A soft knock on the door drew her out of her reverie, and she turned, flinging it open to find Jem on the threshold. He was ful y dressed in Shadowhunter gear—the tough leather-looking black coat and trousers, the heavy boots. He put a finger to his lips and gestured for her to fol ow him.
It was probably ten o’clock at night, Tessa guessed, and the witchlight was burning low. They took a curious, winding path through the corridors, not the one she was used to taking to get to the front doors. Her confusion was answered when they reached a door set at the end of a long corridor. There was a rounded look to the space they stood in, and Tessa guessed they were probably inside one of the Gothic towers that stood at each corner of the Institute.
Jem pushed the door open and ushered her in after him; he closed the door firmly behind them, slipping the key he had used back into his pocket. “This,” he said, “is Wil ’s room.”
“Gracious,” Tessa said. “I’ve never been in here. I was starting to imagine he slept upside down, like a bat.”
Jem laughed and went past her, over to a wooden bureau, and began to rummage through the contents on top of it as Tessa glanced around.
Her heart was beating fast, as if she were seeing something she wasn’t meant to see—some secret, hidden part of Wil . She told herself not to be sil y, it was just a room, with the same heavy dark furniture as al the other Institute rooms. It was a mess, too—covers kicked down to the foot of the bed; clothes draped over the backs of chairs, teacups half-ful of liquid not yet cleared away, balanced precariously on the nightstand. And everywhere books—books on the side tables, books on the bed, books in stacks on the floor, books double-lined in shelves along the wal s. As Jem rummaged, Tessa wandered to the shelves and looked curiously at the titles.
She was not surprised to find that they were almost al fiction and poetry. Some were titles in languages she couldn’t read. She recognized Latin and the Greek alphabet. There were also books of fairy tales, The A rabian Nights, James Payn’s work, Anthony Trol ope’s Vicar of Bullhampton, Thomas Hardy’s Desperate Remedies, a pile of Wilkie Col ins—The New Magdalen, The Law and the Lady, The Two Destinies , and a new Jules Verne novel titled Child of the Cavern that she itched to get her hands on. And then, there it was—A Tale of Two Cities. With a rueful smile she reached to take it from the shelf. As she lifted it, several scrawled-on papers that had been pressed between the covers fluttered to the floor. She knelt to pick them up—and froze. She recognized the handwriting instantly. It was her own.
Her throat tightened as she thumbed through the pages. Dear Nate, she read. I tried to Change today, and failed. It was a coin they gave me, and I could get nothing from it. Either it was never owned by a person, or my power is weakening. I would not care, but that they whipped me—have you ever been whipped before? No, a silly question. Of course you haven’t. It feels like fire being laid in lines across your skin. I am ashamed to say I cried, and you know how I hate to cry . . . And Dear Nate, I missed you so much today, I thought I would die. If you are gone, there is no one in the world who cares if I am dead or alive. I feel myself dissolving, vanishing into nothingness, for if there is no one in the world who cares for you, do you really exist at all?
These were the letters she had written her brother from the Dark House, not expecting Nate to read them—not expecting anyone to read them.
They were more of a diary than letters, the only place where she could pour forth her horror, her sadness, and her fear. She knew that they had been found, that Charlotte had read them, but what were they doing here in Will’s room, of al places, hidden between the pages of a book?
“Tessa.” It was Jem. She turned quickly, slipping the letters into the pocket of her coat as she did so. Jem stood by the bureau, holding a silver knife in his hand. “By the Angel, this place is such a tip, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find it.” He turned it over in his hands. “Wil didn’t bring much from home when he came here, but he did bring this. It’s a dagger his father gave him. It has the Herondale bird markings on the blade. It should have a strong enough imprint of him for us to track him with it.”
Despite the encouraging words, he was frowning.
“What’s wrong?” Tessa asked, crossing the room to him.
“I found something else,” he said. “Wil has always been the one to buy my—my medicine for me. He knew I despised the whole transaction, finding Downworlders wil ing to sel it, paying for the stuff . . .” His chest rose and fel quickly, as if merely talking about it sickened him. “I would give him money, and off he would go. I found a bil , though, for the last transaction. It appears the drugs—the medicine—does not cost what I thought it did.”