Tell me this is not a dream, he had whispered to her as she’d put her arms around him, and then he’d no longer known what was waking and what was sleeping.
He shrugged out of his coat as he went up the stairs, shaking out his wet hair. Cold water was trickling down the back of his shirt, dampening his spine, making him shiver. The precious packet he had bought from the ifrits was in his trousers pocket. He slipped his hand in, touching his fingers to it, just to be sure.
The corridors burned with low witchlight; he was halfway down the first one when he paused. Tessa’s door was here, he knew, across from Jem’s. And there, in front of her door, stood Jem—though “stood” was perhaps not the right word. He was pacing back and forth, “wearing a path in the carpet,” as Charlotte would have said.
“James,” Wil said, more surprised than anything else.
Jem’s head jerked up, and he backed away from Tessa’s door instantly, retreating toward his own. His face went blank. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised to find you wandering the hal s at al hours.”
“I think we can agree that the reverse is more out of character,” said Wil . “Why are you awake? Are you al right?”
Jem cast a last glance at Tessa’s door, and then turned to face Wil . “I was going to apologize to Tessa,” he said. “I think my violin playing was keeping her awake. Where have you been? Assignation with Six-Fingered Nigel again?”
Wil grinned, but Jem didn’t return the smile. “I’ve something for you, actual y. Come along, let me into your room. I don’t want to spend al night standing about in the hal .”
After a moment’s hesitation Jem shrugged and opened his door. He went in, Wil fol owing; Wil shut and bolted the door behind them as Jem threw himself into an armchair. There was a fire in the grate, but it had burned down to pale red-gold coals. He looked at Wil . “What is it, then—,” he began, and bent almost double, convulsed by a hard cough. It passed quickly, before Wil could move or speak, but when Jem straightened, and brushed the back of his hand across his mouth, it came away smeared with red. He looked at the blood expressionlessly.
Wil felt sick. He approached his parabatai, producing a handkerchief, which Jem took, and then the silver powder he’d bought in Whitechapel.
“Here,” he said, feeling awkward. He hadn’t felt awkward around Jem in five years, but there it was. “I went back to Whitechapel, got this for you.”
Jem, having cleaned the blood from his hand with Wil ’s handkerchief, took the packet and stared down at the yin fen. “I have enough of this,” he said. “For at least another month.” He looked up then, a sudden flicker in his eyes. “Or did Tessa tel you—”
“Did she tel me what?”
“Nothing. I spil ed some of the powder the other day. I managed to retrieve most of it.” Jem set the packet down on the table beside him. “This wasn’t necessary.”
Wil sat down on the trunk at the foot of Jem’s bed. He hated sitting there—his legs were so long, he always felt like an adult trying to squeeze behind a schoolroom desk—but he wanted to bring his eyes level with Jem’s. “Mortmain’s minions have been buying up the yin fen supply in the East End,” he said. “I confirmed it. If you had run out and he was the only one with a supply . . .”
“We would have been put in his power,” said Jem. “Unless you were wil ing to let me die, of course, which would be the sensible course of action.”
“I would not be wil ing.” Wil sounded sharp. “You’re my blood brother. I’ve sworn an oath not to let any harm come to you—”
“Leaving aside oaths,” said Jem, “and power plays, did any of this have to do with me?”
“I don’t know what you mean—”
“I had begun to wonder if you were capable of the desire to spare anyone suffering.”
Wil rocked back slightly, as if Jem had pushed him. “I . . .” He swal owed, looking for the words. It had been so long since he had searched for words that would earn him forgiveness and not hatred, so long since he had sought to present himself in anything but the worst light, that he wondered for a panicked moment if it were even something he was stil able to do. “I spoke to Tessa today,” he said final y, not noticing that Jem’s face paled even more markedly. “She made me understand—that what I did last night was unforgivable. Though,” he added hastily, “I do stil hope that you wil forgive me.” By the A ngel, I’m bad at this.
Jem raised an eyebrow. “For what?”
“I went to that den because I could not stop thinking about my family, and I wanted—I needed—to stop thinking,” said Wil . “It did not cross my mind that it would look to you as if I were making a mockery out of your sickness. I suppose I am asking your forgiveness for my lack of consideration.” His voice dropped. “Everyone makes mistakes, Jem.”
“Yes,” said Jem. “You just make more of them than most people.”
“I—”
“You hurt everyone,” said Jem. “Everyone whose life you touch.”