Despite its immense size, and the fact that barely any of the books that lined its wal s were in English, it was her favorite room in the Institute.
There was something about the smel of books, the ink-and-paper-and-leather scent, the way dust in a library seemed to behave differently from the dust in any other room—it was golden in the light of the witchlight tapers, settling like pol en across the polished surfaces of the long tables. Church the cat was asleep on a high book stand, his tail curled round above his head; Tessa gave him a wide berth as she moved toward the smal poetry section along the lower right-hand wal . Church adored Jem but had been known to bite others, often with very little warning.
She found the book she was looking for and knelt down beside the bookcase, flipping until she found the right page, the scene where the old man in “Christabel” realizes that the girl standing before him is the daughter of his once best friend and now most hated enemy, the man he can never forget.
A las! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
A nd constancy lives in realms above;
A nd life is thorny; and youth is vain;
A nd to be wroth with one we love,
Doth work like madness in the brain.
. . .
Each spake words of high disdain
A nd insult to his heart’s best brother:
They parted—ne’er to meet again!
The voice that spoke above her head was as light as it was drawling—instantly familiar. “Checking my quotation for accuracy?”
The book slid out of Tessa’s hands and hit the floor. She rose to her feet and watched, frozen, as Wil bent to pick it up, and held it out to her, his manner one of utmost politeness.
“I assure you,” he told her, “my recal is perfect.”
So is mine, she thought. This was the first time she had been alone with him in weeks. Not since that awful scene on the roof when he had intimated that he thought her little better than a prostitute, and a barren one at that. They had never mentioned the moment to each other again. They had gone on as if everything were normal, polite to each other in company, never alone together. Somehow, when they were with other people, she was able to push it to the back of her mind, forget it. But faced with Wil , just Wil —beautiful as always, the col ar of his shirt open to show the black Marks twining his col arbone and rising up the white skin of his throat, the flickering taper light glancing off the elegant planes and angles of his face —the memory of her shame and anger rose up in her throat, choking off her words.
He glanced down at his hand, stil holding the little green leather-bound volume. “Are you going to take Coleridge back from me, or shal I just stand here forever in this rather foolish position?”
Silently Tessa reached out and took the book from him. “If you wish to use the library,” she said, preparing to depart, “you most certainly may. I found what I was looking for, and as it grows late—”
“Tessa,” he said, holding out a hand to stop her.
She looked at him, wishing she could ask him to go back to cal ing her Miss Gray. Just the way he said her name undid her, loosened something tight and knotted underneath her rib cage, making her breathless. She wished he wouldn’t use her Christian name, but knew how ridiculous it would sound if she made the request. It would certainly spoil al her work training herself to be indifferent to him.
“Yes?” she asked.
There was a little wistfulness in his expression as he looked at her. It was al she could do not to stare. Wil , wistful? He had to be playacting.
“Nothing. I—” He shook his head; a lock of dark hair fel over his forehead, and he pushed it out of his eyes impatiently. “Nothing,” he said again.
“The first time I showed you the library, you told me your favorite book was The Wide, Wide World. I thought you might want to know that I . . . read it.” His head was down, his blue eyes looking up at her through those thick dark lashes; she wondered how many times he’d gotten whatever he wanted just by doing that.
She made her voice polite and distant. “And did you find it to your liking?”
“Not at al ,” said Wil . “Drivel y and sentimental, I thought.”
“Wel , there’s no accounting for taste,” Tessa said sweetly, knowing he was trying to goad her, and refusing to take the bait. “What is one person’s pleasure is another’s poison, don’t you find?”
Was it her imagination, or did he look disappointed? “Have you any other American recommendations for me?”
“Why would you want one, when you scorn my taste? I think you may have to accept that we are quite far apart on the matter of reading material, as we are on so many things, and find your recommendations elsewhere, Mr. Herondale.” She bit her tongue almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. That had been too much, she knew.
And indeed Wil was on it, like a spider leaping onto a particularly tasty fly. “Mr. Herondale?” he demanded. “Tessa, I thought . . . ?”
“You thought what?” Her tone was glacial.