d do for us—”
“You mean the training?” Tessa was incredulous. “Sophie, real y—”
But Sophie, shaking her head, had gathered up her skirts and stalked from the room, letting the door slam shut behind her.
Charlotte, her elbows on the desk in the drawing room, sighed and bal ed up her fourteenth piece of paper, and tossed it into the fireplace. The fire sparked up for a moment, consuming the paper as it turned black and fel to ashes.
She picked up her pen, dipped it into the inkwel , and began again.
I, Charlotte Mary Branwell, daughter of Nephilim, do hereby and on this date tender my resignation as the director of the London Institute, on behalf of myself and of my husband, Henry Jocelyn Branwell— “Charlotte?”
Her hand jerked, sending a blot of ink sprawling across the page, ruining her careful lettering. She looked up and saw Henry hovering by the desk, a worried look on his thin, freckled face. She set her pen down. She was conscious, as she always was with Henry and rarely at any other times, of her physical appearance—that her hair was escaping from its chignon, that her dress was not new and had an ink blot on the sleeve, and that her eyes were tired and puffy from weeping.
“What is it, Henry?”
Henry hesitated. “It’s just that I’ve been—Darling, what are you writing?” He came around the desk, glancing over her shoulder. “Charlotte!” He snatched the paper off the desk; though ink had smeared through the letters, enough of what she had written was left for him to get the gist.
“Resigning from the Institute? How can you?”
“Better to resign than to have Consul Wayland come in over my head and force me out,” Charlotte said quietly.
“Don’t you mean ‘us’?” Henry looked hurt. “Should I have at least a say in this decision?”
“You’ve never taken an interest in the running of the Institute before. Why would you now?”
Henry looked as if she had slapped him, and it was al Charlotte could do not to get up and put her arms around him and kiss his freckled cheek.
She remembered, when she had fal en in love with him, how she had thought he reminded her of an adorable puppy, with his hands just a bit too large for the rest of him, his wide hazel eyes, his eager demeanor. That the mind behind those eyes was as sharp and intel igent as her own was something she had always believed, even when others had laughed at Henry’s eccentricities. She had always thought it would be enough just to be near him always, and love him whether he loved her or not. But that had been before.
“Charlotte,” he said now. “I know why you’re angry with me.”
Her chin jerked up in surprise. Could he truly be that perceptive? Despite her conversation with Brother Enoch, she had thought no one had noticed. She had barely been able to think about it herself, much less how Henry would react when he knew. “You do?”
“I wouldn’t go with you to meet with Woolsey Scott.”
Relief and disappointment warred in Charlotte’s breast. “Henry,” she sighed. “That is hardly—”
“I didn’t realize,” he said. “Sometimes I get so caught up in my ideas. You’ve always known that about me, Lottie.”
Charlotte flushed. He so rarely cal ed her that.
“I would change it if I could. Of al the people in the world, I did think you understood. You know—you know it isn’t just tinkering for me. You know I want to create something that wil make the world better, that wil make things better for the Nephilim. Just as you do, in directing the Institute. And though I know I wil always come second for you—”
“Second for me?” Charlotte’s voice shot up to an incredulous squeak. “You come second for me?”
“It’s al right, Lottie,” Henry said with incredible gentleness. “I knew when you agreed to marry me that it was because you needed to be married to run the Institute, that no one would accept a woman alone in the position of director—”
“Henry.” Charlotte rose to her feet, trembling. “How can you say such terrible things to me?”