“He’s not frightened at al , Anne.” The man laughed, and set the boy down on the ground, ruffling his hair. “My little clockwork prince . . .”
A swel of hatred rose in Starkweather’s heart at the memory, so violent that it ripped Tessa free, sending her spinning through the darkness again. She began to realize what was happening. Starkweather was becoming senile, losing the thread that connected thought and memory. What came and went in his mind was seemingly random. With an effort she tried to visualize the Shade family again, and caught the brief edge of a memory—a room torn apart, cogs and cams and gears and ripped metal everywhere, fluid leaking as black as blood, and the green-skinned man and blue-haired woman lying dead among the ruins. Then that, too, was gone, and she saw, again and again, the face of the girl from the portrait on the stairwel —the child with the fair hair and stubborn expression—saw her riding a smal pony, her face set determinedly, saw her hair blowing in the wind off the moors—saw her screaming and writhing in pain as a stele was set to her skin and black Marks stained its whiteness. And last, Tessa saw her own face, appearing out of the shadowy gloom of the York Institute’s nave, and she felt the wave of his shock ripple through her, so strong that it threw her out of his body and back into her own.
There was a faint thump as the button fel out of her hand and struck the floor. Tessa raised her head and looked into the mirror over her vanity.
She was herself again, and the bitter taste in her mouth now was blood where she had bitten her lip.
She rose to her feet, feeling il , and went over to the window, throwing it open to feel the cool night air on her sweaty skin. The night outside was heavy with shadow; there was little wind, and the black gates of the Institute seemed to loom before her, their motto speaking more than ever of mortality and death. A glimmer of movement caught her eye. She looked down and saw a white shape gazing up at her from the stony courtyard below. A face, twisted but recognizable. Mrs. Dark.
She gasped and jerked back reflexively, out of sight of the window. A wave of dizziness came over her. She shook it off fiercely, her hands gripping the sil , and pul ed herself forward again, gazing down with dread— But the courtyard was empty, nothing moving inside it but shadows. She closed her eyes, then opened them again slowly, and put her hand to the ticking angel at her throat. There had been nothing there, she told herself, just the rags of her wild imagination. Tel ing herself she’d better rein in her daydreaming or she’d end up as mad as old Starkweather, she slid the window shut.
A SHADOW ON THE SOUL
Oh, just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor and rich alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for “the pangs that tempt the spirit to rebel,” bringest an assuaging balm; eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath; and to the guilty man for one night givest back the hopes of his youth, and hands washed pure from blood.
—Thomas De Quincey, Confessions of an English Opium-Eater
In the morning when Tessa went down for breakfast, she found to her surprise that Wil was not there. She had not realized how completely she had expected him to return during the night, and she found herself pausing in the doorway, scanning the seats around the table as if somehow she had accidental y glanced past him. It was not until her gaze came to rest on Jem, who returned her look with a rueful and worried expression of his own, that she knew that it was true. Wil was stil gone.
“Oh, he’l be back, for goodness’ sake,” said Jessamine crossly, banging her teacup down in its saucer. “He always does come crawling home.
Look at the two of you. Like you’ve lost a favorite puppy.”
Tessa shot Jem an almost guilty, conspiratorial look as she sat down across from him and took a slice of bread from the toast rack. Henry was absent; Charlotte, at the head of the table, was very clearly trying not to look nervous and worried, and failing. “Of course he wil ,” she said. “Wil can take care of himself.”
“Do you think he might have gone back to Yorkshire?” said Tessa. “To warn his family?”
“I . . . don’t think so,” Charlotte responded. “Wil has avoided his family for years. And he knows the Law. He knows he cannot speak to them. He knows what he would lose.” Her eyes rested briefly on Jem, who was playing industriously with his spoon.
“When he saw Cecily, at the manor, he attempted to rush to her—” Jem said.